The Dog In Question

“I want a dog.”

My son, though, is scared of dogs. He has been for most of his life. Were I attentive, like his mother, might think it were because of his exposure to our small dog when he was a baby. Our dog was a jumper and a biter and a digger, and a napoleon; all the things a small dog should be, and all the things that make a small dog a little troublesome to have in the same house as a baby.

“I want that dog.”

At the pound, in his cage, when a browser walked up to him, the dog would stand on his back legs and dance (a practice we found endearing), attracting the person over to the cage. We saw a procession of people walk over, look at this wonderful little dog, then frown and walk quickly away. Upon closer inspection, we saw a sign on the cage, warning clearly that he was heartworm positive. Even so, it seemed heartless to walk away. When he was new to our family, as I stood and hugged my wife (a practice the dog always found troublesome), he jumped up and nipped my wrist, which I was holding at shoulder height. The day we brought my son home, the dog sat on my wife’s feet (a practice I always found endearing), and growled at anyone who dared come within arm’s reach of the baby. Sadly, this developed into a need to sit on the baby’s feet, better to defend him,  and the dog went to live with our family on a ranch.

“I want a dog that flies.”

On the ranch, our little dog lost the weight he’d put on, living in our home in suburban Austin. He discovered that he could, in fact, run a mile when he wanted to. He did not indulge in the mud and pond fun that the other dogs on the ranch did. He was never a swimmer. Where most dogs seem to enjoy a command of the “dog paddle” from a very young age, ours could not keep his head above water. He lived in mortal fear of water, spending his bath times shivering and whining. We almost felt bad for him, except for the powerful musk he could build up in just a few days. The ranch suited him better, though. No baths on a ranch.

“I want a dog with a lightsaber.”

When he finally did die, having beaten heartworms, surviving not one, but two stints in the pound (he wasn't sure about us for the first couple of weeks, and realized that he was much, much faster than I), it was kind of an anticlimax. I don’t suppose noble deaths happen very often, and perhaps less so for dogs.

“Is that dog named Skywalker?”

There were larger dogs on the ranch, and they had learned an ugly trick, leading smaller dogs out to the highway, where they were eventually hit by cars. This little dog was no

“Is that dog named Skywalker, daddy? Daddy, is it? Is that dog named Skywalker, daddy? Daddy? Daddy. Daddy. Is it?”

Anyway, his name wasn't Skywalker.