WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?

I could have lived my life happily without owning dogs, but if I had, this story would not have been told.
10/1/2016

WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?

My parents never owned a dog. I grew up without a dog or a cat in my life. In my childhood, a friend’s German shepherd bit through the back of my jacket before his owner could control it. This incident convinced me that my parents were wise. My sister must have been a slow learner because she owned a dog after being married. While visiting her, it became evident that her dog’s dander made me sneeze endlessly. The combination of fear and allergic reactions to them made it a certainty that I would ever own a dog. That resolve faded while living the American Dream in California (married, ranch house, many toddlers). The children implore me, “We want a doggie, Daddy.”

   In a moment of weakness, I brought home a puppy from the pet store on a trial basis. That one didn’t work out, nor did the next two. The dogs caused me to sneeze and scratch for days on end. The puppies would nip at the kids and they would cry in terror. After a few weeks of enduring this torment, it would be necessary for me to foist off the dog for someone else to rear. They would not take the kids.

Once the family moved to Arizona, the thought of owning a dog never crossed my mind. Fate intervened. One Christmas, my secretary insisted on giving my children a puppy from a litter of Chinese Pugs her son bred and sold to supplement his income. The last litter included an oversupply. My oldest daughter picked one from the crowd, the cutest darned dog you ever saw. She gave it the best name a Pug could have: Wrinkles.

The doggie gift came with the stipulation it would be registered with the American Kennel Club. In a moment of creative genius, this name popped into my mind: Finn-Chin-Chin. The name did not amuse my secretary. Unfortunately, our new little pet died within a year. The children were heartbroken. How it came to its untimely demise is not a story you wish to hear.

To make up for the loss I bought a used Pug, part of a package deal, as the seller insisted we take a second dog off his hands, the first one’s longtime pal. They were an unholy pair that drove the family nuts. No one cried when I relegated these hounds to the pound.

   Angie and I lived a happy dog-free life for many years afterwards. This ended when our daughter, Laura, moved to Hawaii and left us her German shepherd, Molokai. Given my youthful experience with a dog of this breed, you cannot imagine my apprehension. Once Moly arrived, two unexpected things occurred. My allergic reactions began to abate, and my love for him became unbounded. A gorgeous and regal looking dog, he made me feel proud to be his new owner. He assumed the role of King, but restricted his realm to our kitchen area, choosing never to enter any other room. For some reason, he hated our mail carrier, yapping at him incessantly. My heart broke the day Molokai disappeared from our back yard. I grieve to this day over his disappearance.

Molokai left some offspring. We adopted his nephew and named it Molokai in honor of the first one. The second Molokai turned out to be a wonderful replacement. He lived with us for 19 years, as gentle and loving as the original. His death filled us with sorrow. It seemed unlikely that we would ever own another dog after this second loss. We were mistaken.

Shannon (our oldest granddaughter) lived with us briefly. In 1999, she brought home an abused dog from the pound named Nala after the lioness in Disney’s film, The Lion King. Shannon moved out. Nala did not. My wife finds Nala to be a great watchdog and a constant companion. Should Nala move out or move on, no replacement is planned. My appetite for pooches is sated. My wife, who may have different ideas, has the deciding vote in this election.

Although no dog lapped at my boyhood tootsies, I filled my childhood life with other diversions such as building model airplanes. The finished product always looked as though it had just crashed. Collecting things such as stamps or coins never appealed to me. At one time I had a two foot long collection of interlaced matchbook before my interest in this pursuit waned. I tossed away my modest collection of marbles, baseball cards, and 78-rpm recordings when my employer transferred me to California from Manhattan in 1954. My treasured collections had gone to the dogs.   

As my retirement life began, people urged me to try my hand at woodworking, photography, cooking, painting and gardening; none of these activities appealed to me. Golf consumed too much time while I could only swim in my backyard for about five months a year.. My wife and other family members constantly yapped at me to find a genuine certified HOBBY and to pursue it with dogged determination. They were doggone worried about my bleak future.

They need not have been concerned. Life presented me with numerous opportunities to enjoy myself. I became proficient with the use of a camcorder, began writing my autobiography, and started conducting reminiscence writing classes, performing volunteer work for blind and dyslexic students, became a genealogical guru, a computer geek, and a chorister. My new-found activities appeal to my heart and mind. Retirement life is not a dog's world after all. Those pessimists found themselves barking up the wrong tree.

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