"I am a marvelous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man, I keep his house." Zsa Zsa Gabor
A friendly E-Mail from Dee started me thinking about the dogs who have graced my life. And one that made me laugh, cry, and pull out my hair in frustration.
The first dog I really remember we had when I was around 5 years old. His name was Chubby, and he was a chow. He seemed to me to be a big, fluffy teddybearish kind of a dog. And he had a purple tongue. Honest! Because of this latter fact, I was top dog (sorry) in the neighborhood, until the dog warden took him away because he had been caught running down sheep on a neighboring farm. I didn't understand for a long time what, "Putting him to sleep", meant.
The next dog I remember well was Lemuel, affectionately called, "Lem". He was a yellow, long-legged, long-eared hound-of-sorts. And he was a free spirit. He lived wherever he wanted. If the vittles were better up the road, he'd hang out there until someone brought him home. If there was a sweet little thing within twenty miles who was in the romancing mood, he would be gone for days. His most endearing feature to me, and most exasperating feature to my mother, was his howling. He made howling at the moon, or the stars, or the sun, or a little rustle in the bushes, or one of us kids, a real art form. Alas, he went to live at the farm where Tigger and I had spent the summer a few years before.
He was what you might refer to as a "conversation piece", although the conversation that usually ensued isn't printable.
And then came Blackie, an Irish-English mix. He was officially Tigger's dog, but he slept with me until I got married. I loved that dog. The others were just fixtures in my life, but Blackie was my friend. He was a wonderful little boy's dog. He let Tigger drag him around with a chain, Tigger hauling the chain that was hooked to Blackie's collar, and Blackie trotting along beside him, the chain dragging behind. Tigger would lie on his back, and Blackies would give him a ride. When the dog would get tired of entertaining us, he'd entertain himself by coming up behind 4-year-old Tigger and bumping him behind the knees, tipping Tigger over onto the ground. Everyone would laugh, including Tigger, and Blackie would get this foolish doggy grin on his face.
After I left home, Dad had a series of beautiful golden retrievers that were special, too, as well as a black lab-something mix, but none of them took my heart the way Blackie did.
The strangest dog was Scooter, who belonged to DB and always slept on his bed; until I took him away and married him. Scooter was so jealous of me that she would muscle her way between us in the car, or on the den couch. She never did warm up to me (and vice versa). She stayed with Ma when DB and I were married. One day, we visited with our little girl, who was only a year or so, and when the baby crawled under the dining room table to pat the dog, Scooter bit her. I think the dog felt trapped. It didn't phase the daughter, however; she cried for a second, then went right back to pat the dog. A tiny scar, looking like a dimple, was left in the baby's face.
I'll skip Muffie, the high-strung circus miniature sheltie; and a series of pups that didn't make it, what with hepatitis and a busy road, and go right to the most memorable dog. Skipper, the dog-from-heck, who alternately made me laugh, cry, and scream with frustration. He was a miniature collie/hound mix, and like Lem, loved to roam. He also loved to taunt me. One day I was chasing Chard and Will up the stairs to reprimand them for some dastardly deed they had perpetrated, and as I reached out to grab them, Skipper grabbed me by the seat of my pants, catching a good nip of flesh in the bargain. I didn't know who to kill first; the boys or the dog. I couldn't even sit down and cry because my sit-upon was hurt.
He was a great protector of the children. And he was an even greater hiking dog. But he loved to taunt me. I would call him and call him home; he'd come right up to the open door, then spin around and be out of sight before I could catch my breath and hollar, "Skkiipppeerrr!" On the other hand, my friend who lived on our top floor could yell out her window, "Skipper, get in the house!", and he would meekly turn around and slink into the house. One day, I opened the door, two heavy bags of groceries balanced on my knee, and Skipper came bounding out, knocking the bags out of my arms, and me onto my kiester. Grrr! Of course, as the kids got older, they loved this tug-of-war between me and Skip. Nay, they delighted in it!
There are far too many Skipper stories for me to relate here at one time. But I'll end with his love affair with the registered English Spaniel across the road. He fathered a litter of 11 dogs, only 10 lived. DB called up the owner of "Baby" and said, "I hear we're inlaws; my pup died, what will you do with your 10?" Unfortunately, the owner did not think this was funny, and it was a long time before he would speak to DB again. Footnote: "Baby" got caught because she was tied to her doghouse outdoors, and couldn't get away from the males that milled around her. Skipper held them at bay, but at a price!
8:26 PM
Yikes! Reading Bonnie's entry tonight I remembered my inspection sticker ran out on Monday! I'll have to get it taken care of on Friday; unless DB will take it in for me tomorrow...
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