My first dog memory is our neighbor’s dog – I thought it was a Lassie type collie but I am told it was a sheltie. It had a beautiful fluffy coat, a long nose, gentle demeanor and vied with me for potato peels that drifted to the floor when our neighbor was fixing dinner. She (?) was sweet and loving and I thought she was wonderful.
Our other neighbor had a perfect teacup poodle – iron grey hair that matched its owner, perfectly manicured nails. We’d see him out in the side yard and would, on occasion, be allowed to take him for a walk. He was well mannered and tolerant of children who knew nothing about his species. I liked the dogs I got to visit, but our house had cats.
At some point my dad convinced my mom that our family needed its own dogs. We had cats that disappeared into the foothills, but dogs would be more permanent. Dogs would teach us things. My dad really wanted dogs. And eventually we brought home two mismatched litter mates – terrier poodle mixes. Pepper had a black coat with a white spot on his chest. He was assertive and active. Pepper was in charge. Ginger was the typical dust colored curly haired terrier seen in every animal shelter. Millions of Gingers look big-eyed through the kennel bars. The dogs might have been chihuahua mixes. In any event, they never weighed more than 10 pounds each.
Those dogs came into a home that was ill equipped to nurture them. My mom hated dogs – the licking, the barking, the mess. We kids had no idea how to be around them and had no consistent method of showing them attention. My dad loved them, defended them, hung out with them. Those dogs were HIS dogs. And we were happy to let him have them.
They barked, a lot. We lived in the foothills and there were many things to bark at (rats, squirrels, raccoons). They were not leash trained. On the rare occasions that we took them for walks, they strained at the leashes and marked every tree, street sign, fire hydrant and pole. Pepper was a “muy macho perro” who vigorously scratched the ground after leaving some pee. I’m not sure if they pooped on walks, but we certainly didn’t know enough to pick up after them. In general, we kids neglected them and they lived for my dad.
Unfortunately, my dad was not a disciplined person. He rarely disciplined us, and never trained the dogs. They were not housebroken and they peed and pooped with abandon. Eventually the back shower was given over as a potty area, but they preferred to pee on soft surfaces. The rule was “if you leave it on the floor, it turns yellow” If you wanted to take a shower, the sight of little brown lumps was enough to send you to the other bathroom. They chewed up my Jane West doll – she became an amputee with a scarred face after one encounter, and I’m sure they destroyed other things as well. The very worst thing they did was get into my brother’s chicken coop and kill the birds. He loved those chickens and devoted a lot of time to them. One day I came home and he was in a towering rage. I saw feathers on the ground. I beat a hasty retreat.
In the end, they were killed by neglect. Dad didn’t believe in neutering and Pepper developed testicular cancer. His backside was hideously deformed by tumors and mom finally made us take him to the vet for euthanasia. He looked at us, looked at the dog and suggested surgery. We took Pepper home and mom hit the roof. “He thinks it’s your beloved pet! Take it back!” she said. One of us convinced the vet that the dog needed to go and we left him there.
After Pepper’s death, Ginger came out of his shell. He lived a long time, matted coat, rheumy eyes, asthmatic breathing. He was a mean little bugger – we didn’t dare go near our father when Ginger was in his lap. The dog snarled and nipped, which my dad found amusing. I think Ginger passed while I was away at school. He was not particularly missed, although the house was quiet without his wheezing. It was nice to be able to shower in the back bathroom again.
For years I hated dogs. I mistrusted their motives, hated their moist tongues and stinky breath, and didn’t know how or where to pet them. I was firmly in Camp Cat. But then one day I met a corgi…..
Corgi and a Cuppa Tea 