My dog, Dawg, had one habit that my Dad enjoyed. He would chase after our car whenever we left the house. Not other cars, just our car. When he got tired, he would go back home and be waiting for us to arrive when we got there. Dawg was fast, tough, and had plenty of endurance. Over time he got faster, rougher, and piled on the endurance. Once my dad clocked him at 24 mph for a full mile. As long as he was keeping up, Dawg didn’t want to quit. On another such run, my father estimated that Dawg hit 30 mph over a quarter mile. After such a dash Dawg would lay up in the shade, rest, and return home. He’d be there when we returned. On several occasions, we had stopped to offer him a ride. He never accepted the open door invitation, or gentle coaching. Only one time did Dawg ever break that rule. My Dad had held the speed constant at 15 mph for three miles. He stayed with us, but was obviously really pooped. Dad insisted that I go gather him up and put him in the car. He was tired. It wasn’t really all that much of a struggle, but he was glad to get out back at the house. Dawg’s story concludes when we moved from the little isolated country town of mostly open spaces to a much larger, crowded suburban town, where Dawg would just not fit. We would have been forced to chain or confine him to a small city yard. Mr. Chandler was more than pleased to continue his feeding and care. After all, Dawg was “one Hell of a watchdog.” This mutually agreeable solution lasted for several years. Dawg was old when he had arrived in our yard. His retirement was good. About a year before that move, we had brought another puppy into our home. On a visit to my aunt’s home at Thanksgiving, she made it known that a litter of very nice puppies was just across the street. They were freshly minted, their eyes were still closed, curly coated Cocker Spaniels. Adults consulted, and phone calls were made. Shortly I was across the street inspecting these tiny handfuls of promise under the watchful eyes of their mother. I could have my choice, but I would have to dock it’s tail myself. Fifteen minutes later I’d selected a black male that just barely filled my palm, and had applied a large pair of scissors to the unwanted extremity. While we waited for him to be weaned, name selection was the name of the game. I did some reading about dogs, and selected a name from part of a song popular at the time, Ko Ko Mo, as each syllable ended with a vowel sound. KoKoMo was a child’s pet. A pet’s pet. He was a house dog most of the time when we were home, otherwise the back yard was his kingdom. KoKoMo was a warm comforting silky presence. He had a soft pink tongue and loved to snuggle up and be your companion. All he asked for was food, a scratch, a pat, and some playful attention. He was fun and he was funny. At top speed around the yard, his front feet couldn’t keep pace, so he would adopt a three point stance, sliding on his nose and stomach while the back legs acted as the steamboat paddle wheel. We had KoKoMo for three years, and had no trouble finding him a loving home with children that wanted him, when we suddenly moved to California after my Junior year of high school.
(c) Copyright 2006: George Wallace recently published a book on religion which lashes out at nearly all of the comfortable ideas about God, the trappings of organized religion, and the priesthood. His pithy comments and suggestions for a return to a God-centered personal religion will interest everyone. This article may be freely reprinted so long as all copyright attributions, and the full content of this resource box are included. www.OhGodIsThatYou.com
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