Anyone who ever knew Libby, my late Goldendoodle, would agree that she was the perfect dog.
I know that everyone says that about their pets, but Libby was the sort of dog that even people who aren’t “dog people” love.
We brought Libby into our Pikesville home from a farm in Belair when she was just nine weeks old. I’ll never forget the drive home. She looked so scared. My children, then 6 and 8, held her in the backseat. Libby never did get used to riding in the car. She would shake like a leaf as soon as she realized she was going for a ride.
Libby was beautiful, with golden brown eyes, an adorable brown nose and fur that felt like cashmere. She barely shed and was hypoallergenic. Her disposition was as sweet as could be. She was gentle, adoring and loyal. She loved dogs, but loved people more.
Libby quickly befriended everyone in our neighborhood, and our backyard soon became the spot for regular “doggy play groups.” These gatherings also served to bring the neighbors together, creating a friendly atmosphere in the development.
Libby even inspired a couple of our neighbors to get doodles. Soon after she moved in, a miniature Labradoodle and two Cockapoos arrived on the scene, and the four doodles — who looked almost identical, except for their sizes — became fast friends.
At 60 pounds with a fluffy coat that made her appear 80 pounds, Libby looked like the mother pup. The other dogs, who ranged in size from about 40 pounds to 15 pounds, looked like her puppies.
Beyond her beauty and stellar personality, Libby was also a brainy gal. She was quickly potty-trained and never ever pooped in the house … until one memorable night.
It happened one weekend when my then-16-year-old daughter’s boyfriend — a Camp Airy alum whom she met at an Airy and Louise dance — visited us from Brooklyn, N.Y. We set him up to sleep in the basement, and then we all went to Hampden for dinner. The visit seemed to be going well but when we arrived home, we were shocked and dismayed to find that Libby had relieved herself all over the boyfriend’s bed. I cleaned up the mess and left the young couple to themselves.
Several hours later when I was fast asleep, I was awakened when my daughter, who was sobbing, came into my bedroom. “He broke up with me,” she said, through her tears. “He came to Baltimore to break up with me.”
I was devastated on my daughter’s behalf. But I was also deeply impressed by Libby’s oracular powers. How did she know that her “sister” was about to get — it has to be said — pooped on?
And how sweet that she was moved (pun intended) to protect and avenge her!
Now that she’s gone — Libby passed away about six months ago — whenever I see a Goldendoodle doing its business in the street, my heart aches for my darling dog.
She was not only perfect; she was a prophet.