The truth about dogs

Just for shock value I posted this picture as my new profile shot on FB. Most of you know I am not a "dog" person.

No time now for pussyfooting (ouch) around, it's time to talk turkey (double ouch) on the truth about dogs.

I was raised in a non-dog, non-pet household, unless you count my brother's mini turtles from Woolworth's that lived about a month before they got moldy with white gunk and died.  Our next door neighbors had a mutt named "Buffy", a small, golden colored dog with a large, high pitched bark.

On nice days, they would attach Buffy's leash to the clothesline (no clothes), giving him the run of the yard. For you youngsters out there, a clothesline was a piece of rope threaded through a pulley and forming an elongated, circulating system where you could reel in your shirts and sheets when the sun and wind had dried them.(somewhat embarrassing to display your undies for the whole neighborhood to see.) Since we had no fences between yards, the system worked equally well for a pooch, confining the area of his travel to a rectangular patch, slightly larger than the clothesline itself.

credit: thesocietypages.org

Every night when my father Charlie drove into our driveway, Buffy pricked up his ears, ran full tilt to the edge of our property,strained at his leash and barked incessantly as my father got out of the car.  My father would yell at him and shake his fist before entering our house and slamming the kitchen door. Same ritual every night.

At supper my father would regale us with tales of how he would get even with Buffy.  My favorite was his suggestion to mine the property line, so that one unfortunate day, Buffy would lean just a little too hard against the leather leash and put one paw on our side.  Bye-bye, Buffy---flying into the air like a Road Runner-Wiley Coyote cartoon.  I imagined that the next day, like Wiley, Buffy would return with blackened fur and a bandaged head, pushing a little cannon or lighting dynamite sticks to hurl our way. The Charlie-Buffy Wars had just begun.

So, how did I get from there to a picture with a cute black fluffball dog on my lap?  Homer (hmm, another cartoon character) belongs to my brother's family and was a Thanksgiving guest at our house.  He's a little excitable, but they say a dog mirrors his owners, although I never saw my brother jump up and down and leap furniture in a single bound when company arrived.

Homer began as a tiny, timid puffball. He's bigger now and much feistier, but still lightweight-- you can feel his bones through the layer of twisted, fuzzy fur and unlike many dogs, he doesn't have that alarming heft and substance when he jumps up on you.  He's not a crotch sniffer, which automatically moves him up several spots on my list of favorite animals. (yes, it's a short list). Once he's calmed down, he's good company and likes to have his tummy scratched.

The funniest moment was when his "mom", my sister-in-law, went outside without him. Like an abandoned toddler, he raced from one window to another, up on his hind legs, head moving from side to side searching for her. When he thought he heard a noise, he returned to the doorway where she'd disappeared and began a mournful yelp. Nothing comforted him. Such joy when she re-emerged! Celebration and crazy jumping.

How many people get that reaction from their family or friends--every day, every time?  It's downright heart warming.

Now here's the dark side.  Homer doesn't like everyone.  Some people are labeled Charlies in his mind and his barking and snapping can be as ferocious as Buffy's was years ago.  Wearing a hat puts you on Homer's enemy list, as does wearing fake fur trimmed coats or being a boy aged 9-12.  Was he harrassed by boys in a former life, or even in this one?  That's one for the doggie psychologist or the dog whisperer. In the meantime, sorry Dad, but I've become a Homer fan and the Buffy vs Charlie family tradition is dying on my watch.  Maybe, like baldness, the gene will be passed to the next generation to resume the feud.