My affinity for dogs goes waaaaay back. One of my first words was “puppy-dog.” The plastic men that came with my Playskool dollhouse stayed in the toy chest, but the dog figures got to drive the van (Willy Wegman owes me royalties). I begged and pleaded with my parents to get a puppy … but my mother was petrified by dogs, having had a traumatic experience as a girl.
One day after I turned 4, my father phoned my mother from work and said that he was bringing home something cute and blond. That was his way of telling her that he’d found a dog. I’m not sure how my dad had convinced my cynophobic mom that our family needed a dog. There was never a more excited little kid than when my dad arrived with that puppy. He was a strawberry blond Cocker Spaniel mix with the most soulful brown eyes. I named him Rusty on account of his color (I was 4, okay?). We made a little nest for him in the kitchen. Of course, he cried during the night and even managed to get out of the kitchen. The next morning, my mother found him sleeping on the velvet bedspread in their bedroom. The next day, he committed the sin of “doing his business” on one of her houseplants. Instant outdoor dog. Nest was transferred to a newly purchased dog house.
We soon moved to California. Our new house was situated on acreage, so we had plenty of space to play, but not as much time, since I started school that year. The time we did have was precious, though. As soon as he heard the school bus rounding the corner, he would run from wherever he was in the yard, ears flying, to meet me. Summer was the best, because my friends and I could play until almost 9:00, when dark finally started to fall. We would make long treks through the open fields, play catch with a Frisbee, and share ice cream cones (all with my dog, and sometimes their pooches).
The years passed all too quickly and Rusty eventually suffered the ailments of old age. He became arthritic and since we already let him in the house occasionally (my mother gradually having overcome her fear), we allowed him indoors more and more frequently, especially on 90-degree-plus days and during the winter. A throw rug in the kitchen was his spot. He would stay there for hours, dozing and supervising our activities. After a time, he could lie anywhere on the linoleum without reprimand. He later was able to lay his head on the carpeting without being scolded. Days later came when he would become disoriented and we would find him in the bathroom or hallway. At 15, he became gravely ill and after consultation with his vet, we decided that he was ready to make his final journey. I never cried so much in my life than when I held his little body against me for the last time as the vet administered the injection (and I’ve since bore all the usual sorrow in life, death of loved ones, my divorce, etc.). Even now, tears spring to my eyes when thinking about him :::mopping damp keyboard:::
It was several years before I was ready to find another dog. I remembered the tale of a chocolate Lab, Sheila, a guide dog, from a book of short stories. My then-husband did our homework about Labs and completed our new home by adding a dog to it. One rainy day, we picked up Tai from a breeder of chocolates. My husband named the puppy Tai, but I registered him as Black Tai Affair, which was kind of doofy but had an aristocratic ring. I later came to find out that my husband didn’t name him after Tai Babilonia (duh) or even Ty Cobb, but rather after a certain kind of weed. He used to drive me nuts later by, among other things, calling the dog “Tai Bud.”
My husband redeemed himself somewhat in adopting a black German Shepherd/Collie mix. This dog was about 6 months old and husband discovered it while on an A/C service call. Apparently the kids (and probably their parents) teased their dog mercilessly and abused it when it didn’t mind. My husband couldn’t stand for this to continue, so he offered them 50 bucks to take the mutt off their hands, to which they agreed. Upon hearing the story, our 12-year-old neighbor kid said, “Man, that’s jacked up.” That is how Jack got his name.
Other dogs with whom I currently live (does not include ex-husband):
Tina: Tai’s littermate and the most intelligent dog I’ve ever known. Although Mom registered her as “Tina Louise,” she bears a closer resemblance to Miss Piggy than to Ginger Grant. AKAs: BB, as in “brown bitch,” and Hooverphonic (with regard to her ability to devour food and noise made while doing it, not the band).
Gabi: Black German Shepherd and our best watchdog. Biggest ears in the world. She and Tina were already at my parents’ when Jack and I moved in with them (yes, hubby kept Tai and I wound up with Jack).
Buck: Yellow Lab and the largest of the pack. Named by my dad, whose childhood dogs included the creatively named “Butch.” Nicknamed Buckalicious (by me). Good thing the neighbors can’t hear us calling “Buck!”
Dexter: Black Lab who digs a lot. Growls even more–loudly, like thunder in the distance. Named by me after a disastrous encounter with a shoe (and I had liked the name from as long ago as “Dynasty”). AKAs: Dex and The Little Guy, the latter of which he has outgrown.
Have only had had two cats, each for a short time. The first was Tommy, whom I dubbed as such altho he was really a she. This gray tabby was dumped in front of our house and disappeared a few months later, shortly after she and Rusty had finally gotten used to each other. The other was a light gray tabby, acquired while I was married. My mother-in-law took in a pair of strays and gave one to my husband. I named her Jade as that was the color of her eyes. This kitty had less than a charmed life, contracting every illness possible and losing half of her tail to engine of husband’s Bronco. Haven’t seen her since I moved out.
My apols for such a lengthy post. :o
