Kellaby (Arabic, kelab- dog, y- first person singular possessive.)

~Jan 1990 - Jan 8, 2003

We don't know his original name or how many households he traveled through before coming to ours. He spent his first year wandering about the east hills of Pittsburgh until arriving at the doorstep of a family with more compassion than space to keep a large dog. Our friends, the Plantingas, referred us because although impressed with him, he did not suit their need for a pure breed puppy. (We had no such aspirations.) My first impressions were that his teeth were clean for a stray, and he was not phased by attentions of the toddlers in his foster home. He answered to our name for him the first time we used it. We could never get him to answer to another, even the one given by his foster family.
Disparaging remarks being inappropriate for an obituary, I will spare the reader my tiresome cliches` about the first cur of my household. Suffice to say that he came with neuroses not uncommon to strays, most of which he quickly outgrew with the help of a stern hand (and late-night singing of lullabies). And those which he retained -- a thankful heart, a love of home no matter how humble -- were those which no doubt led the first dog to take service under the company of primative humans. Kellaby was a good dog, perhaps better a dog than I am a man. He welcomed our three children into the world (and later, a kitten and a rescued golden retriever) without the slightest hint of guile. He often chose the high spot on a landing or porch to watch the neighborhood. (Swings were a favorite of his.) He was the ambassador to our household. More of our neighbors knew his name than ours.
He loved to jump, to swim, to hunt. I regret that I did not train him to be a better pointer. (He birded well enough for his own entertainment.) He had a prowd carriage, his fur thickest around his shoulders. On walks he was often with nose to the ground, prowling. Young strangers would often ask, "Is that a dog, or a lion?" He would happily break a weak leash and probe a fence, yet the thought of a ride bound him more strongly than chains. When other calls would not bring him home, the start of a familiar engine would have him running. Lake Erie was a favorite haunt of his, and the hope of a swim till all throwing arms were exausted was always on his mind.
He loved the snow, and frolicked wildly, even on the day before his death. On his last night on this earth, he stood out in the snow braced with all his waning strength, staring at some unkown point listening to a chariot of a different sort, catching the scent of a sea of smoothest glass, where crowns are tossed instead of sticks, throwing arms never tire, and the great Master's beasts never tire of retrieving and setting them before his feet.