Feisty Repartee

Dog Days

Dash has a post up about The Hound-Dog Man a.k.a. Fred Gipson who wrote Old Yeller that made me think.

I've had six dogs of my own, not including the dogs which have belonged to others in the various households in which I have lived. There has probably been a six month period in all of my thirty-seven years in which a dog of some sort was not present.

For my 11th birthday, I received a black fur ball my father named Mimi. I had wanted a puppy, a German Shepherd puppy, but my parents decided to gift me with a miniature poodle. While Mimi lived with me through junior high, high school, college and law school, she had bonded early on with my sister and was never really my dog.

However, Mimi was there when I met and married the husband. In fact, it was with her approval he was allowed to share the bed with us. Mimi was around when we welcomed Sweet One home; but, by that time, her dark eyes were clouded with glaucoma and arthritis had rendered her once quick and agile body stiff and slow.

It took me a while after Mimi to decide to get another dog, but I realized I missed the companionship faithful and loving pets provide. After much thought and research, I decided I wanted another poodle, but a large Standard Poodle.

For those unfamiliar with Standard Poodles, they are big dogs. They stand between twenty-two and twenty-seven inches at the shoulder and can weigh up to 75 pounds.

Research was my middle name. I bought or borrowed all manner of books and periodicals regarding Standard Poodles and followed the husband around the house and yard reading various passages to him about how wonderful these creatures were. He was an avid fowl hunter at the time and I explained standard poodles were the original hunting/retriever dogs and I just knew we could find one that would make the perfect pet for me, as well as a hunting companion for him.

To say the man was absolutely secure in his own masculinity was an understatement. It had not occurred to me at the time how well received he and a retrieving Poodle would be in the field and at various hunt tests. To his credit, he listened patiently and basically told me if that was what I wanted, then find a reputable breeder and we would buy the dog. He even added, if I wanted it to sleep with us, he was not going to argue.

With that last statement, I realized he had not really been listening to me when I described just how big this dog was going to get, but I had obtained the response I wanted and merely kept quiet and began my search for a breeder in earnest.

After a couple of months, I located one in Spring, Texas who had just what I wanted. It was a 300-mile drive one-way to inspect, then select the puppy.

The breeder was expecting us when we arrived and immediately brought us to her kitchen where nine solid black eight-week old puppies were housed. The mother was a bit protective of her litter and was escorted out as we walked in. I sat down on the floor and eight of the nine instantly converged upon me.

These puppies were as big or larger than most miniature poodles were full grown. They probably weighed between ten and fourteen pounds. One of the puppies watchfully hung back and after most of the others moved onto to something else to play with or investigate, he came over to me, gently licked my hand and crawled into my lap. In that moment I knew he was the ONE. I named him Tango.

After announcing my choice, the husband and I took Tango into the back yard. I put the puppy down and told him his name. He was frisky and bright and all those wonderful things puppies typically are. The husband watched, then squatted down and produced a dove wing from a ziploc bag he had been carrying.

Apparently, he had wanted to test the dog's birdiness. The husband whistled to get Tango's attention and then tossed the wing into the yard. My heart stopped in the instant it took the wing to hit the ground, then Tango was all over it; however, that was only part of the "test."

The husband then called the puppy to him with "Tango!" and another encouraging whistling sound. Without releasing the wing, the puppy trotted over to the husband with tail wagging. With only a gentle tug, Tango gave up the wing. He passed the test. I was thrilled.

As I prepared to pay the lady breeder, the husband asked her if he could see other adult Standard Poodles she had. She complied and released Tango's mother, an older brother (from a previous litter) and an unrelated adult male. I guess they smelled the dove wing on him because as soon as they hit the back yard, the three friggin' huge Poodles surrounded him and were barking excitedly. These were not frou-frou yips but deep throaty raise-the-hair-on-the back-of-your-neck "Woof, Woofs" one would associate with a Rottweiler. The husband froze in shock and disbelief. Without taking his eyes of these dogs, he asked the breeder: "Is Tango going to be this big?"

"Of course," was the reply.

I chimed in: "Too late, I've already paid her."

Once she called the dogs from him, he walked over to pet Tango as I held him and told me: "I know what I said, but he's not sleeping in our bed. We'll make him a bed on the floor."

I knew Tango was definitely my dog some thirty minutes later. We were in the husband's brand new truck on our way home. Tango was in my lap when he stood up and walked across the seat to the husband. He then put his head down and promptly threw up on him. No dog of mine would dare throw up on ME!

While not Tango, the second picture on this page will show you what he looked like.

It's been two years and two months since I had to put Tango's diseased and tired body down. I loved that dog.

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