Bits And Pieces

A History Of My Best Friends

     A long line of dogs have cluttered up our 28 year marriage.  In fact, Pop purchased a dog for me two weeks after we were married, a skinny, little mongrel he bought for my protection when he was shifted to night work.

     Shivery and scared, he barked at everyone friend or foe and after our move to Iowa he disappeared the first day.  I don't believe he liked the fire escape entrance which went up three flights to our attic apartment.

     A few weeks later we bought a Springer Spaniel puppy, all big feet and floppy ears who defied any rope or chain and managed to get loose to investigate a few neighborhood garbage cans.  During the war he had a taste of farm life as he stayed with Pop's folks while we toured army camps courtesy of Uncle Sam.  He liked it so well he stayed.

     After the war, a returning gift from Pop to his daughter was a Cocker Spaniel, a blonde beauty with feathery ears, soft eyes and absolutely no spunk.

     "No black in his mouth," was Pop's comment when the dog crawled under the bed every electrical storm and shied behind my legs at the sound of the doorbell.  He wasn't a watchdog but Chips was loved by son No. 1 and daughter.

     He moved with us from Iowa to Oklahoma to California and finally here.  His last trip was made in the baggage car of the California Zephyr, a baggage car that wasn't able to be reached through the train.  So, at assorted stops I'd shut the roomette door on son and daughter, leap off the train with can opener and dog food in hand, head for the baggage car at a low lope and, with the help of the baggage man, make the steep step into the door; toss some food at the delighted-to-see-me Cocker Spaniel; leap off and head back along side of the train to our roomette.

     I had visions of me, can opener in hand, being left at a midwestern point while the children chugged on to Chicago and Pop.

     It isn't every dog that stays at the Palmer House in Chicago, but our now very dirty Cocker Spaniel did.  From the wide open spaces of a California desert he suddenly found himself on the Loop streets, but then he wasn't accustomed to grass or trees on the desert.  Old age finally overtook the Cocker and he died as quietly as he lived.

         Immediately with the tears and pleadings of children, now three in number, we purchased a Springer Spaniel again.  Another black and white affectionate, floppy puppy, he grew to be a handsome hunter with no place to hunt.  Baby rabbits by the score he brought from vacant lots and deposited at my feet for me to bottle raise and finally turn loose to return and eat my tulips.

     He had the blackest of mouths, was smart and affectionate.  He'd put his large head on your lap and gently but firmly push down until you'd notice him.  Mac was the perfect pet but he suffered from an ear problem so at the age of 10 he had to be put to sleep.  

     More pleadings and this time the kids picked their own dog for me to take care of.  A perfect clown, hair-brained Sheba proved to be a temperamental, crazy female Bassett.  She chewed rugs and legs impartially; ran away constantly and slithered along on her stomach when a stranger entered the house.

     Sheba was sold for the price of her brand new license and rabies shot.  The ad received 30 calls so lots of people had evidently not learned about Bassett Hounds.

     She was Son No. 1's favorite and he'd often wear her like a scarf around his neck where she'd contentedly go to sleep, her ridiculously long body draped about his neck, long ears hanging--once he took off for college we parted with Sheba when she parted with us out of a moving car.

     Last summer, after we'd been dogless for several months, we were on vacation at a cottage in Wisconsin.  The woman owner had a small, black dog almost like a sheep dog.  Seemed there was a half brother Patches, a long legged, lop-eared, skinny, full of fleas, puppy.  The farmer owner wanted him gone, one way or another.  To appease him, and his wife, we got the puppy for a box of Whitman Sampler candy.

     We bathed him, sprayed him and rode 30 miles to a vet for puppy shots.  Patches bloomed and grew, not much just enough.  Hair that was sparse as a puppy suddenly grew in black and white abundance covering him from head to foot.

     He'd heard me say "no more dogs unless it's a sheep dog" so he tried and succeeded in being as close to one as he could.  He's friendly, lovable, smart and he's Pop's dog.  His mouth is black.

     But you know something?  Every dog we've had sizes up the family and decides to mind the tall guy who seems to be the man of the house.  Me?  I'm just their meal ticket.

Written May 4, 1967