On Dogs
I am interrupting “Good Golly Miss Molly” so I can complete Tessie’s story. In the process, I decided to explain Mary Ann’s and my long association with dogs. We both grew up with canine companions. I had three different dogs in my youth and so did she.
My first dog was a black Cocker Spaniel named Sugar that arrived in a big wooden crate one Saturday morning. Two delivery men from Railroad Express Agency placed the crate on our kitchen floor. Before they could open it and let her out, Sugar, relieved herself. An enormous yellow lake spread across the kitchen floor until Mom, equipped with a mop and bucket, took control. Even as a kid, I wondered how long that poor creature had been holding onto her pee.
Mary Ann’s childhood pet was a wire-haired Terrier named, Mickey. Mary Ann was told that Mickey was originally destined for Mayor Robert Wagner’s wife, but her serious illness altered that dog’s destination. Mickey’s new destination became the Donlon family.
Growing up, I lived with two other dogs, neither that I loved. The first, another Cocker Spaniel, that I shared with my cousin, Pat, was named, Puffy, In spite of my objections, this name stuck. Puffy was an awful dog. She freely bit people without cause that led her being sent to that mythical farm where bad dogs and sick dogs supposedly go to spend the rest of their lives.
My last dog was Mindy, a Shetland Sheep Dog that my Aunt Helen and Uncle Dick gave me for my Fifteenth birthday. Seriously, what is one of the last things a teenager desires as a birthday present? A dog!
She already had a name when she came to me, Mindy. Mindy and I never got on. She hated Mary Ann when I got married and moved away, She grew old and sickly and Mom called me to take her to her vet to put her down, I took Mindy to their clinic. They took her away and I left. I will never forget the sadness I felt about leaving a family dog to die without being there to comfort her.
A month after we were married in 1967, we decided to get a dog. We picked a pet store in Flushing, Queens, Al Mazor’s Puppy Land and bought a black spaniel mix with white markings for $19.95. We decided to call her Woofie. Talk about a basic first dog name, Woofie, was, indeed, terrible name.
She stayed with us for about 14 years that included two moves to Middle Village and Port Washington and the births of our two children. As she faded, we decided on a Golden Retriever for our next buddy. I wanted a male and a friend found our first Golden that we named Harry.
Harry had a square head and the darkest fur. I called him, “The Big Orange Dog.” He was one of our two best swimmers and he taught one of his successors, Bubba, how to swim and fetch tennis balls. Poor Harry, he suffered from arthritis later in life, but not when he was swimming. Fred joined Harry but Fred wasn’t cooked right and died when he was just three-years old. I believe Fred knew he didn’t have long to live and he ran with gusto like a star shooting across the sun. When he died, we added his photo to the ornament we placed on the top of our Christmas trees. We dedicated his ornament as the spirit of Christmas.
Bubba cane next, a good-looking Christmas puppy, He still had to grow into his black nose and his tongue that were too large. He did grow into his nose, but not his tongue. Naming him was not easy. Bubba competed with Jack and other names for about a month until we were reduced to calling him, Puppy Delach. Bubba had a good life but we lost him during the cancer years, (seven to nine). He woke up one morning at Little House in New Hampshire and fell over. We put him down at the veterinarian in Keene, NH.
The end of life for a dog always comes too soon, but sometimes with humor. We instructed the vet to have Bubba cremated so we could bury him outside Little House. When we returned to collect his remains, we discovered that he hadn’t been cremated and Bubba’s remains were still in the vet’s freezer. Finally, we were notified that he had been cremated and Bubba We picked up his remains in a fine wooden box that I placed under the front passenger seat of one of our GMC Yuckon’s – where I promptly forgot about it.
Months later at one of the NY Football Giants home game tailgates, I notice that Bubba was still under that seat. When no one was looking I put it on one of our tables. “Hey Michael,’ I said to my son, “Guess who came to today’s tailgate?”
Michael searched the tables, notice Bubba’s box and stated, “You are one sick dude, Pop.”
(To be continued.)
On the Outside Looking In will not publish on May 22 and will return on May 29.