My publisher, Arash, complains that I start with one topic – or subject, and then, I quite leave it behind and go off on tangents. Well, of course he is correct – and that is why I like the essay format! To essay, I gather, meant to (once-upon-a-time) “make an attempt”; or, to go forth. I am reminded of that delightful joke that references a pregnant Mexican girl who was told by her English teacher to DO an Esse…
Ah well. A number of my predilections have born fruit: the housing crisis; the credit crunch; and, the attendant recession/depression. I could tackle serious subjects again – like politics, education and, life-in-general: but after last Night’s luverly conversation — with a California woman who came-of-age in the 1960s — (she suggested that she was 63) about dogs we’ve owned, I thought I’d write a bit about “fuzzy buddies.”
Last year at this time – I lost my latest, and perhaps quintessential fuzzy buddy – Scooby. Folks tell me that I was the same way about my fuzzy buddy, Rummy – and perhaps I was. I simply know – that with Scooby’s demise – I couldn’t bear to become a dog owner again. Owning 3 dogs since 1979 (not to mention the dogs of my nuclear family) — and burying these three over the last 13 years has simply proven too much for me. Each death was more painful than the previous one. Particularly when Scooby hung around longer than he had to because I think he was worried about me. The vet told me that he needed to be on pain medication – and he seemed to be experiencing a complete systems failure in his latter days.
Yet it was Rummy who I had the most stories to tell about. Sure, Scooby never left my side when we were together, except that he would stay in the van when I took my surf – but Rummy probably had the most personality of the lot: Whether he kept people from getting into their own homes if they happened to have a bitch-in-heat (and the Pontiac police department called me a few times to come get Rummy so that people could get into their homes); or, when he stole people’s burgers from their hands at our barbecues; or, how he survived a stupid, drunk-ass teenager who cut his freestyle Frisbee-ing short – by severing one of his paws under his wheel; or, the many socks that people donated so that Rummy wouldn’t chew said paw off after it had been re-attached during seven hours of dog surgery; or, Rummy’s many victories in dog fights prior to his surgery – Rummy was an urban legend. Scooby was recognizable at Surfer’s Point, Ventura – but buddy Timmy P. was complaining about Rummy hair in his car 15 years after Rummy last rode in it! I didn’t think anyone kept American cars that long, Tameeches!
Dennis named Rummy after his conceptualization of his brief Navy stint when he was reportedly dishonorably discharged. Second wife, Kim, said that Rummy held her hostage in my bedroom for four hours. He might have. All I know is, that wherever Rummy went – he left a-ton-of-dog-hair. I will never forget our trip to Michigan State to see a girlfriend – when he dumped a-ton-of-white-fur in one-of-the girls’ dorms. The room looked like an indoor snowstorm had hit.
They say dogs take after their masters. I was never sure of who was in charge – I just know that when they go – they leave a huge hole…