Tales of Winifred / Sometimes a wife just knows.
My story starts about 14 years ago, when a coworker called me up crying. She had stolen a dog that had been crated 14–20 hours a day for the previous 18 months.
On top of that, she was now fighting with her boyfriend because she already had too many dogs of her own.
I told her to bring the dog to work and we’d “see what happens.”
That dog and I took one look at each other and fell in love on the spot. We were practically inseparable for the next 14 years.
She answered to Lucy, I never saw much point in fixing what wasn’t broken.
A DNA test later came back 25% Beagle and 75% Australian Cattle Dog, so she became Lucy Beagle.
Lucy wasn’t afraid of much. She worked in the shop, worked on the farm, was gentle with the livestock, and never flinched at guns, lightning, or fireworks.
She hated three things: fat men, running kids with sticks, and cats.
We had many years of a beautiful life together. On May 27, 2026, Lucy Beagle, my little best friend crossed the rainbow bridge after complications from a brain tumor.
The aftermath was quiet and strange. I still had four dogs who needed feeding, walks, love, and treats.
We have two Australian Shepherds—people say they’re smart, and maybe they are in their own way, but you can’t exactly have a conversation with them.
Our livestock guardian dogs are wonderful and give the best hugs; those huge eyes really do look straight into you. But trying to get a 180-pound half Great Pyrenees, half Anatolian Shepherd into a vet clinic (let alone someone’s house) stresses everyone out.
My wife watched all of this and let me grieve in my own time. I’m a “look and research” type. She’s a “leap and figure it out later” kind of woman.
Yesterday she showed me a picture of a red Australian Cattle Dog in passing. I said "she was cute".
This morning she held up the same picture and said, “She’s yours. I paid the deposit last night.”
In 17 days, the tales of Winifred begin.