You ain't nothin' but a hound dawg
A little more than 10 years ago the daughters came home from Winfield for a Father's Day weekend proudly toting a fat little yellow Lab puppy with a big bow around her neck. In they waltzed, pleased as punch that they'd thought of such a great gift and had pooled their money for a purebred version, complete with papers!
I went into immediate "mom mode" and informed them in no uncertain terms that we weren't in the market for another pet that required papers of any sort! I was furious with them. If possible I'd have put both of them and the &%#&! puppy up for adoption on the spot.
But the dog wasn't for me. It was Father's Day, not Mother's Day, and I didn't have a vote. And she WAS achingly cute and endearing
The two cats we had at home were less happy than I. They didn't understand cute, endearing, or Father's Day. Puppy quickly learned about hissing cats with claws. Daughters drove back to Winfield, puffed with pride at having selected exactly the right gift. The mister was in heaven.
He and the dog bonded immediately. I harrumphed in the background, spread papers, chased the beast when she ran off, and repeatedly yelled, "no!" to save as many chair legs as I could when she began teething. I was the bad guy; the mister was the good guy. I scolded as I picked up the icky stuff, the mister took her riding on the mower whether the icky stuff hit the papers or not.
Yes, she was spoiled. Still is. Eventually he even built an extended seat on the mower to accommodate her as she grew. I swear it's true, he did!
She became semi-famous around Peabody as the "dog on the mower." Once she was laying in the front yard as two young girls walked down the sidewalk. One of them froze when she saw the dog in the yard, but the other said, "Oh, you don't have to be afraid of her. She's smart. She's that dog that drives the lawnmower."
She has been a wonderful addition to our family. I still clean up the occasional icky stuff and the mister still enjoys the devotion. As she ages, she won't take her medication from me, but she will from him. She knows when it's time for him to come home from work and she wants to be on the porch when he drives in. She turns the screen door handle with her nose if I don't let her out in time.
She knows when the weekend arrives and it is time to go work at the warehouse, ride in the pickup, or mow the lawn. She sleeps in Monday though Friday, but come the weekend she is up and at it, ready for some action. It is the most amazing thing.
The cats (with whom she finally made peace) are long gone and these days she spends lots of time just observing the rabbits and squirrels she used to chase across the yard with great ferocity. Even though I tell her that she is "such a good puppy," she is long past her puppy days. I dread the decision that we will eventually have to make. When it creeps in, I put the thought aside for it is not now. Not yet! I will clean up icky stuff for as long as it takes. She is worth it.
But that is part of the deal. When you take in that fat playful romping young pet, you know that eventually there will be an end. It's the in-between part that makes all the difference. Riding on the mower, walking around Christmas Day with a green bow on her head, the devotion in her eyes, the raised paw when we say, "Gimme' five," those are the parts we will remember.
She is still active and striving to keep up. I am glad. And I am glad the daughters were smarter than I about bringing her into our family.
— SUSAN MARSHALL
