[That’s Ashley & Tanner, our 16-year-old sister and brother house watchers.]
I always thought I was a “dog guy” growing up. Now I share caring for our two old cats (brother and sister, whom we adopted for our daughters back in 2009). I can’t imagine them not being around (I’m pretty sure I thought that about every pet I’ve ever had). Ashley, clawing at the back of my chair at this moment, brought back a multitude of pet memories, so I thought I’d share a few here.
I (famously or infamously?) always had a little dog following me around Castle Shannon in my youth (then again, a few years after graduating from college).
My most formidable pet memories start with Tobie (Or Toby, or Tobey, depending on who you talked to in the family). Tobie was an adorable, silky black, long-haired/long-eared mutt (we never could determine any breed lines; she was so different looking). She was jet black with cute pure white splotches on her belly and one white paw!
That adorable pooch was by my side for 15 years, including (pretty much) five straight years where she was beside me from 5:30 am … to trips to friends or the local basketball court (any time of day) … then back home … until late, when I’d finally try to go to sleep. [Note: I delivered the morning Post-Gazette in our hilly suburban community; that’s what required the way-too-early 5:30 start six days a week — and holidays! (at least P-G paper boys got to sleep in on Sundays) … So, even my nights ended with two of us together — typically with Tobie at my feet — meaning she was a constant 24-hour companion for a majority of those years.
Come to think of it… my dog-companion stories actually start with “Dog,” a little mutt puppy that I named. (Creative, i’nit? Why Mom and my older siblings let their 4-year-old baby brother name the pet is a mystery. Perhaps it was the only word I could remember?)
Anyway, Dog was a biter, so he didn’t last more than a few weeks.
Next was “Lady Tareyton,” a mixed part-terrier mutt with a white and brown coat, who was named because her one eye was circled in brown fur while her other eye was white, making it look like she had a black eye. Her eponymous name came from “Tareyton” cigarettes, a popular brand at the time, whose tagline was “I’d rather fight than switch!” (accompanied, typically, by a close-up photo of an elegant young lady sporting a black eye).
Unfortunately, Lady T’s short life story is best summarized thusly: She liked to chase vehicles out on the street in front of our house.
One day, she had been let out into the front yard, and she took off after a Colteryahn milk truck making deliveries to our neighbors. Her yapping attracted the attention of a jerky, weird kid who lived “down the street,” who happened to have a BB gun in his hands. So he shot Lady T in her snout with a BB.
She tumbled, and the milk truck ran her over (a bit, not too graphically). Her guts weren’t spilling out or anything; the truck’s tires were enough to finish the job that we were not quite sure the BB had completed, but had at least started.
The cooky kid said afterward he only shot our puppy to “put her out of her misery” after the truck had run her over, but another neighbor contested that sequence of events, and I always trusted that friend more than the shooter. Such a sad, unfortunate memory.
After Lady T, there was a short 6-month stint our family had with a pure-breed German Shepherd we called “Burgundy.” I think I was in first grade at the time.
When I started grade school, my mom went back to work at JCPenney’s credit office on Castle Shannon Boulevard. She worked with a lady whose family bred German Shepherds. Burgundy was supposedly the runt of the breeder’s most recent litter, meaning they didn’t think they could sell him for much or use him for breeding (there was something about his coloring and overall shape not being quite right, they said).
So the coworker gave my mom this “runt” after hearing how disastrous and heartbreaking our previous attempts at dog ownership had been.
Well, I guess they didn’t know how healthy it was for a purebred pup to be put in a home with a family of active, rambunctious, and loving young boys.
Burgundy absolutely blossomed from the attention he received. He grew bigger, his coat filled out, and he developed a luxurious burgundy-brown mane. When Mom’s coworker visited us six months after giving the pup to us, she couldn’t get over how much Burgundy had grown to resemble his father, a champion and their prize breeder.
So, she took him back.
Mom thought returning him was the right thing to do… Burgundy would have a chance to further the breeding line (which actually meant he was worth a lot of money to a Shepherd-breeding family).
Since he had been given to us for free, and knowing he came from a breeder, there really wasn’t an argument. It hurt, but we all knew (even 6-year-old me) it was a fair decision to give him up, knowing he would be their next show dog and not just a family pet.
… OK, those three pets all came before Tobie. But Tobie stuck.
She was my constant companion from some of my earliest memories until the day I returned home after graduating from Penn State. Mom nursed her for her final few months, carrying her into the yard several times a day, patiently caring for her so she’d still be there when I got home.
Tobie greeted me that day with an other-worldly burst of energy my mom hadn’t seen in her for months. She was an old, lethargic girl who could or would barely eat or move. But her tail went wild the day I got home, and she danced like a puppy for a few sweet minutes before once again curling up in her little doggy bed in front of the toy chest in our entry room. It didn’t take long to see she was likely in pain and suffering. We took her to Castle Shannon Animal Hospital a few days later and said our last goodbyes. I held her in my arms, sobbing as the gentle veterinarian put her to her eternal sleep.
I have a hundred stories I could share about life with Tobie. That cute little dog taught me so many lessons and shared so many ups and downs. (In many ways, I guess, she was my first love. Gawd, I miss her.)
A few years later, I was still living at home and commuting to Millvale for work. Mom was retired, and I had a girlfriend with whom I’d spend most of my evenings. Thinking Mom could use companionship, I had the brilliant idea to get her a dog. That’s when Wooki entered our lives.
One day after work, I stopped at the Humane Society Animal Rescue on Pittsburgh’s Northside. Inside, there was a cage holding about four or five sibling puppies. All of them were at the cage door, pawing and mewing to get my attention (and a few other folks in the room). In the back of the cage, however, a defiant white/tan/golden mutt puppy with a Chewbacca the Wookie face and cute perky ears just sat and tilted his head at me when I approached the cage. (We had recently seen a new movie called Star Wars, so the furry creature’s visage was fresh in my mind.)
I asked the attendant if I could hold the cool dude in the back, who seemed like the quiet one.
The attendant carefully opened the door, making sure the other siblings from the litter didn’t jump out, and handed the puppy to me. I stroked his head and set him on the floor. He immediately sat up on his back haunches in the proper “beg” pose, and the couple behind him squealed simultaneously, “Aw. He. Is. So. Adorable,” a young woman said.
I was sold instantly. He knew he was the one I was going to pick. He didn’t need to yelp or paw like the others.
He knew he was the puppy that would be going home with me that evening.
Mom was, should I say, surprised when I showed up back at home an hour or so later than normal. She didn’t have a clue that I might bring a puppy home. But if she was dismayed, she did a remarkable job of hiding it from me. She agreed the name Wooki fit his scraggly but precious appearance. And Wooki would live another 16 years, until I had to make another sorrowful trip to the Shannon Animal Hospital.
Today, the two lovable furry creatures adorning this post are my demanding (but lovable) companions. They throw up regularly, miss the litter boxes often, fight each other too much, but deliver tons of smiles and reassuring boops on my leg to let me know it’s time for some attention.
I don’t want to think about the day they won’t be around.