There are some days a blog topic just can’t be avoided, no matter what. Like that proverbial sack full of nickels that whacks me upside the head from time to time, something will jump up, then hang on like a chihuahua on a cuff and not let go.
This is one of those days, and doggone it if I’m not going to bite. The news has gone to the dogs cheek by jowl and there have been no few personal nips as well.
I’ll start with this really annoying bit from the NYT:
Don’t call her a guard dog. When she costs $230,000, as Julia did, the preferred title is “executive protection dog.” This 3-year-old German shepherd, who commutes by private jet between a Minnesota estate and a home in Arizona, belongs to a canine caste that combines exalted pedigree, child-friendly cuddliness and arm-lacerating ferocity.
Great. Now, thanks to Navy Seals, Bin Laden and the kennel ration of crap that comes with, designer dogs have been elevated to a whole new breed.
I’m all for well trained canines who do a job, as those pampered pets like Leona Helmsley’s intended $12 mil pouch are notoriously useless.
Yes, that millionaire lapdog is now in doggie heaven, a circumstance I’m guessing was quite traumatic for the minder-of-Maltese for all these years. I’d venture a guess that pup wasn’t offered any easy exit, but lived until the last possible pant.
Being as I am dogged in my determination to revert to my previous puppy-less state, I’m about done with the creature that came to me just post-eye-opening requiring three-hourly feeds and poop scooping. Yes, Lady Gaga Snowball will very soon be shifted to Andy’s house … as soon as I can find him and do the hand-over. I know some were convinced I’d fall under her spell, but I’m dog tired these days and not subject to the charms of chewed shoes and having my house TP-ed. I’m also not big on another set of slobbery flews and four more muddy feet, so call me a hardhearted cur if you like, but the pooch is soon to be passed.
More significantly, I’m haunted today by a Ghost of Dog Past … a small black mongrel who came to our family when I was about three I dubbed Snowball.
There’s almost too much to tell about Snowball, being that he was my first dog in a long line of four-legged family members, but some of his story packs most of the weight in the sack of nickels prompting this post.
Just yesterday a friend on Facebook resorted to social networking about what he saw as a shocking observation … a gay dog.
I took it upon myself to illuminate, explaining that homosexuality is common in most species, and that I once had a gay dog … the aforementioned Snowball.
This morning I awoke to find a message on my fb fan page from a woman I haven’t seen since I was about 9-years-old, a childhood friend and neighbor who just happened to own a dog … his name was Sam, if I remember correctly … who died in front of all of the whole court because of Snowball’s ardor. (My dog had hers pinned as the ice cream truck made its rounds and … well … it wasn’t pretty.)
I am thrilled to have Sue back in my life after 50 years and have so many memories I would be happy to share, but can’t quite get myself to face again the fact that my dog killed her dog back when we were five.
I’m sure we’ll get through this.
Did you ever walk into a room and forget why you walked in? I think that is how dogs spend their lives. ~Sue Murphy
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 
Your recollection brings to mind a childhood dog story we went through way back when. My younger sister was still in single digits when friends of my parents gave them (more like dumped on them) a toy French poodle named FiFi (or some fru-fru sounding name) for my sister. She was alternately thrilled and bored with having a dog of her own. On one of the bored days FiFi got out of the backyard and made her way just two houses away.
There she was cornered and confronted my a neighbor’s medium sized Bulldog named Duke. Duke, who was at least part French himself, cornered little FiFi and was moving toward her with what must have been amorous intentions. It took the hooting and hollering of half of us neighborhood kids to get Duke’s master to respond to this calamity in the making. Using a strategically placed, long handled broom, Duke’s master broke up the potential dog on dog melee and saved the day for little FiFi. The neighboorhood gang all loudly cheered Duke’s master and his broom-wielding bravado. Duke then went away for a few days and after returning, never again went after any of the other dogs in the neighborhood, and FiFi never again attempted an escape from our backyard.
Ah … the French!
Remind me never so send you “away for a few days” …
I’m kinda anti-dog at the moment so I get it. Your life will be easier and I’m sure you know that. Good that you hooked up with an old friend. That often woks out very nicely.
It’s working out very nicely in a couple of directions these days. 😉
Funny stories….except for the killing one. Must have been horrifying at the time.
Love the quote!
That was not a good day …
“Did you ever walk into a room and forget why you walked in? I think that is how dogs spend their lives. ~Sue Murphy”
I knew there was a reason beyond the simplicity of keeping for house for the fact I have always preferred one bedroom cottages to two bedroom apartments.
I’m always rather fond of the discoveries I make while trying to recall whatever motivated me to enter a room …
Childhood dog stories are always fun, especially with killer pooches, I had one to who ripped a purse dog in half. Though dogs are interesting creatures when you get passed the smell, the hair and the muddy foot prints, and I am guessing like having men around they have their uses despite the odor 🙂
Yeah … the smell, the hair, the muddy footprints. Men are a lot of work.
As for uses, it’s true. Unlike a dog that has no opposable thumbs, a man can get the lid off a jar.
Hey-Sandra:
So, Snowball was gay!!!! After all these years since my dog Bobo’s death, and now to find out it wasn’t Snowball’s fault! he could n;t help himself. Bobo was just too handsome a guy to resist. My goodness, how many times to how many people I’ve told that story to. And now to find you agin and find this out. Yes, indeed it was a sad day. My Dad wrote in the garage, “Bobo died today” July 20, 1957. And it’s still there.
So, all is forgiven, and they are both resting in peace in Doggie heaven waiting for us.
Peace and love,
Suzie
Yep. I didn’t learn this for years, of course, and in fact my mother insisted until I was in my 20s that Snowball had “run away” after the incident rather than admit they’d had him put down.
I, too, have told that story many, many times, and to be in touch with you again, to learn it was “July 20, 1957” … well, amazing.
Thanks so much for finding me!