Friday's weather forecast for Tennessee is mixed -- in the middle and upper elevations, there's supposed to be snow and wintery precip. Here in the valley of East Tennessee, we're supposed to get hardly any precip and not enough snow to stick. I have been praying for snow since, oh, 1997 or so. We don't get it here any more. Now I'm totally torn between wishing for snow and hoping it's all going away. I don't want anything to prevent me from driving west to pick up Puppy To Be Named Later!!!

Anyway, on with the story. After our third corgi died, my mother decided not to get any more dogs. And I was heartbroken, so there was a bit of the "if you don't ever love anything, you can't risk getting hurt" philosophy going on there, too. In any case, I got through high school and college without a corgi at all.

I grew up, I met a great guy (a great *cat* guy) and married him, and we had a little girl named Emily. When Emily was about four years old, friends of ours showed up on their way to a camping trip in the mountains, and they brought their dog with them. This was when I discovered that my little girl was terrified of dogs. Not just scared -- terrified. She had absolutely no idea what that critter was or why it was invading her space, and she screamed nonstop as long as she could see the dog.

After that, I became aware that Emily was scared of all dogs -- not just our friends' dog. I couldn't understand it. I had never been scared of a dog. Ever. No child of mine was going to grow up being scared of one of the best creatures on Earth.

Of course we got a corgi. How could we not? Wesley, my husband, wasn't particularly fond of any one breed, and I was definitely very prejudiced. So we found Harry -- the runt of his litter -- and we brought him home. Emily was cured of her fear very quickly.

Now, in retrospect, I do worry that Harry spoiled me. He was housetrained in no time flat, and he was a perfect gentleman, even about chewing during his formative months.

When we had the blizzard of '93, Harry bounded outdoors and promptly sunk in the three-foot drifts over his head. I've never enjoyed playing in any snow as much as we did that day.

After we moved to our new house in the boonies, Harry's best friend was our neighbor's rooster. Yes, rooster. Cecil had a lovely fenced-in yard that he shared with a pig named Daisy (yeah, the same name as my first corgi, and man, it killed me). (And Daisy the pig was supposed to be a dwarf or pot-bellied pig, but she was not. She was a full-size sow.) (But that's another story.)

Anyway, Cecil was a smart rooster who figured out various posts and roosts that would lead to a higher post, and he would hop, hop, hop and come over his fence. Then he would come to our house and find Harry. When Harry took naps, Cecil the rooster -- I kid you not -- Cecil would roost on Harry's butt.

I swear I am not making that up. I know it sounds impossible, and I wish I had photographic proof. Alas, I do not. Although my neighbor Nancy and I would laugh and laugh at Harry and Cecil, we never thought to take a picture. It was a different era, before YouTube and Facebook and viral videos. Cecil frequently spent the night on my back door step with Harry, and I would be awakened by a crowing Cecil.

Harry was good, sincere, loyal, and true, and he was a well-behaved and fabulous dog. We all loved him to pieces -- me, my husband, my daughter (who hasn't been scared of any dog since she got to know them), and my son, who was born after Harry's introduction to our family. Harry was -- beloved.

He contracted blastomycosis in July, 1997, and he died before it was diagnosed. The vet who thought Harry had the fungal infection had sent the tests to the nearest vet school, but I went ahead and approved the expensive and iffy treatment without confirmation. The only problem was that Harry didn't live long enough to start the treatment. He died relatively peacefully at the vet's office.

The vet sent me a sympathy card. I think that's probably normal now, but it was an unusual practice to me. I still have that card, signed by everyone who worked at the clinic and knew Harry.

I can't tell you how much we missed that dog, that perfect corgi. I can tell you that it was years before I could even think of getting another dog, and a couple more years before I could work up the courage to tell my family that it was time to wade back into that fray of hope, love, trust, and possible loss and hurt. Sometimes you just have to open up your heart and let vulnerability be a good thing. Sometimes that's what makes us better humans.

And that's why I'm hoping the weather holds it together for me, for just another day. We've found our next hope -- our next corgi puppy. All we need is a little time and some safe roads so we can bring her home!

If you've kept up with all these stories, thank you for reading. I am not very good at brevity, but I surely do love a good corgi story!