Three (or four) Dog Night

The beautiful thing about blogs is that one man’s (or woman’s) blog can spur someone’s interest for another blog. Bob Collins ’ blog a couple days ago about his beloved dogs, Lil’ Britches and Barney made me think of the dogs I’ve had, of which there have been only three or four in my lifetime, but they were all special.

It’s true what they say: A dog is man’s best friend.

My very first dog was Hobo. I was just a little kid growing up on 2nd Street in Heavener and my grandpa in Stilwell found him and gave him to my dad to give to me. I just barely remember that Hobo, a mutt, ran and played with the kids around my house. He used to tackle us when we played football. That’s about all I remember about Hobo. One night I remember dad setting me down and telling me, real somber like, that Hobo had been run over.

The next dog I had was year’s later when I was in the military, stationed at Altus AFB. Her name was Holly and she was a little beagle. We kept her in the house and, in the process, she tore up my high school diploma, among other things. When I was discharged and we moved to Tahlequah, so I could finish college at Northeastern State University , we took Holly along with us. The only thing is, we had to put her on a leash outside. She had a doghouse to sleep in, but that’s no way to keep a dog. I don’t even remember what happened to her.

Our next dog was FiFi and she was a small white poodle, cute as a bug. My daughter used to play with FiFi and place stamps all over her. She didn’t seem to mind because she loved Karen. FiFi died of old age, I think, or because she couldn’t keep up with Pepper, a long-haired weenie dog that belonged to my daughter.

Pepper was a beautiful dog and was great around children. I remember him running in circles in the back yard. He was so playful and friendly. But once we moved to another town, right outside Longview – in White Oak – Pepper couldn’t get used to the big move, for some reason. He began eating dirt and the vet said it was because he was having trouble adjusting to the move, and he became very sick. By this time my daughter was in junior high and one night when she was playing volleyball out of town, Pepper crawled under a shed we had out in back and died. We had looked most of the afternoon and evening before we finally found him. I remember regretting having to tell her what had happened when I went to pick her up after the volleyball match. It seems I had come full circle since Hobo. Now I was the one breaking the sad news. We gave Pepper a proper burial out behind the old shed, but burying Pepper was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

That was the last dog we ever had. Now, my daughter’s 5-year-old son has a new little puppy, a black, long-haired mini-weenie dog. Cynthia and I just love him, as do my two grandsons, Brandon and Garrett, and all their cousins! At least this time, I won’t become so close to him, since “Brady” belongs to two boys.