In June of 1997, my aunt called my mom and asked if she wanted a dog.
Auntie had come to learn of a German Shepherd being kept in an 8×10 concrete-lined carport next to an empty house. Once every two or three weeks, the owners of the house would come by, throw a bag of food over the fence, and fill up a regular-sized dog bowl of water. The SPCA couldn’t legally do anything because, even though the poor dog had no shade in a Central Valley summer and the concrete was caked with a mix of food and feces, the dog was still, technically, being provided with care.
So my auntie and uncle stole the dog, and Frankie came into our lives. I suggested the name Frankie, because, well, she was a hot dog. *badumbumching*
Frankie belonged to my dad. In fact, he and my uncle were the only two males that Frankie would let pet her (there was evidence her ribs had been kicked in at some point). My sister loved her to pieces, too, and spoiled her rotten. She was a 80 pound lapdog. When my parents moved to the Ranch in 2001, Frankie was the happiest of us all; she now got to run around and chase lizards all. day. long.
They figure she had a stroke on Mother’s Day sometime, she lost all control of her hindquarters and Mom and Dad had her put to sleep.
Dad dug a little grave out back, and built a pile of stones over it, so the lizards have a place to play.