This is Digby, who recently passed away. It’s actually one of his happiest moments. (Courtesy photo by Dave Mastric)

Did you ever miss ear-splitting caterwauling? Or waking up in the wee hours of the morning for an outdoors bathroom break? (We’re not talking about me here; I need indoor plumbing.) Or sacrificing a tasty bit of beef for the culinary pleasure of another living thing?

I check “yes” to all of the above.

Digby came into my life in 2007 when I lived in the Lansing area. I volunteered for the Animal Placement Bureau, which specializes in providing foster homes until dogs could find their “forever homes.”

At the time, I was full-time mommy-provider-enabler of bad behavior for my bulldog, Tugboat, and pug, Tonka. Foster dogs came in and out of my life too, beginning with Marvelous Marvin, a small black dog of unknown origin. For what it’s worth, I had little knowledge of any of my fosters’ origins, but didn’t need to, just as they didn’t need to know about my checkered past.

Foster dogs generally don’t have the best backgrounds. They were owner-surrenders for whatever reason, strays or something else. Digby, though, really got a bad start.

An acquaintance of a friend of mine saw a vehicle stop in or near downtown Lansing. Someone opened the door, tossed out Digby and then drove away. That didn’t sound like an accidental occurrence.

I was told it took the acquaintance about an hour to catch him, with the dog understandably scared. My friend knew I fostered dogs, so she told me about the poor discarded dog.

Having just recently lost Tonka to due to post-surgery complications, I thought Tugboat needed a permanent companion.

It took a bit for Digby, who unsurprisingly had trust issues, to get used to our household, but he seemed to fit right in.

Digby didn’t fit the mold of what I usually liked in a dog, namely, brachycephalic traits. Bulldogs and pugs have that squished-in look, but Digby, which I think was a beagle-Chihuahua mix, had too long a muzzle for that.

However, the ever-discerning Tugboat seemed to take to him, and soon, we were a family. Digby became a “foster failure,” a term used to describe a dog the temporary parent decides to keep permanently.

I had many fosters since Digby, with three or four dogs in my household pushing the limit, but I had to stop fostering when I moved to Marquette, taking with me Digby and Susie Q, my other foster failure — and a pug; I had to get a squishy face somewhere. Tugboat had long since passed.

Digby came with his challenges. He was overly needy, barked around strangers and never really got the hang of housetraining.

I often asked Digby, “What’s it like to be you?” I didn’t get a satisfactory answer, not that he would have one. When you have a bad start, and I’m assuming he did considering someone threw him out of a vehicle, you can get warped.

Harmless people wanting to be friendly with him had to earn his trust. This prompted me to explain to Digby that life would a lot easier if he didn’t react that way.

Digby did have a strange affinity for black dogs, particularly older ones. My guess is that an older black dog was nice to him once and it stuck in his memory.

When he did take you into his fold, though, you were his. Case in point: My neighbor, Andy, recipient of a few growls in the beginning, became his chum. In his last few months of life, he still scampered over to Andy’s yard to see him and his black dog, Ace.

Speaking of those last few months, Digby underwent an operation to remove a mass, but continued to go downhill. I was hoping he could make it to the end of the year, but one day, he wailed in a way that convinced me it was time to let him go.

I broke into tears as I picked him up, telling my husband that Digby was leaving our home and never coming back.

Now he is back, but in a different way. He was cremated, so I have him in the physical sense, but Digby Doe-Eyes always will exist in my mind and heart.

I have yet to finish a layout for my Digby shrine. I’m hoping it can include his box of ashes, paw print, collar and tags, and his last but unused pee pad.

His spirit lingers too in that I still watch where I put my feet when I’m sleeping at night, one end of the couch being Digby’s usual nocturnal resting spot. I still imagine hugging him and singing to him, “I love little Digby. He’s my little man,” and getting a kiss in return.

Goodbye, Digby. See you across the Rainbow Bridge.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Christie Mastric is a staff writer at The Mining Journal. Contact her at cbleck@miningjournal.net.