Rex, 1971
It is raining again today. Not a spritz or drizzle in which you can go about your business with the inconvenience of misted glasses and uncooperative hair. This is yet another steady you-couldn't-possibly-think-of-walking-dogs-in-this-hard-rain kind of day. It is a definite improvement over the tornadoes of Tuesday, but lordy it has rained this miserable winter. Enough.
I enjoyed reading a fellow dog blogger's delightful post about the dogs of her past. (Her blog is
The Lurchers. It's wonderful - go have a read.) It inspired me to reminisce about mine. Actually I am so senile that I thought this was a wonderful original idea that just popped into my brain, until I got started and the memory bulb finally lit.
When I was ten, my mother drew me aside and whispered, "Your father has said we may get a dog." This was not "may" as in might possibly, but was "may" as in have permission to. Twice as a young girl I cried tears of joy. This was the second time. I vividly remember standing in our dining room, in my mother's arms, weeping tears too big and too old for my face. After years of wishing, we were going to get a dog.
The next day, when I got home from school, there was Rex. My father had driven to the Baltimore City Pound and looked for a dog who reminded him the most of a childhood dog of his. He had named his childhood dog Napoleon, and had suffered mightily for it in the form of unrelenting teasing from his peers. So our dog would be Rex. Though miffed at the time, I'm now sure it was a kindness. My most precious stuffed animal was named Horsey, my parakeet was Birdie, and our cats had been Stripey and Blackie. Perhaps that explains my current whippets' names: Giacomino, Fat Charlie, Mama Pajama, Swede William. Nowadays, three syllables is the minimum, and the dogs enjoy a wealth of letters to call their own.
My two older sisters were both away at boarding schools, so Rex was my constant companion. We did not have to share each other's attention. He was a marvellous confusion of breeds. About twenty-five pounds of good humor and a serious hunter. Rex would not approach a human without a gift, so he nearly always had a leaf in his mouth. He would proffer it up, and then accept it back, smiling and wagging at this canine form of hand shaking good will. If we were indoors, it would be a napkin or a scrap of paper, but he always had something to give. If he had been out on a hunting jag, his gift usually took the form of a very dead and abused ground hog cadaver, no matter that dragging the thing home was as big an effort as the battle had been. Rex was a generous provider.
About a year after Rex's arrival we had a dinner party. Our neighbor had gone with my father into Baltimore and returned with a bushel of oysters. Much ado was made about the shucking of these oysters, with both men claiming expertise, and both ending up with numerous cuts and gouges in their hands, proving otherwise. Oysters Rockefeller were the first course. Our neighbor's youngest son, Sandy, was my best friend, and sat across the table. He would have preferred to skip this first course entirely, but his parents insisted that he try one oyster. Sandy was an adventurous and slightly mischievous character. But to my surprise, his appetizer plate soon contained only a shell, though he politely declined seconds. (During the bloody preparation of the salty mollusks, Sandy had promised me that no matter
what the punishment, he was not letting one of those disgusting blobs of snot
pass his lips.) And there was his empty oyster shell, without a word of protest.
After the guests had left I was helping my mother with the kitchen clean up. Rex was marching around, cheering us on, tail and head up, proud as ever of the gift he carried. Because of the Nazi-like enforcement of table manners rules in our house, Rex had never tasted a crumb from a table, nor had he licked a plate. But he was peculiarly intent on sharing this particular gift, and kept trying to interrupt the dish washing. Finally, in exasperation, my mother said, "Patience, see what Rex has this time."
I dried my hands and turned to Rex. "What do you have for me, buddy?"
The normal, expected rules of Rex's giving game were to receive the gift, hold it up and exclaim, "Oh thank you, Rex, this is the best leaf/napkin/rubber band ever. Here you go!" and give it back. I did not play by the rules this time.
I held out my hand and Rex, just bursting with pride gave me his gift.
I screamed and dropped the thing on the kitchen linoleum. What in God's green Earth?
It was Sandy's oyster.
Sandy had surreptitiously passed it off to the dog under cover of tablecloth. Rex had been overwhelmed with gratitude and was overcome with superbia at this unaccustomed blessing. For an hour and a half he had been holding this treasure, thrilled beyond measure. Yet, he was so generous of nature that he gave it without hesitation to me.
The hurt in the dog's eyes, caused by my so inappropriately callous response quickly spread to his whole being. His proud tail drooped, his ears fell, and his head ducked below his knees. I feared that he might just die, right on the spot, his lifeless body landing in a lump on the famous oyster on the kitchen floor.
My mother saved the day. "Oh Rex!" she exclaimed. "What a
treasure! What a
good dog! Thank you so much!" she cried, her own tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. She scooped up the scorned shellfish and grabbed a paper doily from the dessert plate to return to Rex. The sweet dog immediately regained his self esteem, and true to his nature he bore me no grudge.
We laughed about that oyster for years. And that night, I let Rex sleep in my bed. It was my only way to apologize, and I would have been severely punished if my father ever found out. But Rex cheerfully let me feel as though no forgiveness was needed.
What a great little dog he was.
Hug your hounds.
================================
Our blogging friends, the
Wrigglebutts generously gave us a very sweet award!!
Hmmm. We will pass it on to
Graham and Tilly and
Joker and Phoebe the lurchers,
both of whom keep wonderful blogs that I think my dear readers would enjoy. Thank you, Wrigglebutts!
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It is a banner day! We have received another award from the whippets' dear wirey friend,
Koobusssss!
"The award is awarded to 'people whose blog brings you happiness & inspiration and makes you feel happy about Blogland.The 'rules' of this award say we may nominate up to 10 bloggers who make our day." Be sure to notify them.
Thank you Koobuss! We feel happy and are excited that you thought of us! Ten bloggers, huh? OK, here goes:
- Bill (he will get all flustered and not know what to do)
- Kandinski and Aynex (that's a CAT!! Are you KIDDING???)
- Linda and Maisie (to help her broken toe heal faster and she's part whippet)
- Bizzy and Furgirl (because it's true)
- Jake and Just Harry (and their human who made my day)
- Vee and the boys (so you can see her awesome art and Lindy's brother Nearly)
- The WriggleButts (because we love her amazing photos and Nimbus)
- Gus the wirey boy (who made up a new song every day in December!)
- Joe Stains' ma (who shares recipes that are fantastically stupendous) and
- Mary T (because I can't figure out my day without her blog and it's her fault I have a blog!)
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