In the early 2000s, we had a wonderful dog named Ezzie. Her registered name was Jubilee All Eyes On Me, named for the way she stood out from all of her nine littermates. We showed her a few times, including a trip for her to our breed’s national specialty at Montgomery. She won a few points and came in second in her class at the national specialty. Some Airedale people loved her and some hated her: when I asked for what these people liked or didn’t like, the list read exactly the same for both groups.
Ezzie was a special dog to us. Her registered name reflected the fact that she was the one dog in a litter of nine who always came to the front, who was always in our faces so to speak. She had a very healthy sense of who she was and how special she was.
She gave us a litter of 11 wonderful puppies, and as she was in everything she did, she was a terrific mother. After we bred her, another breeder wanted to lease her from us and breed her. We let her go to that breeder, but it did not work out. She exhibited some behaviors that worried that breeder, and we decided to bring her home.
While she was at that other breeder’s, a very interesting thing happened. On the same day, that breeder, an animal communicator in Florida whom we often consult, and I all received a message from Ezzie. She wanted a new name. What was incredible about this incident was that all three of us on the same day came up with the SAME name. The animal communicator told me that her name was Mary Lee, saying that she wanted a two-name name. The other breeder told me her name was Marilyn. And I got the name Merrily. All without any consultation with each other. Totally out of the blue.
We went to the breeder to pick her up, and when I called her as Merrily, she came running happily to me. After consideration for the others, we settled on calling her Merry Lee.
She came home with us and settled into her life. She was affable and tractable, but it was very obvious that she really wasn’t our dog. We decided that we would find her a good home. I told the Universe exactly what I wanted for a home for her, listing all the good things I could think of that would make her happy.
Within 24 hours, I received a call from a family in upstate New York: they sounded wonderful and it appeared that if I would let her go to them, she would have an incredibly happy life. But I demurred because I did not want to place an adult in a home where I couldn’t easily get her back if it didn’t work out. I went back to the Universe, repeated my requirements for a home for her and this time I said within driving distance of Dallas.
Less than 24 hours later, I received a call from a couple in Albuquerque. As I listened, I knew that this was Ezzie’s home, and within three or four days, they called to set up a time when they could meet her. They rented a mini-van and made the trip from Albuquerque to Dallas at the end of the week. When they had settled in their hotel, they came to see us and asked if they could take her out for the afternoon to see if they bonded with her. They left money with us, saying that we should either have the dog or the money at all times. They took her to a park; they walked with her; they played with her; and they went to a pet shop and bought her a leash. They came back in time to have dinner with us, telling us that they wanted to adopt her.
At dinner, the husband asked me: “Why did you change her name from Ezzie to Merry Lee?” I didn’t know what to say: how do you tell someone that the dog told you what her name should be? I hesitated, and the husband said: “The reason I ask is that our last Airedale’s name was Ozzie.!” I gasped. All I could say was “I think she wanted a name of her own.” I knew, deep in my heart, that this truly was her home, and she had known about it for much longer than we had.
The couple asked us if we would keep her overnight: their hotel room was small, and they would pick her up in the morning to take her home with them. After they left, Merry Lee was very upset. She paced; she laid on a dog bed looking like she had lost her last friend. I decided to take her into the guest room and let her sleep with me that night.
After I turned off the lights and lay down to sleep, I was assaulted by mental noise: “They were my people. Why did they leave me? I am supposed to go with them. They left me.” This continued for quite awhile. Finally, I sat up and turned the light on. “Merry Lee,” I said, “Did they buy you a leash while you were with them?” She looked me in the eye and acknowledged that they had bought her a leash. “Well,” I said, “Why in the world would they buy you a leash if they were not going to take you with them?” She looked at me. I told her they were coming in the morning to pick her up, that they wanted her to have a good night’s sleep before the long trip to Albuquerque. She lay back down and went to sleep.
When I woke the next morning, she was still sleeping soundly. I got her up, took her out, fed her, and brushed her up. When the doorbell rang at 8:30, she got very excited. When the people came in, she rushed first to one, then to the other, back and forth. She was obviously very happy to see them. We had breakfast, gave them food for her for a few days, and sent them on their way.
That was many years ago. We get letters from them thanking us for putting her in their home, they call her their good friend and share her likes and dislikes, and they send us pictures. She is obviously in her perfect, meant-to-be home.
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