As little dogs go, there was never one finer than Nicky, our freckle-faced cocker-spaniel mutt who grew up with six kids on 17 acres by Lake Andrew in rural Alexandria. This little hero never wore a collar, had no dog tags, ate table scraps, lived outside in a huge backyard, and hated being put in the barn, preferring a rug under the back porch. During cold weather he got to stay in the house. He chased cows when told to, tolerated cats, swam in the lake, rarely took a formal bath, and shamelessly licked his pink tool whenever he felt like it. The Hapkes came by and fed him while we vacationed for a week in the Black Hills. When we came home, he could not contain his joy at seeing his lost family again, running in circles, licking and greeting and running some more until, exhausted, he lay panting in the grass as we stroked him and learned a lesson in unconditional loyalty. One summer day, the legend goes, a huge snapping turtle threatened toddler Steve's toes while Nicky kept it at bay, barking furiously until Dad showed up with an axe and beheaded the monster.
One fall Nicky disappeared, limping home days later with a serious injury. We never knew what happened. He gamely trotted about on three good legs, dragging the fourth, his spirit undimmed. The deadened limb never did heal and one day he rode away in the car and never came back.
But he set a permanent standard for some of us, a dog by which to judge the others that came later. Some better looking, some bigger, some smarter, but none quite like Nicky, a dog for the ages.
