1998 ~ 2006

Letters of condolences and testimonials.

Words are inadequate to express the profound sadness we feel at Scullyís passing. Only tears and hugs seem to give us a degree of relief from the pain. I hoped the worst part would be when we buried her. As we stood around the grave none of us could say much, so uncontrollable was our sobbing. Mom threw a handful of flowers into the holeÖdad tried to recite a lovely poem that was perfect for the occasion, but he was crying so hard he had to stop. Finally, we just fell to our hands and knees and pushed the dirt in with our hands. We cried so hard that I thought the dirt would turn to mud. As it turns out, the burial was not the worst part. Reminders and memories of Scully are everywhere. For now that is the hard part.  Also, the pain and grief that are written on momís face. It is hard to believe that this pain will fade, but we know it willÖit must, if we are to go on with our lives. We loved you Scully! 

Jud Bruce

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As I pulled up in the driveway the morning of Scully's death, I saw mom sitting alone on the porch, her hand resting on the box containing Scully's remains. Up until then I had not shed one tear...but seeing mother sitting there with so much pain on her face...they came in a flood. Mom stood up and we embraced each other as the tears fell. I went and got the wheelbarrow and placed Scully in it and mom and I began the walk down to the pond where dad and Jud had already finished digging her final resting place. I remember thinking, "How is that these dumb creatures are able to weave their way into our hearts"? In Scully's case it was simple. There has never been...nor will there ever be a dog like her. To say she was special is the understatement of the century. To lose her this soon...and in this way seems almost intolerable. How can we ever recover? And to say that life goes on seems a mockery to me. To think that life will go on without this wonderful dog...but of course it does. We will continue on in a world where everything seems less joyous because our Scully is gone.


Sweetie and I are inarticulate in the face of our grief. Really, honestly, I can hardly bear to think about her. The memorial page was so well done. The pictures of her in Mexican garb are priceless. She was truly one of a kind. How could one family be so lucky to have two such priceless dogs. The picture of her and her friend Sweetie looking out the patio door is one I had never seen before; it is wonderful. I would like it on my desk. I broke the news to Sweetie last night. Of course, Scully's death brought to forefront of my mind what Sweetie's passing will wrought on me and it does not even bear thinking about. I am doing everything in my power to make her life long and happy. I've been walking her 2.4 miles almost every day since January in order to strengthen her heart and help her drop some weight. Hmmmmm, so far she's lost .8 lbs. The vet says that's a lot for a little dog. unfortunately, that's about what I've lost too. We are deeply deeply grieved. We all loved Scully. We will not see her kind again.










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From John and Carolyn Creamer

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From Kathy Wilson

From Shaula Parker

The last time I saw Scully was a week before she died. Kate and I had been to Stephenville for our chiropractor appointment, and we had arrived back at the Lively ranch in the late afternoon. As usual, we stopped all conversation momentarily, hoping to watch Scully joyously race from the front of the house to the back in her most comical and entertaining greeting ritual. She could always recognize my car, and she always knew somehow whether I was alone or whether Kate was with me. If I was alone, she would run to meet me at the driverís side door, wagging all over and smiling like a whole welcoming committee, then she would personally escort me to the house. If Kate was in the car with me, Scully would either run to the passenger side door to greet Kate, or race into the house through the doggie door and wait to greet us at the front door. On this particular day, she ran to greet Kate on the passenger side just as Kate opened her door. Always hospitable like the rest of the Lively family, Scully looked across Kateís lap at me and invited me, with that expressive face that could say anything, to get out and come in. So of course I got out. No one could say no to that face. And no one ever did, Iím pretty sure. To Scully, ďNoĒ meant ďDonít kiss my neck until Iíve finished kissing yours.Ē At least thatís the only time I ever heard Kate use the word to her.

          My last memory of Scully is an image of her sitting on the back of the couch that day. Kate and I were standing around the dining table, absorbed again in conversation. I glanced over toward the living room, and there was Scully, balancing on her little doggie butt with her front feet in the air, her head cocked in our direction and a smile on her face. When she saw me look in her direction, she threw her head back to expose her neck, soliciting neck smooches, and tilting her head at just the right angle to roll one eye in my direction. There never was a cuter dog in all creation. Nowhere. Ever. I remember thinking that at the time. I laughed and went to give her the attention she was asking for, asking as clear as any words ever spoken. I completely lost track of Kateís conversation, and I spent the last few minutes of my visit loving on that lovable dog. That dog who loved everybody. That dog that everybody loved.

          Iím really glad now that I have that memory of Scully. It was a sweet one. A typical one. Iíll miss seeing her smiling little face when I pull into the driveway from now on. Weíre all going to miss her, very very much.

          Iím so glad that Scully found her way to live with the Lively family so long ago. She could never have been as happy living anywhere else. She was a member of the family, and she was loved, Iíd dare say, as much as any other member. And she returned all the love that she got, ten fold.

          Thanks for sharing Scully with all of us. She was truly a delight. Sheíll be dearly missed.  

From Kate and Family to the Parkers:

Dear Shaula and Lisa,

We would like to thank you both for this wonderful and thoughtful gift of the two headstones for Sammy and Scully. Words cannot express our most heartfelt gratitude for these beautiful memorials. Jud has already put them up and we will see them each morning as we head out for our daily walk. Thank you both so much.

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Dear Kate and Lively bunch -
I was touched by your sweet note. And I'm so glad that the markers will be a meaningful remembrance for you. I was deeply pained to learn of the world's loss of dear Scully, and in the face of such a thing, it is difficult to offer anything other than one's own brokenness. So that's all I have to offer you - my sincerest grief in the knowledge of your loss. I can give you only community in your pain - the smallest of comforts.
When we lived in Abilene, I had the pleasure of hearing Walt McDonald read his poem "All Dogs Are Pirates," and he talked with such fondness of his Old Rollo. It reminded me of the universal nature of our love for these best friends of ours. I'm so thankful for the personal, very intimate connection that our dogs are capable of forging with us. And I'm so thankful we all knew Scully, so much more than an ordinary "dog pirate." She was an exceptional ambassador, a sensitive and artful ombudsman. I can't remember a visit when she didn't make me happy that I was in the world with her.
May the joy and love that were such a part of her presence, in time, outlive and outshine the trauma of this loss. And may the Lively Ranch you call home become your respite and shelter, your cleft in the rock during this time, as it has often been to me. Thank you for sharing your lives, your home and your Scully with us. Blessings on your difficult journey.
All my love,

Dear Jud & Kate -
You have my deepest sympathy for the tremendous loss of your baby Scully. As you know, I lost my Diva Dog recently.  Diva was also only 7 yrs. old. I know it just rips a big old hole in your heart! It has been more than 2 months since Diva died, and I am still crying. This, too, shall pass...I just don't know when. May God comfort you in your time of grief. You are in my prayers.
Cathy Ray

A loving...yet fanciful tribute.

Scully was really my dog.  She loved me best.  She lived for the time I would come to the farm, and mourned when I left for days and days.  In between, we kept in touch daily by phone or text message.  We were inseparable when I would visit, spending hours gazing into each otherís eyes, and complimenting each other on how good we looked.  I always brought her a big basket of dog goodies for her to nosh on while we visited, for we didnít like to take time out to eat, so captivating was our conversation.  It was filled with little pieces of smoked quail, bite size goose livers (fried with just a touch of parmesan Ė thatís how she liked them), perhaps some tidbits of maple cured bacon, and rosemary chicken (with FRESH rosemary Ė not dried).  For dessert, we would peel each other grapes dusted lightly with sugar.   We would discuss happenings on the farm, her newest allergy symptoms, Dadís latest sermon, Momís health (which she continually worried about), Judís odd habits, Sammyís passing (she never quite got over that), my job, and other matters Iíll take to my grave.  Our love was true.  

Her death has left a big, fat, dirty, rotten, bloody, gaping hole in my heart that will never mend.  Never.


Aunt Jill