More Measure Than a Cup - Neely's Story

We named her Neely-Noel. “Neely” came from a book my mother had read. It sounded southern. I added the name “Noel” because it was the French word for Christmas, the season that was coming up. I never thought to feminize the name, as would have been appropriate. In her fourteen and one-half years of life, she had more than twenty-five nicknames.  She was Punky, Punky Girl, Habla Neechie, Cani, Canitti, Pretty Girl, Priddy Priddy; the list was long. Each of them had a distinct meaning; but, really, she was just Neely.

Neely chose us. I was not there when it happened.  I was at my uncle and aunt’s home. The family had gathered for Thanksgiving, when my aunt suckered my mother into wanting to look for a dog. My reluctant step-father went along, too—determined to help prevent this from happening, I’m sure. They said when they approached the litter of dogs, it was Neely who stopped bounding around her own mother to come to them.  She went straight for my step-father. It was over, then. Neely had made the choice; Neely chose us.

She barked little responses in ways that made me sometimes wonder how she understood us, but she communicated best with her eyes. Any look from Neely let us know what she was feeling. She also became a better mirror for us than our own reflections from the glass. Like other dogs, she noticed our happiness and joys as well as our failures and sadness. She knew when to crawl into your lap; she understood that occasionally sitting next to you was all that was required. She enjoyed vanilla Oreos, and loved vanilla ice cream.  She was independent and fully aware of whom she was. On road-trips, she would not be satisfied unless she was in the driver’s lap. Only a little dog can truly drive a family forward.

In her years, she walked on top of the wall on Stadium Drive on the Appalachian State Campus. Mom called it “Neely’s Wall.” She frequently accompanied us on trips wherever we would go. She sat by as my mom authored two books, which one neighbor reminded us immortalized her name and image… she is on the back cover. In a way only a little dog can, Neely got us through some tough times in our lives, crawling into our laps to remind us that even in death and heartache there is still much love.

She accompanied my mother to the beach in summer, 2009. It was then that she first fell ill, and when doctors told that she could not live long. My mother returned in her car to home and arranged a trip to a local, specialized veterinarian who helped stabilize and extend Neely’s life. We attribute eighteen extra months to her treatment, and are thankful beyond words.

But, time still marches on, so they say. The last days were difficult. No longer could there be the Neely who would prop herself up on a ball and juggle it across the floor, happily panting and barking. We were not seeing the Neely who brought a toy to play tug-of-war or catch. There were little flickers here or there of the dog of the past who bounded with a smile and filled the room with her presence. Her breathing now labored, she seemed less and less comfortable. It was painful to imagine her suffering.

Neely-Noel was the perfect dog for our family, and I hope we were the perfect family for her. A little being as small as Neely should never have as much love as she contained. It is beyond the rules of physics that a cup should measure more than a cup. Yet, those rules were never tested against Neely. From the moment she approached my step-father, she poured an abundance of love to us. Her little cropped tail never failed to wag when she would see us—until the final morning.

My parents took her in on Sunday morning to the animal hospital.  The doctors treated her with the best care they could give, and told my parents treatment could make her comfortable to go home, but that she would likely be back within a week. Difficult as it was, they both knew the time had come. I daresay Neely chose her time, as well.

She was wrapped in a blanket my mother had crocheted for me. At some point, I had given it to her. She also had beside her a little brown rabbit, her gift from Easter. The doctors brought her in, and she took her place on my mother’s lap; the only way a dog like her could go. They injected her with a sedative, which normally makes some dogs a little tense. But not Neely. She received the final medication that would give her the only comfort that we, ourselves, could never have given her.

Like any true eulogy, words alone can never accomplish the task of describing the loss of a loved one. No master wordsmith could put them together to reveal the sentiment of loss. Memories are the only thing that we have. She now resides where only the ghosts of memory dwell. I go to the ghost, and I see she returns joyful to be the dog that she always was and shall ever be to those who knew her.  How do you tell the world about the ghost that lives only in your mind? 


Written by Charles Jeremy Cannada, Presbyterian Minister, and son of Neely's mom, Sandi Huddleston-Edwards, Duke Energy Employee, CPCC adjunct English Professor and author of Richard's Key and Roy's Sandman.

"The blessings and depths of our lives are further extended from the relationships brought forth between we human's and our dogs. Color their world (and yours) - Adopt!" -Joe Katon