We Never Forget Our Dogs

Friends (and even in-laws) come and go, but we always remember the names and personalities of the dogs we have owned. (So, you say, “”But I never owned a dog! -likely adding how expensive and messy they can be.) When we had our first child, a little girl we named Carrie, I promised myself I would get her a puppy when the time was right. When Carrie was five, that time arrived but we could not make up our mind what breed would be appropriate.

I had a Rat Terrier (Skippy) as a child and that had ended badly, but I recalled how nice it was to have a small dog when you are yourself small. I quickly found that all those cute pure-bred miniature dogs featured on the dog shows on TV were just too expensive. On a trip across state to visit my mother in Augusta, I was browsing the “for sale” listings under pets when I came across an ad for cock-a-poo puppies, fifty dollars each. I called and the breeder/owner drove over with his last puppy in a cardboard box.

Remember, this was long before “labradoodles” (a cross between a Labrador Retriever and a Poodle) became the latest “designer breed” of dog. The owner brought papers with him, attesting to the little boys ancestry. His father was a King Charles Spaniel -a very old and noble breed of lap dog that was often depicted sidling up to kings and queens in royal paintings- especially those of England’s Charles II, the high living king of the Restoration period in England. The father weighed five and one-half pounds.

To tell you even more than you want to know, the mother was a “teacup” Poodle, you know those often white, curly-haired and over-indulged dogs carried by movie starlets in their handbags. This mother weighed three and a half pounds. (This stretched the bounds of credulity for a guy who knew nothing about dog breeds. )

The price was right and the puppy was priceless. There in the box was a ball of snowy, wavy hair and a mustache that drooped around his mouth. Wearing a tan saddle and short, wavy, floppy ears, his personality jumped out of the box before he did.

With a sharp, excited and very small bark, he rushed straight into my outstretched hands. It was a done deal. I wrote a check for fifty dollars. I named him “Watson” even before I got him home. He reminded me of images I had seen of Sherlock Holmes’ sidekick, Dr. Watson. We rode home together in my Volkswagen Kharmann Ghia which rendered 36 miles to the gallon of gas without resorting to fuel injection or electric power assist. Gas was 38 cents per gallon then. Had I paid too much for Watson? Whatever the cost, I decided as I drove the 250 miles home, this was exactly the dog we hoped to find.

Watson reached his full manly weight of ten pounds before he was a year old. It was like having another-albeit very small- child. He became our in-house comedian, playmate, consoler of disappointed dreamers, lap warmer and bold adventurer. We lived on a small lake and were anxious when we let Watson out for a romp -he brought in some pretty amazing things -mushrooms, toads, a baby bird, and some things too stinky or dreadful to mention.

His favorite game came at bath time, when he loved grabbing a corner of his towel and tearing through the house with it. He was even happier when you grabbed the other end of the wet towel and pulled him around on the slick tile floors of our den. With no way to gain purchase on the slick floor, he was enjoying something akin to ice-skating.

Small enough that his rough-housing ways did not threaten our daughter, the two became great pals. Watson probably put in more time in the doll’s stroller than the doll did. Patient as he was about being “dressed up” in assorted doll and baby clothes, once the ordeal was completed he would snarl and roll around, tearing at the accoutrements like he was on fire (I say “accoutrements” in deference to his noble ancestry), dismantling and shredding the latest outfits.

Watson was no couch potato. He manned-up when it came to squirrels and the enormous frogs that showed up on our patio on hot summer nights. (We lived in the depths of the semi-tropics in South Georgia and, frankly, the frogs sometimes made me a little timid about taking out the garbage after dark.) If the frogs weighed five pounds, how big might the snakes be?

Watson was unafraid, as became his ancestry, and occasionally he leaped into Lake Louise, indifferent to the alligators we had seen, the wading birds that were as big as he was, and the snakes that we saw crossing the lake at all hours. We tried, but it was practically impossible to keep him in check all the time. He was after all, a kid.

Our joyful Watson left us too soon when he was in his third year. Lurking in the genetic material of all mammals are sensitive strands that sometimes express themselves with tragedic results. Kidney failure, we learned, was apparently an inherited trait in some Spaniels, even the royal ones. Watson’s pain alarmed us all and the veterinarian recommended we say goodbye to Watson as there was (at that time) no remedy.

Carrie, confused and saddened by this tragedy, asked simply, “Why do things have to die.” Universal realities of course are no consolation at such times, and our letting go would require weeks of conversations that consisted mostly of half sentences ending in sighs, as we all held each other closer to comfort our hearts.

Carrie grew up to become a nurse. We have never talked much about how the experience of Watson’s time in our family had influenced her, or her choice of professions. Perhaps there will come a time. For me, it left a life-long need to share my home with a dog.