Dog Days of my Life

 I just realized that it's been 2 years since I've posted, but I haven't quit writing. I just haven't been blogging. Instead, I've taken 2 1/2 years to write a novel. I don't know if it's good. I don't know if it's worthy of publishing. What I do know is that I just had to write it, and it was a huge learning curve-mostly fun, and the best thing about it is that I've made some close friendships along the way.                                                            

But today I wanted to go one step further to commemorate International Dog Day and tell you another side of my dog ownership experiences.  Enjoying pictures of everybody's dogs is just about the best way to celebrate any holiday, but when I posted about my 3 sweet pups yesterday, I left out 2 important ones that were perhaps more memorable. 

 My first dog was Sandy. I was about 8 years old and like almost every kid, had been begging for a puppy for years. We got her for Christmas. A wiggly, licky brown and white spotted terrier puppy ran into my arms on Christmas morning. Oh, wow, my dreams had come true. I just knew Sandy and I were destined to be best friends, and I was beside myself with joy. All she needed was a trip to the vet for her puppy examination. That week following Christmas might have been one of my favorites of childhood. I carried that puppy around like she was one of my Madame Alexander baby dolls. She fit nicely into my doll stroller, and of course, my lap. And before Mama could take her to the vet, I noticed tiny rice-looking thingys around her rectum. I just turned her over and didn't worry about it. But Mama did. And when I came home from school after our first day back from Christmas break, Sandy was gone. I cried so hard, I couldn't catch my breath.

I'm holding Sandy next to my sister, Emmalyn

Mama was worried that the worms would creep into my body or an egg would find its way into my intestinal tract while I held my precious puppy. She hadn't thought about how I would feel with the abrupt exit of the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me in my eight years. Devastated beyond words, I mourned for days, begging Mama to fetch Sandy and bring her back to me. It was no use. Mama would not stand for an "unhealthy" environment for our family. And I had no way of knowing it was such an easy fix. I couldn't wait to grow up and love my very own dog --worms or not. We were not allowed to play with Dad's bird dogs because in those days, it was thought that family interaction would hinder the dogs' field performances. 

 When I did grow up, my ex-husband and I purchased a dog that every young couple tends to want to own before deciding to have kids. I'll admit it's good practice, but if Abe was any indication of the kids we'd have, we were in a hell of a fix. He was a bad dog. And we had something to do with it. 

We loved to watch him run around the living room when we'd chase him with an open umbrella.  He seemed to enjoy it, but maybe he was afraid. We kept him in a blanket-lined cardboard box in the kitchen during the night where he'd whine, and cry and carry on. Today he'd be right beside my bed so that I could stick my hand in his crate or cuddle with him under the covers. Mistakes were made.

Abe, celebrating his third birthday with Leah

Abe might have just had a bad personality. He liked us, but didn't seem to like anybody else unless he was humping them --which he constantly did--even after being neutered. He almost always went after my father-in-law which was super embarrassing. We'd invite Mr. Rogers to sit on the couch when he'd visit and then Abe would squirm his way behind him and go to town. It was an awkward task to dislodge Abe from the space between my father-in-law's back and the back of the sofa. And Abe never cooperated.  

But horror of horrors was coming. When our first child, Leah became more mobile, Abe became jealous and over-protective of me. He never threatened Leah, but we were careful to oversee them when they were together.  One morning, our neighbor from across the street knocked on our back door and opened it to encounter a vicious cocker spaniel whose teeth were bared. With no warning, Abe jumped all over her and bit her several times. It happened in a flash. 

Abe had been around Janice a lot, and it came as a big surprise to all of us, especially since she had never done anything to aggravate Abe. Our apology was accepted, but it was certainly not enough. 

The next day, we began to look for someone who'd want a cute blonde cocker spaniel --one that was capable of an unprovoked attack. It was an easy decision  to make but a tough one to actually accomplish, because he'd been our first baby. 

 Surprisingly, we found Abe a place to call his in spite of his dark side. The family lived on a big piece of property out from town and wanted to give Abe a shot at being a good boy. I can still remember trying to hold back tears as I collected his toys, food, and bowls and settled him into the cab of his new family's truck.Watching that curly head of his bobbing back and forth next to his new owner as he disappeared down the street --well that was about as bad as it gets for a dog lover. 

 

Snow Days

Snow was not super common in Blytheville when I was growing up, but it happened almost every year. Just like kids today, we were excited to have school called off and to join the other kids outside to slide, throw snowballs, and build snowmen. But my mom put a whole new meaning to winter wear in the 60s. First layer was pjs or long underwear, second layer was some sort of pants and sweater, and then, the jacket.  All normal things to wear on a frigid snowy day, right? But the outerwear was the marker of my sisters and me.  We did not own a ski jacket or water proof pants or boots. Our family did not take ski trips in the 60s and I don’t think too many others in our town did either. It was costly, and we didn’t have the time. Our Christmas breaks were devoted to family and I don’t remember having a Spring Break until I went to college. So Mom looked in her stash of washed and saved bread bags and rubber bands and put them on our hands and feet over our gloves and shoes. At times we had those transparent galoshes that fit over shoes but the bags went over those too, up to our shins. And to top it all off, she put a good coating of Taloin diaper rash cream all over our lips and cheeks. And the stuff was pink. Really pink. And I can still conjure up that smell. I actually put cream on my girls’ faces when they were little before they went out to play in the snow or on ski trips. But it was clear and odorless like A and D or vaseline. Mom’s intentions were about helping out our bodies, but often that choice trumped our feelings. I can remember being so embarrassed to come outside with the bright Wonder Bread red, yellow, and blue circles on my legs and hands and a face that smelled a whole lot like a baby’s bottom, giving a whole new meaning to butt cheeks. And it was nearly impossible to make a snowball with packaged hands!  At times, I would look to see if she was watching from the window, and if not, I would stick the bags on a bush until it was time to come in. Negotiating ice and snow with plastic on the bottom of my shoes was a side show in itself, so I learned how to avoid the slick spots by finding the deeper areas of snow in which to walk. It was always a good idea to get permission to go to someone else’s yard to play, but I could never stay out too long without the Wonder Bread bags. Eventually, if I did leave them on, the rubber bands would break and the bags would droop around my shoes like stockings too large for an old woman. I remember wondering if it was worth the hassle of bags and ointment, but getting outside in the snow in the South was worth it.  And guess what?  During subsequent snows, I would catch a glimpse of bags on some of the other kids.  Maybe she was on to something.