A SHAGGY DOG STORY

I really miss not having a dog around. We haven't had one since I retired in 1995 due to the fact that spending three months of the summer in England isn't good or convenient for the dog or the owners. But now I don't think we'll be traveling that long or far.

For as long as I can remember when I was young we had dogs around the house. Where I was raised in Ohio, we had 24 acres, so it was ideal for kids and dogs. At one point, when I was eleven, we had ten dogs, and they never tried to kill each other.

The oldest was a black dachshund named Youser who was smart as a whip and greedy to the same degree. He would sit up on his haunches at the dinner table (back in the olden times when families sat and had dinner together), begging for a morsel. One time my middle brother teased him for a good five minutes before giving him a bite, and Youser never wavered. When Youser died at age ten in 1943, my father called my middle brother and me at our prep school in Pennsylvania to tell us. Youser was family.

The second was Sonia, a beautiful Great Dane bitch with the disposition of a lamb. She weighed about 180 pounds and was brindle-colored with unclipped ears. She used to race to meet the paper boy on his bicycle. If he was a new one, he would be ready to change his underwear at the sight of this behemoth hurtling toward him. Then she would sniff and lick his hand. Sonia was a lover, not a fighter and always a kid at heart. I remember playing in the snow with friends where we were chasing each other in a game of tag, and Sonia got in the act, leaped up on me, stealing the knit cap off my head and running away. looking over her shoulder at my prostrate body in the snow. Unfortunately, she either was poisoned or ate something that did so, and she died young.

The third was Rip, a black and white Cocker Spaniel, who was loveable but totally stupid, a characteristic many Cockers share from too much inbreeding. His main joy in life was to get thoroughy wet and then run through the woods and collect as many burrs as possible in his fur. I bet I spent hours detaching these burrs from his matted hide while he looked lovingly and gratefully at me, after which he would run outside and repeat the process.

Numbers four through nine were Bedlington Terriers, the English breed that look like lambs. Petzel was the name of the mother, and my father had her mated, and she whelped five male puppies. We gave away three to friends in another part of the country and kept two. They barely made it a year when they were shot by the police answering a complaint from a farmer-neighbor, a reclusive old bastard who claimed they were hurting his sheep. What doubtless happened was they ran into his yard and were chasing and playing with the sheep, and the sheep, stupid as always, would simply roll on the ground and be helpless. We were pretty pissed off at the police for a good while.

Number ten was shortlived in terms of residing with us, named Buck, a liver and white spotted Pointer who was three. Dad decided it would be nice to have a hunting dog available. but there was one small problem: this dog hated and would bite anyone except Dad and me, for some unknown reason. The other dogs shied away from him, as well. As you can imagine Buck didn't live here any more for long.

In our own time as parents, my wife and I had a series of dogs, usually one a time, although back in the sixties we did have two a couple of times. we had a wonderful Wirehaired Fox Terrier named Yankee---I believe we got him around the fourth of July; hence, the choice of names. He was stolen. Then we had another, Wirehair, Tigerlily, who got hit by a car.

Then we had two Minature Poodles, ChouChou and Brioche. ChouChou got hit by a car, survived but had her brain ratttled. My brother had a male poodle, so his kids and mine thought it would be a great idea to have a family wedding between our poodles. My son, about eight, was the priest, and my two daughters and a girl cousin were bridesmaids, while two male cousins were ushers. the service was held in our basement. With both families seated in this "chapel", the bride came down the aisle and must have been a bit overwrought, as she squatted to crap.

Then we had Duke, a big and lovable Alsatian hybrid, He also got poisoned, perhaps by some putrified carcass,who knows? He was a clown and ate for three. He was joined by another brown Minature Poodle, Charlie Brown, acquired in 1969 from an old friend. Charlie was everyone's favorite. He had an undershot jaw and crooked bite so that, even when his mouth was closed, you saw a small protuberance of teeth on his left side. Charlie fancied himself as a great hunter, and his rasping bark filled the air as he futilely chased squirrels and rabbits around the neighborhood. He was also very independent and showed affection only when he was in the mood. As he aged---he lived to 15---he mellowed out and became very warm. Like so many dogs, his greatest pleasure was riding in the front seat next to me with his head out the window. In his last two years he had seizures and had to be medicated daily. Finally in 1984 he could not fight the good fight, and I had him put down. I was alone in the house at the time with my wife in Florida and my kids grown or away at college, and I spent a weekend alone grieving, not going out of the house. I still keep his picture by my computer.

The last dog was Red, an Irish Setter bitch, whom my middle daughter had obtained through an ex-boyfriend, and she gave him to us to keep when Red was four in 1984. She was an endearing airhead who would wander off and be missing for a day or two until someone would call, having noted her name and phone on her collar, to say Red was in their house. One time we had two days of heavy rain and Red was missing. Sure enough, I received a call; the man heard my voice and called me by name, and I recognized his voice as an old friend from our church. In her last years I believe Red had a series of mini-strokes which slightly affected her gait. She used to sleep in the basement in her own bed, One summer night a huge thunderstorm with lots of lightning scared the hell out of her, and she raced up the stairs where the basement door must have been ajar, tore down the hall to our bedroom and jumped in-between my wife and me in our king-sized bed, making a perfect landing, whimpering and shaking as we consoled her. We used to drive to Toledo to stay with a daughter and family, and Red would spend part of the trip in the backseat, standing with her head resting on my shoulder while I drove. My granddaughter reminded me that my son, in Red's older years, on occasions would take some auburn dye and paint Red's whiskers to hide the grey! After I retired in October of 1995, we departed a month later for Florida and left her with my step-mother, who loved her dearly. In less than a month we got a call that Red had died.

So, that's my canine history. After sixteen years, maybe we're ready again. Then again, you have to be careful on an island with crocodiles. Many stories abound of dogs lost that way. We'll have to ponder this one awhile.