The first dog in my life was a Lab-English Setter mix. I don't
actually remember Bingo, but there were stories about him and I am told I cried
when we got word that he had died. I was maybe four or five. Bingo had been the
runt of a litter of 16 pups and was apparently the well-behaved exception to my
father's usual choice in dogs. One story was told that on a night when they
hadn't heard his usual one scratch at the door, my parents found him the next
morning under a blanket of snow.
The next one, I remember. Lady was a Collie, the Lassie type
not the working dog type. The old man had wanted to have the popular dog breed
and the big long-haired Collies were the number one. And then old man went off
to work and left his wife with two small children to care for the animal, which
of course did not get enough exercise. She must have been a puppy mill type
dog, but we got her when she was no longer a pup. She was high strung and
eventually was put down after biting a couple of kids in the neighborhood.
A couple years later when I was eight or nine I remember a lengthy
weekend drive in the family car when we ended up at some farm in the rural part
of Long Island to pick up a jet black dog that turned out to be part Chow. He
was built like a tank and had the black tongue. We got him home and I was told
I'd be responsible to walk him. So dutifully I put him on leash, walked out the
front door, and proceeded to be dragged face down along the sidewalk. My father
was "going to put in a dog run," -- a cable between garage and house
to clip the dog's lead to so he could move about the yard -- but for now he
screwed an eyebolt into the corner beam of the garage and fastened a long
chain. The dog went to the end of it and pulled and then went back to the
garage and took a run. When he hit the end of the chain, choke collar and all,
the heavy screw ripped out of the garage with a three inch thick chunk of wood.
My father returned the dog the next day.
Then came a Beagle, when Beagles were all the rage. I don't
even remember her name. She lasted about six months. She was an unspayed female
who was a runner. She'd disappear and be found miles away. I suspect my mother
put her foot down. This was just shortly before the divorce.
No more dogs for a while.
When I went to live with him again the summer I turned
seventeen he was friends with a woman, actually a couple of women, who bred
Dachshunds. I was going to be given a dog for my birthday. Great, just what I
wanted. My father out of work, living on the income of his male
"friend" with a seventeen year old son who didn't want to be there in
a two room city apartment, and we were going to get a dog that I would
"take care of." There you have the old man in a nutshell. Someone
else was going to take care of the dog even if that someone else had a one hour
bus commute to school.
A year and a half later Hermione (that was her name) started
having weird skin problems with her skin scabbing up and sloughing off. I was
instructed to "just take her to Angell Memorial," which was a free
pet hospital. Repeated trips and various treatments later I came home to be
told that he had taken her to be put down. Supposedly "my dog" and he
makes this decision all by himself. Thanks, Dad.
No more dogs for a while.
When I met my first wife to be, her family had a Springer
who was hefty and getting on--Portia--but she was the sweetest most well dispositioned
thing. My father-in-law liked to take her for long walks in the woods and later
I was allowed to take her pheasant hunting. Portia was a natural in the field.
She would work a field thoroughly and aggressively. In tall cover she would
leap in the air every once and a while to see where you were and would take
hand directions. When she put up a bird, if you didn't get it, she would let
you know her disappointment. Lovely dog. She would lead to my first screw up
like the old man.
We had cats. Mostly Siamese but then some litters that were
not intended. Learned that lesson. Then at some point I was doing a second
part-time job in a mall and there was a pet store and they had Springer
puppies. Puppy mill dogs for sure, but I brought one home for "the
kids," and proceeded to waltz away from the responsibility like the old
man. The dog, unfixed, got knocked up and had the pups in our powder room,
where they stayed until they were old enough to be adopted out. Fortunately
whatever the mix was it was cute enough and we were able to place them; but
cleaning up that bathroom was a nightmare. I did do that at least. Then we had
the dog fixed and found a home for her.
Divorced, there were no more dogs for me. I had
a couple of cats when I met my current wife. She had two as well, so we each
agreed to give one up. Her gentle old Siamese, Bailey, freaked out my Grey
Tuxedo, which then decided to leave us. He adopted a family down the street who
were happy to have him. We talked about having a dog but we were both working.
It didn't make sense.
During one trip to the shore on a gray rainy Saturday we
were greeted in the parking lot by a black Lab female, who proceeded to walk
with us on the beach. She did all the good things that "your dog"
would do with you on a walk. It was almost like she had adopted us. I was
enchanted. When we got back to the car, she gave me a nuzzle and then just
trotted off. I think we were probably a long line of temporary owners that she
made use of when her own were too busy for her.
I like dogs. I love their unrestrained affection, how they
love to be rubbed, their incredible attentiveness. I probably would have had
one a long time ago if my life with them hadn't been part and parcel of a life
I really needed to get away from. But there's more to the story.
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