By Keli Davidson
On the morning of my mother’s funeral, all I could think about was Yancey, a long since dead-and-gone-dog I had named for the rough, brush-strewn South Texas town where I had picked her up, starving and tick covered, oh, some 25 years ago. Yancey has been dead more than ten years now, but there I was, with two hands on my steaming-hot coffee mug, looking out at the faded, muted colors of a cold February morning, one that has left the garden outside my mother’s window dormant and ash brown, thinking about that dog.
She was just a brown, medium-sized dog, with one ear up and the other folded over, the sort of cattle dog mix that is popular with the ranchers near where I pulled up in my old Jeep that hot July, afternoon. Pathetic.