Little Ann was a cocker spaniel, and, I suppose, in the heaven that dogs just have to go to, I guess she still is – a cocker spaniel angel. We loved her dearly; she loved my husband to bits, was fond of Quentin and tolerated me. She was, however, a free spirit.

Little Ann came from the Butler County, Ohio, animal shelter. She was about a year old and, by the way, had never had her tail docked. I think she was probably born and said, “I’m emancipating myself; I’m out of here.” Of course, she gave Quentin the smiling, happy look that said, “I know you’re going to take me home. I know it. I know it. I’m so happy. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

So we took her home. And she promptly took off. She had used us for her escape. Ah, but she did not know her new adversary. She wasn’t going to break my son’s heart. I kept tracking her down and she kept running away. She did that for 13 years. Of course, somewhere along the line, she would run away and I had learned to shout, “Fine, find your meals somewhere,” and she would be scratching to come in when she had wandered around enough. If you wanted her back right away, the trick was to take about five steps to chase her, and then turn your back and walk away. She would follow.

I remember taking her to the Fairgrounds. When it was time to leave, she would not get in the car. I would drive a few feet and she would run along behind. I’d stop and open the door and she would run off. Many is the time I drove the few blocks home with a dog following a car that stopped every half-block for her. I would get so furious. And I’d turn round and take her to the Fairgrounds the next day. We got another dog, Sally, and Little Ann would get Sally to run beside her and then she would run past a tree and Sally, watching Little Ann, would run into it.

One time, when Quentin was a senior, he got so incredibly upset with her that he bowled her in the porch door. She rolled over and over along the carpet to the other end and bounced off the wall. Did not faze her.

She would come for Cameron when he came to live with us. He was five or six and he would see her make an escape and run for the door, calling, “I’ll save you, Ann.” And she would look at him and come. He called her sweetums. We would get him up late at night to stand in the door and call, “Come here, Sweetums,” when she was being especially stubborn.

I took her to Mother’s a lot, although we just had to take it for granted she would show up when it was time to go home. She liked to make trips out at night and she would buffalo me into believing she had “to go”. She’d be off and I’d have to get Mother to demand, “Little Ann, you get in here right now.” A lot of folks are a bit cowed by Mother.

Anyway, one night, we were there and she went out and came in willingly. Thank you, Ann. She had been skunked, right on the forehead. At 2 am, we bathed her in tomato juice and vinegar and Dawn dishwashing liquid – which is supposed to work. We thought it had. I returned home the next day and everyone exclaimed, “WHAT is that stench?” More baths – nurse baths, the ones where my daughter-in-law scrubbed her with one of those net mesh things and then rinsed . . . and then did it again.

I don’t know if it was the actual skunking or the nurse baths, but Little Ann stayed clear of skunks from then on.

She got old and she got cancer. We did what we could but she got worse. Her spirit was so indomitable I knew she would never give up – I had her put to sleep.

Ah, Little Ann, I can hear St. Peter calling now: “Little Ann, you get back in here . . . Do you hear me? Don’t make me get the Big Guy . . . “