Last post I mentioned my childhood pet. The master of disaster, mystical mutt and the Rock Hudson of yard dogs; Dawg. (Dad called him the Rock Hudson of yard dogs because...well... you will see). Dawg was a small black with brown dog that came from such an amazingly mixed pedigree I just don't feel the word 'mutt' truly sums it up. I don't remember where Dawg came from. I want to say he was found in our church parking lot and we just picked him up and brought him home but that just doesn't seem right. I just don't see us dressed in our Sunday clothes laying our just worshiped eyes on some random pup in the parking lot and scoop him up into our arms and head on home for lunch. (then again this is the same family that found a kitten in a restaurant parking lot, brought it home and named it P.U. for pretty ugly)
Dawg was pretty loyal. I would hop on my bike, ride through the woods at breakneck speed and dodging as many low branches as possible while Dawg ran along side of me. When I rode over to a friend's house he would tag along but as soon as he saw me to my destination he would take off and go do his own thing. He always reappeared when it was time to go home to fulfill his faithful escort duties. For the longest time I just knew he was taking his own tour through the woods, chasing rabbits, rolling in mud (and dead animals) and having a great dog's life. Oh how wrong I was.
Dawg was a great dirt road, in the sticks, dog. He barked when cars started to make their way up our driveway. He kept stray dogs away from our house; protecting us children from ne'er-d0-wells of the canine world. He even tried to attack my sister's boyfriend for rough housing with her in the yard and making her squeal. (to be honest sis I absolutely hated that guy and wished Dawg would rip out his throat. I had plans to feed him steaks if he did.) Dawg also took it as his solemn duty to keep me safe from what ever critter was around while I tromped through the woods. I will honestly say I was never attacked by an evil squirrel or rampaging rabbit.
One of my most frequently visited memories was the time Dawg was bitten or stung by something and his face swelled up to almost monstrous proportions. He looked like a canine caricature of Marlon Brando. (I just knew he had no regrets, didn't apologize for his life and he had hopes I would grow up to be Senator Nicole, Governor Nicole, something)
Dawg, Dawg, Dawg, one day a call came that shocked us all. Dawg had an odd affection for my friends' next door neighbor's chickens. Now down in the sticks everyone knew what a chicken was and they normally were nothing special. This one particular neighbor had exotic chickens. These exotic chickens had big round plumes of feathers that made them look like strange chicken astronauts. They also had feathers that covered their feet, giving their toes some insulation in winter. We all kinda thought those neighbors were uppity because they had useless exotic chickens. The only thing those chickens were good for was showing off.
Dawg found those exotic chickens irresistible. At first he would sneak over, grab hold of those chickens and gnaw on their necks. Never broke the skin just wanted to chew a little on them. Then as Dawg got older the chicken games went a tad on the weird side. The owner of the exotic chicken filed a complaint with my parents because they were tired of Dawg chewing on and mounting their chickens!
Oh. My. Goodness! We were mortified. Well most of the family was. Dad thought it was funny and right there he named Dawg to be the Rock Hudson of yard dogs. I didn't go play at my friend's house for days. I was too embarrassed to. Eventually I did go back and well Dawg did what Dawg did. We just kinda ignored it. Like that weird drunk uncle that you know has a good heart but had his flaws.
But apparently Mom had other ideas. She did not handle Dawg's preferences very well. (I mean Mom he could of been born that way!) She also had a problem with all the stray cats around our house. (My folks didn't have the scratch to pay a vet to fix our pets and well one thing just leads to another) So Mom made a call.
One day the dog catcher showed up at our house and loaded up as many cats as he could, our dog Sugar and Dawg. I knew it was one of those 'it had to be done' moments but I was broken hearted. I loved that freaky little dog even if he did smell like rotten dead animals all the time. Bike rides became less fun and I had to lean on myself to make sure no killer mutant chipmunks got the drop on me while i was swinging on wisteria vines.
Thinking about Dawg makes me want a puppy even more. A rescued mutt from the pound would be perfect. I will just have to make sure it is fixed and has no access to exotic chickens. Chris won't go for a pet like that in his house.
1 comments:
haha
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