As you can imagine, my upbringing really didn’t have a lot of room for frivolities.

But, I did have a dog.
Actually, I had a dog before I had a baby brother, but the dog was really an accident.

The neighbors were grandparents who had two grandchildren – Scotty and Beth.  They adopted two puppies, one for each of them.   However, their mother wasn’t appreciative the new additions and was only persuaded to keep one.  This puppy was jet black with tan ears.    I don’t remember its name, but I do know that it didn’t stay alive for more than a couple of years.

My dad, actually, wasn’t adverse to the idea of a dog.   When he was in the army and stationed in Germany, he took care of some type of wolf hybrid and was actually pretty fond of them.  My mom was the holdout, thinking that she’d eventually have to take care of the dog — which she did — but only after I started work when I was fourteen or fifteen.

Unlike his kennel brother, this dog was white and yellow and just a bit more than a handful when we got him. I was five or six at the time – before monster dad showed up – and he became mine.

I named him Droopy because, at the time, one of my favorite cartoons was Droopy.    If you don’t know who Droopy is, I am really really old.

Of course, I loved the dog.  Dad was a-okay with him, but as the situation changed, I’m afraid Droopy found himself chained in the back yard.    It was a long chain, but still, a chain wrapped around a tree.

Eventually, he got to be so smart that a normal collar wouldn’t hold him and mom advocated for a choker collar — which he also figured out how to get out of.  Well, I thought he was smart.  Mom and the neighbors thought that he was randy because we’d easily find him in a yard with a girl dog….  but that’s neither here nor there.

He was still smart.
Droopy was so smart that he realized my baby brother had problems hearing.  He’s pretty much deaf on his left side.   Rather it’s from heredity or his pre-birth stroke, we don’t know, but baby brother has always had issues.

Anyway, once baby bro was playing in the street unsupervised.   I think I went inside for something — probably to check on baby sis — when a car came barreling down the street.  Baby brother didn’t hear it.  He was intent on chasing a ball or something like that.

Droopy slipped his choker collar, ran to baby bro, and pulled him to safety by yanking on his shirt.

It was really a miracle if I think about it.
I don’t care what anyone said.   Droopy was smart…   and probably horny sometimes… but really smart.  He was a savior.

One thing, however, that Droopy hated were squirrels.  He loathed them.  A hunter had given me a couple of squirrels tails.  I went to show them to Droopy for some reason and the dog nearly bit my hand off.  Although a mutt, dad guessed that he had some coon hunter in him somewhere and his reaction to the tails was just instinct.

Funny thing is that he loved birds.  He’d let them bathe in his water dish and actually perch on him as he napped.   One of the funniest and tranquil things I remember is bringing him out food and have four or five brilliant red cardinals one his back and one on his head as my dog dozed in the sun.  The birds looked at me like they were pissed.    It was just funny.  You know, one of those moments that will probably never be forgotten.

Time passed and Droopy became old.   His fur started to fall out.  It would stick to my hands as I pet him.   The vet said he had advanced heartworms and sold us expensive medicine.  Droopy was an outside dog, so heartworms didn’t surprise anyone.  It was difficult, but he became better.

Lived a couple of years and then passed away.  Heartworms again.

I went out on one pleasant fall evening and found Droopy curled up, sleeping… eternally sleeping.

And that was that.

Outside of an occasional stray cat, he was my only real animal companion until I moved to Florida and Mister was adopted.   Course, Jason belonged to Mister.   I really didn’t have and still don’t have a pet.   They tolerate me, but that’s okay.

I think baby brother might have some vague memories of Droopy.   Baby sister probably has a really foggy recognition.  They were so little at the time.

So, I guess this is another reason why I advocate adopting animals from shelters.  Yeah, I can see the attraction of paying $1000 to $1500 for a wonderful golden retriever puppy, but people actually want them.  The chances of them having a good home are so much better than an equally awesome dog that someone has thrown away or never wanted.  Mutts are unique.   Americans are unique – in theory – not counting hiveminds and all that – so why not have a unique pet?

Why be like everyone else?

This day has been really long for me.  Can you tell?
But…  I’ve written more today than I have in a long time.  Well, written in a way that doesn’t involve awful assignments and students who ignore them.

In a way, it feels good.