Bob's Corner
From our weekly issue dated October 21, 2009
Rutabagas.
Don’t know why I said that; maybe I just wanted to see if I could spell it.
Actually, I’ve been thinking about dogs lately. Dogs I’ve had; dogs I’ve seen; going to the dogs; hot dogs; dog days; well, doggone. My first dog was Yankee Clover. My mom let me name him, and I used the name of some makeup she was using. It sounded good to me.
I also named my brother, Stephen Richard, although he’s not a dog, but my younger sibling. I used the names of two kids I liked at school. But as for Yankee, he was the runt of a litter from a Chow. He was a great dog, although he ran sort of lopsided, what with being bow-legged. Something like that.
My mom always swore that you should never feed a dog beans or they’d go crazy. I believed it. After all, when you’re a kid, and your mom tells you stuff like that; well, you believe it. Never fed a dog beans; too scared to try. Having a crazy dog full of gas could be dangerous.
Both parents also insisted that you should never pet a stray dog, or someone else’s dog because, “You don’t know where they’ve been.” Where
could they have been that would preclude one from petting a canine? A leper colony? A poison oak farm? Never could figure that one out.
When we lived in San Diego County we did have a crazy dog, name of Daisy. We got her from an animal shelter. She was a nut. Don’t think she ate beans either.
About the smartest dog we ever had was a Standard Poodle given us by an elderly woman, who thoroughly checked us out before letting us have the critter. Her name was Sheba (the dog, not the elderly woman). Actually, the pet’s real name was quite long, what with being AKC.
Our most recent doggie was Bingo. Had to have him put down a while back, as old age (his, not mine) was making his life miserable. We recently scattered his ashes, along with his favorite ball. Hard to let go sometimes.
Doggone ...
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