What's It All About, Alfie?

Today, Alison at The Polohouse is featuring pets on her Favorites on the First series.  Who doesn’t like to talk about their pets?  Our Alfie has popped his head into one or two blog posts before, but I thought today I would tell his story. (The post title is a lyric from Alfie by Burt Bacharach.)

Alfie is our second golden retriever.  Our first was Ezra, who grew up with our kids and was part of our family for about twelve years.  When we lost Ezra, we were heartbroken.  Me most of all, I think, because I work from home, and Ez and I had spent most days together.  About a year after Ezra died, though, we began to feel ready for another dog.  The house felt empty during the week with the oldest child away at college and the youngest at school.  The husband missed having someone run to greet him when he came home (because after twenty years of marriage, you know it wasn’t going to be me).  I began stopping by the local dog rescue occasionally, but the husband really wanted a puppy.  We tried to track down Ezra’s breeder who was from Iowa, but I couldn’t find him.  So finally one evening we drove forty miles north to Woodstock, Illinois where there were some golden puppies for sale. 

There were only two male puppies, which was what we wanted, and the breeder let them run around the kitchen.  The husband sat down on the floor.  One puppy was shy and quiet; the other was rambunctious and crawled all over him.  You can guess which one he chose.  Two years later, that crazy puppy is beginning to calm down and has turned into a good buddy for the family.

Don’t get me wrong, though.  Alfie is no saint.  He is very “talkative.”  Which means he whines about everything.  If he wants to go upstairs, but is carrying too many toys in his mouth, he whines.  When he wants to play, he whines.  When he can’t reach a toy, you guessed it.  And he is unbelievably destructive with his toys.  Those cute stuffed dog toys?  Forget it.  Five minutes.  We have gotten toys marketed as tough, but he can tear them up too.  Often in as little as fifteen minutes.  He works at it.  He will lie down and peel the felt off a tennis ball like it’s a lemon.  Kongs and Megalast seem to be the only brands he can’t destroy in short order.

Still, he’s good company and, like most dogs, always in a good mood and happy to do anything his people want to do.  And when he looks up at us with his sad, dark-rimmed eyes, we’re pretty much wrapped around his little paw.

I'm linking to The Polohouse Favorites on the First.

Photos from the Attic

As you know, I've been thinking about favorite pets lately.  Well, when I was poking around in our attic this morning, I stumbled across a box of old photo albums.  One album is just pet photos.  I found this old Polaroid picture of Herman and Tina taken when Herman was nine months old.  I had stuck up the Beware of Dog sign as a joke.

I also found this photo, which shows the doghouse my father built.  Pretty palatial, huh?  Tina actually had her own doghouse, a smaller red one with a gray roof, but she preferred to share this one with Herman.  You can barely see her sitting at Herman's feet.

My Old Friend

After my father retired from the army, we lived in the country outside Nashville.  We had a big yard, a big garden, and I had a big dog, a Saint Bernard named Herman.  For my birthday one year, my gift was a 3x5 index card on which my dad had written, “This card is good for one puppy dog.”  We always had dogs, and had one then, a taffy blonde cocker spaniel named Tina.  But I had been wanting a dog of my own.  I was torn between an Old English Sheepdog and a Saint Bernard.  We went to look at a litter of Saint Bernards.  My decision was made.  The breeder pointed out Herman’s markings and other good points, but I picked him because he seemed sweet.  He was the one who came over quietly and was friendly but not pushy.

Herman and me in 1983

My dad built Herman a dog house that was the best one I’ve ever seen.  It was wood, painted white, with a black-shingled, pitched roof.  It had a covered front porch for lounging and a rear window for cross ventilation.  Herman and Tina shared the house and a large fenced area, partially wooded, at the back of our yard.  Tina was the boss of the pair.  She snapped at Herman if he tried to eat from her bowl, and he always backed down.  He was a big softie.  Once my dad found him carrying a tiny kitten around in his mouth.  When he put it down, it was covered with dog slobber, but perfectly fine.  Herman was  very gentle and loving.  When I was in high school, I would race back and forth across our front yard with Herman in hot pursuit.  I would pretend to fall down and lie flat on the grass, face cradled in my arms.  Herman would immediately stop and “worry” over me.  He would sniff and gently prod me until I got up to race again.  I’ve had other dogs who ran right over me when I did the pretend-hurt act.  Maybe they were just smarter and could see through the charade, but I prefer to think Herm was caring, not dumb.  

I was quite a tomboy in those days, too, and loved to climb trees.  There was a perfect climbing tree right beside Herman’s doghouse.  Its first main branch was a long, strong, straight one maybe eight feet off the ground.  I would walk out on that branch as far as I could while holding on to the next branches up.  Herman hated that.  He would stand under the branch and bark and “fuss.”  I think he knew people didn’t really belong in trees.  Or maybe he wanted to join me.  When I climbed higher, into a tree crotch that was perfect for sitting, he would give up and lie down to wait.

He was a funny dog.  One of his favorite games was to try to bite the stream of water from the hose when we filled up his water bucket.   This was especially fun in the summertime.  He also liked to carry around a punctured football.  He wasn’t nearly as gentle with a football as he was with a kitten!

Herman lived his whole life there at my parents’ place.  I was away in graduate school when my dad called to tell me that Herman was failing.  He couldn’t stand up.  I had to make the decision.  The veterinarian was a good friend to my parents and their menagerie.  She came to the house and put Herman to sleep there in his yard.  My dad buried him in the shade of my climbing tree.