The Best Worst Dog I Ever Had

The Best Worst Dog I Ever Had

Larry Ehrhorn

Copyright © 2023 Larry Ehrhorn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 979-8387979545

Title: The Best Worst Dog I Ever Had

Author: Larry Ehrhorn

Digital distribution | 2023

Paperback | 2023

Dedication

For my parents, Wilbert Bud Ehrhorn and Doris Waldo Anderson, who gave me everything but passed before having witnessed what they had created.

And my lifetime dogs: Macbeth, Macduff, Dickens, Teddy and Ernie, none who ever learned to read, but sure helped me to a fuller and happier life.

Special Acknowledgements

These people helped me a great deal!

My son Larry, chief technical adviser (Dad, you should never be allowed to touch a computer!)

Mary Harker, second in charge of proofreading (Is their spelled ei or ie"?)

Becky, wife, proofreader nurse, psychologist, etc., etc., etc.

Jack, my current dog—spiritual adviser

Rainbow Bridge

Author unknown

J

ust this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life, but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.

Twelve Axioms All Dogs Inherit at Birth

W

hen dogs are born, they inherit twelve imbedded guiding principles. Each dog may use them all or just periodically run across the need to use them. They explain how dogs can guide themselves through life without human contact, needed or not. These help to explain the unexplainable acts of some dogs.

1. All dogs are smart, even the dumb ones.

2. Walking on four legs requires extreme skill; no human can do it.

3. To show sincere pleasure, wag your tail; purring is for cats.

4. You can chase something up a tree, but never try to pursue it or you’ll look foolish.

5. No matter what you’re told, there is no such thing as Kibble Supreme, so deal with it; kibble is kibble.

6. What you can’t get with your paws, you can usually get with your soulful eyes.

7. When in doubt, always rely on your sense of smell.

8. Never make a person choose between you and a cat, unless it’s a man. A woman will usually choose the cat.

9. It’s okay to be frightened by loud noises, just like people are.

10. All dogs can swim; nobody told them that they couldn’t.

11. Dogs get smarter faster than people because they live in dog years.

12. Rainbow Bridge is a real place; just don’t hurry to get there.

Contents

The Best Worst Dog I Ever Had

Dedication

Special Acknowledgements

Rainbow Bridge

Twelve Axioms All Dogs Inherit at Birth

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

About the Author

Christmas 1950

ZsaZsa

Chapter 1

Every Good Life Begins with a Dog

"Those are the moments that I think are precious to a dog—when, with his adoring soul coming through his eyes, he feels that you are really thinking of him." James Galsworthy, novelist

G od spelled backward is dog. I first heard that cliché when I was six-years-old and thought it was sacrilegious and an express ticket to hell, and I wasn’t even religious. As I grew older and more mature, I pretty much erased the heresy from my mind. A deeper idea began to slowly permeate my mind and claimed ownership of a small part of myself. By the time I turned thirty, I felt that I had a fuller understanding of goodness, because every dog I had owned or even met showed me something enlightening, like a tutor trying to convert an average high school freshman into a genius. It seemed that a dog would elevate my being closer to becoming a more wholesome person. I began to think that if I could mold myself into a human with all the qualities of a dog, I would lead a happy, productive life. French leader Charles de Gaulle wrote, The more I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.

I do not remember my first dogs. In 1950 my parents, brother and I lived in a small apartment above a chop suey take-out in Oak Park, Illinois, a western suburb abutting Chicago. How we all existed in that third floor walk-up, which was always fragrant, I will never comprehend, except for the fact that I was only three, had two parents a brother, and two dogs. What did I know or care?

To be honest, I cannot find a faint memory of either Ginger, German shepherd or police dog as they were commonly called, or Suzie, the beagle. Most people cannot recall their first memory. Try it. When I got older, like ten, I found the only picture of the whole family, including my dogs. It was a black and white photo, taken around Christmas. In this picture Ginger sat on the floor in front of a couch that was holding the rest of us. Suzie was on the end partially sitting on Mom’s lap. I was next to Mom and had my face buried and hidden like any obnoxious three-year-old, next to Dad.

Amazingly, as much as I love dogs today, I have not the vaguest recollection of those two. A couple of years later, we moved to a small house in Elmhurst, a suburb about twenty miles west of Chicago. I have no idea what happened to Ginger and Suzie, but they did not go with us to our new home. The good side to my lack of recall is that I did not cry or feel heartbroken in their absence, like I did with all my other dogs. My first two dogs had just disappeared.

As I grew older and had my own dogs, I often looked at that old Christmas picture that did not set off memories but made me ponder their disappearance even more. The fact is that I did not miss them. Why? Looking at that lone photo, I wanted to know if they ever got walked. There was a park across the street, but I do not remember going there to play with them. At two or three, I was not allowed to take two dogs alone across the busy thoroughfare to play with them. What did they eat? Where was their water bowl? Did they have toys? I thought it odd that I had never asked my parents about those details, but, as so often happens, questions were postponed until it was too late and the answers died with them.

The next twenty years passed faster than dog years. When I turned eight our first family dog briefly came home courtesy of my older brother Duke (real name). When my parents came home, they were both stunned and bewildered at the presence of a black and white mutt in our tiny living room.

Nonchalantly, Duke explained, That’s Pepper. A cab driver gave him to me. Asked me if I’d like a dog, so I said, ‘Sure.’

Mom was still standing, thinking on her feet. My dad stood silent, either stunned or willing to let the wife field this one.

Ma spoke first, What kind of cab driver rides around all day with a dog and then decides to give him away at a junior high school?

That one stumped Duke, I don’t know. He’s there every day to pick-up some rich kids. Good answer.

Better and quicker response. Well, if he’s there every day, then I will go to work early and return his dog. We can’t keep him. I like dogs and hope to have one someday, but not today. There’s no fence in the back yard and we’re gone all day. We need a bigger house. Two bedrooms with one shared closet does not leave room for a dog. He can stay the night, but tomorrow he goes back to riding a cab. Besides, maybe Pepper was training to be a substitute driver. Mom tried to leave on a high note, but her humor fell short, especially with the controversial dog sitting right there looking happy to be in a house. Dad never said a word. Not sure that he didn’t want a dog. Just not this one.

Duke and I didn’t feel like we had done anything wrong or were being scolded, but I felt sorry that Pepper was being expelled. He was friendly and seemed to like me. It was probably the first time that I had felt a bond between me and a dog. Nothing major, just a connection.

The link grew stronger that night when he instinctively jumped into bed with me. I ruffled his head and rubbed his belly, which reflexively caused his leg to twitch like he was pedaling a bike. The more he licked my face, the more tears I leaked between my sniffling and giggling. Maybe he just liked the salt.

Good night, Pepper. Wish you could stay, and I surprisingly cried openly. Duke may have brought him home, but Pepper seemed to want to be my dog. So did I.

Eventually I fell into a deep sleep, and when I was awoken for school, Pepper was already gone. I asked Duke where Pepper was, hoping that he was just outside on a walk with Mom.

He answered dejectedly, Mom left early with him to see if she could find the cab driver. He’s gone, Lar, but he had fun his short time here. Maybe someday.

One day and one night and I wished for a dog to be permanently mine. I never saw Pepper again, nor did I ever forget him.

That same year we continued our westward migration to Wheaton, thirty miles west of Chicago. It was real suburbia – huge yards, white picket fences, and plenty of dogs being walked on leashes. After Pepper’s exile, I hadn’t forgotten about getting a fulltime pet dog, and I couldn’t help but smile whenever I saw one. Hopefully, our new larger house in suburbia would bring a change.

One Saturday my mother told me to get in the car. Not Dad, not Duke, just me. We drove a few miles to Lombard, and got out at a small yellow brick house. Ma knocked on the door and an older man answered.

Doris? he asked. I’m Chuck Rubner. Please come in.

Mom went in and I silently followed. There was an unusual smell in the house, but I couldn’t recognize it. Surely not fresh cookies in the oven.

They’re in here and he led us to the kitchen. Suddenly there was the piercing sound of yipping attacking us from his kitchen. When we entered the room, the first thing I saw, but certainly not expecting, was a mother dog lying on her side in an oversized dog bed. Surrounding her and slipping on the linoleum floor while climbing over each other, were four yelping basset hound puppies. And I thought Tuesday Weld was cute.

I cautiously approached them and kneeled but my presence was secondary. Their mother emitted a low growl.

Are they ready? asked Ma.

The owner replied, They’re ready. We usually wait eight weeks, but the vet said that six was okay if they felt comfortable. Some breeders believe that if you take the pups away from their mother too soon that they tend to be less trusting and may grow-up with temperament issues. But we’ve already sold two yesterday and things seems to be working just fine on this end. Did you want a male or female?

Was I hearing this? Were we going to take one of these fur balls home? They began licking my hands and climbing my shoes. I think a male. What do you think, Lar?

I want them all, which earned a chuckle from the owner. I wondered if he would trade them all for my brother Duke, a fanciful wish.

Pick one, Ma commanded.

They were all on me, and the decision was made because one had a brown ring around his eye, and he could actually step on his ears.

This one, I said as I picked him up and a stream of urine poured forth. Was he overjoyed or protesting?

They all need some housebreaking, Mr. Rubner joked.

As I was laughing, I noticed that the mother dog glared, part of her head on the edge of her bed, resigned to another unpleasant fate that she could not stop. Awful for the mother to see her litter disappear; hopefully good for the pups in a new home but, of course, she had no clue about what would happen to any of her children.

We’ll take good care of him, I promise, I whispered to the mother. She blinked her eyes as though she understood and hoped it was true. Many years later during a typical high school sleep-inducing English class, I snapped awake when Mrs. Haag read some Shakespeare quote, The eyes are the windows to the soul. Years later that quote triggered my memory back to Dexter’s mother’s soulful eyes, and made me wonder what kind of life that was for a female dog – to give birth to five kids, and after six weeks of bonding and nursing and nurturing, to have total strangers come into the room, and, one by one, take away all of her children, never to be seen again. Twice I had patted her on the head and repeated, I promise. She had replied with another sigh. Her eyes conveyed the loss that I would feel throughout the years after losing four of my own dogs.

I picked up the pup while Ma and Mr. Rubner completed some business matter before we left. Dad and Duke eagerly greeted our new nameless family member.

What’s his name? asked Dad, who had already known about the recent surprise addition to the family.

Whatever we want, answered Mom coyly.

Do you still want to name him after a saxophonist? he replied, surprised but not angry.

Yes, but I also happen to like the name, and I have heard of other dogs named Dexter.

Dexter? Duke and I reacted simultaneously.

She looked at us like the decision had been made before we had even gotten the dog.

Yes, Dexter. I like the sound of it. In fact, I even picked out his first name.

First name? I thought you said it was Dexter, I replied puzzled.

Now the truth came out. Yes, Dexter. Dexter Gordon, who played saxophone with Louis Armstrong, is going to be a show dog but the Kennel Club requires two names for registration purposes.

Duke and I never expected a music history lesson, although Mom told us countless times that she had played her violin at a birthday party for Carl Sandburg’s daughter. Again, another neglected question until it was too late. I had no idea who Sandberg was until high school when we read a poem titled, Chicago. The poem encompassed everything I had experienced during our occasional visits to the city.

Irritated, I don’t get it. Is he our dog or not? Can’t I play with him and stuff?

She could tell that I was disappointed and confused.

Of course he’s our dog. But I’ve always wanted a show dog, sort of a hobby. It’ll be fun. Dexter and I have to attend classes, and there will be special dog shows for basset hounds held in fancy downtown hotels. We can all go. It’ll be a year before he’s ready, so don’t worry and enjoy Dexter.

What is his first name? Dad asked, a point that Duke and I had forgotten.

She smiled and declared with a straight face, Miserable.

The three of us stared at her as though she had proudly announced, Hitler.

Explain, Doris, said our rarely perplexed father.

She had had this planned for a long time, I could tell.

Because he’s a basset hound. His eyes and droopy ears make him look so sad and miserable. It’s more fitting than ‘Happy,’ don’t you think?

Thus, Miserable Dexter, basset hound show dog, became our first family pet.

Can he sleep in my room? I pleaded. Fond remembrances of my only night with Pepper built hope for even more bonding with full-time Dexter.

After what seemed forever, Ma hesitantly agreed. Okay, we’ll put his new dog bed in your room, but he cannot sleep on your bed. Puppies need to be trained right from the start or they may develop bad lifetime habits. Understand?

That answer puzzled me. What bad habits would I teach him? Duke was the one who smoked, though my parents didn’t know it yet, unless they played along with their cool teenaged son. I smiled at the picture of Dexter lounging in the back yard hidden behind our apple tree, sharing a cigarette with Duke.

What eight-year-old boy is not willing to have his dog sleep in his room? Of course, Dexter was with me in my bed from the first night. Sometimes we’d get caught, but Ma only chased him down, so apparently doggie discipline was not her strength. We paid dearly for that selfish weakness.

Dexter and I grew closer. He followed me everywhere. I often played fetch with him, but his stubby basset legs were not created for running too fast without causing exhaustion. My dad said that Dexter looked like a canine version of Charlie Chaplin, a reference I did not understand for many years.

Every Tuesday and Thursday nights, Mom loaded Dexter into the Nash and left for a couple hours. When I asked where they went, she smiled and said, School.

Can I go with? I asked without much thought. What kid would want to go to school at night, even with his dog?

Sorry, Lar, abut I’m afraid you might be a distraction. He’d probably see you and want to play, and he needs to learn who’s in charge if I’m going to enter him in a show soon.

I’d forgotten that Ma got Dexter to be a show dog, a picture my imagination could not create. Almost a year had passed before Mom and Dexter finally came home with a framed graduation certificate. I was never sure who that diploma belonged to – Mom or Dexter? Maybe they shared it.

Almost a year after their graduation, my mother proudly announced that we were all attending their first professional dog show on a Sunday next month. It was being held at the Bismarck, a fancy hotel in the Loop. We all spruced-up and drove downtown with Dexter panting and hanging his head out the rear window. His ears were big enough that I thought the car might fly, but there is a major difference between fantasy and science.

Once Dad found a parking space, Mom attached a special collar and leash like they had always taken to school, and we all walked to the hotel. It was so strange watching my dog stroll down the wide city sidewalks, stopping to sniff doorways and fire hydrants. His snout vibrated like a short jack hammer at all the unusual smells that permeated the lot of us. It was like Chicago was covered by a dome that captured unique city scents and sounds – buses, taxis, police horses, the el trains with their squealing brakes, buildings and people and city smells of industry and humanity. Dexter started to lead us into the United Artist Theatre box office and lobby, but Ma had control of the lead. Years later I grew to appreciate Sandburg’s poem about Chicago because I had experienced it.

It was a perfect Sunday afternoon, and I would have been willing to walk all day in that beautiful place with all of my family. Then we arrived at the entrance to the hotel. The lobby was busy and cavernous, really quite exciting and luxurious. All the golden molding and plush red carpet took me to a new wow level. Our amazing journey continued when the polished elevator doors opened, and Ma took the lead without hesitation. Dexter looked confused and frightened when the doors closed. He sat there and stared at us as if wondering if we were going to save him from some horrible fate. He looked miserable.

We got off at the third floor, where the ballroom was located. Dexter made a beeline to a silver cylindrical upright ashtray and immediately lifted his leg and relieved his tension. Ma was shocked and couldn’t stop him in time.

‘That’s all right, Ma’am. That’s why I’m here, said a high-school-aged kid in a brown uniform with the words Bismarck Hotel" stitched on his pocket. He quickly knelt by the ashtray, sprayed the victimized carpet, and lightly blotted the area with a special green sponge with the hotel’s name on it. Don’t know what he would have done if Dexter had really unloaded. Had to wonder where that kid would be in ten years – manager of dog waste or politician.

Mom led Dexter to a long check-in table and received a number, which she pinned to her dress, and a program. We all entered the massive ballroom, which was also elegant with a huge chandelier and a stage at one end. Dad, Duke and I took spectator seats along the wall. Dad checked the program, then passed it to Duke and me. On page 36 he pointed to the entry: Miserable Dexter, followed by a bunch of cryptic breeder names and lineage and owner Doris Ehrhorn. I guess I didn’t come into play anywhere, even if I was Dexter’s favorite.

The actual show was slow and boring. I had had more fun walking from the car to the hotel. Finally, Mom and Dexter took center floor with two other owners and their dogs. The dogs and owners pranced rather awkwardly in a circle, and the judge opened each dog’s mouth and held its tail straight back. Checking for cavities, I guess. Apparently Dexter chose not to cooperate with the silly behavior and snapped sharply at the judge’s hand. Maybe Dexter was so miserable that he didn’t pay close attention during his classes. Finally the judge took three ribbons and a small gold trophy from the awards table. He gave one owner a trophy and a blue ribbon, and gave the other two participants’ ribbons no trophies. Ma took her white ribbon, led Dexter off the floor and waited for us in the hall. Was that it? A year of training for that?

Did you see that? Mom barked at Dad.

Yes, I saw. Everybody saw. Did he draw blood from the judge? Dad asked, but I think I could detect a smirk and a stifled laugh.

I saw the ribbon Ma was holding. Did Dexter win something?

She gave me the ribbon marked Third Place.

Did he finish third? Out of all these dogs, that’s pretty good, right? My foolish, naive comment was meant sincerely, but I quickly blushed as I realized the truth.

She couldn’t help but smile. There were only three dogs in our grouping, she replied but her anger had gone elsewhere.

But it was his first try, so that’s pretty good. Ma patted me on the head and led us all to the lobby. Show over.

The trip home was light-hearted, even though everyone except me thought that we had lost. I rolled down the back window again and Dexter relived his trip into the city. I was glad that the show was over and that I still felt the same joy that I had always shared with my dog. I was afraid that he might be transformed into a prancing, groomed show dog, and not the dog that slept in my bed and played fetch with me.

We even stopped by an A&W root beer stand on the way home, where I walked Dexter in the parking lot and he had the opportunity to water their bushes. When we returned to the car, four floats and a small dish of ice cream awaited us. People with two hands each got a float, and I held the dish for Dexter, who eventually licked the bowl clean, his black nose and snout covered. It was the best day ever in my still young life. That day did have a permanent influence when I got older. Someday I hoped to recreate that day with my own show dog.

There were only two other dog shows in the career of Miserable Dexter. His performances were consistent. Dexter always took third place, but in his final show, he took third out of five dogs, so we all agreed to consider that show as a first place win, because he had beaten two other dogs. Logic of a show dog owner.

When Dexter was four and I was twelve, our relationships in the family came crashing down. I had been sick with something that kept me out of school and bedridden for three days. Of course, Mom frequently checked my temperature and brought me nourishment. One afternoon something disastrous happened, but I did not actually see the incident. I awoke to the screams of my mother, with Dexter growling and snapping his jaws. By the time I was fully conscious, I could see Ma’s arm bleeding and her rushing from my room. She was quick, but not as fast as Dexter in pursuit. I rolled out of bed and followed them.

Mom kept yelling, No, Dexter, no! Bad dog! as she still held her bleeding arm and stepped up on the couch, while Dexter continued his barking and snarling. It was scary to watch, but I didn’t hesitate to grab Dexter from behind and pull him away.

Once it appeared that I had some control over my/our dog, Mom stepped down from the sofa and went into the bathroom, trying to hold back her tears. I was the only other one home and did not know what to do, so I held Dexter tightly, not in a threatening way, and awaited my mother’s return.

She came out of the bathroom with a cold wet hand towel wrapped firmly on her wounds. Her eyes were still watery, but she seemed to have lost some of her rage. She took a step closer to us and Dexter growled again, baring his teeth.

I’m sorry, Lar, but Dexter has to go. He won’t let me near you anymore, even when you’re sick or sleeping. He’s become over-protective and he can’t be trusted.

I grabbed him tighter, hoping that she could see that I had complete control over him, but it did no good.

Carol Sutcliffe at work mentioned that she was thinking of getting a dog, and she doesn’t have any kids at home anymore. He would go to a very nice home with someone who could use his company, and be taken good care of.

I was surprised that she would so easily decide to get rid of him; after all, she was the one who wanted a show dog and had gone to classes and shows with him. Certainly those memories must have meant something.

My tears flowed freely, unsure if they were for my mother or my dog. Ma would always be there for me. I began to accept the idea that I may have to picture the rest of my life without Miserable Dexter.

If he still lives in town, will I at least be able to see him?

Ma did not hesitate, No, I don’t think that would be in their best interest. He’s too attached to you and too protective. I should have kept Dexter in a separate dog bed in the utility room. It’s just too late now. He won’t change. And there’s something you don’t know, Larry, that might help you understand.

She looked like she was deliberating her own statement. What? I asked impatiently.

Your dad and I were both going to tell you in a few weeks, but it seems more appropriate now. Even longer pause. I’m pregnant and we’re going to have a baby in September. You can see what Dexter did to my arm, and I was an adult who was able to get away from his snarling teeth. Just imagine what he might do to a helpless infant. Like I said, he’s past the point of being trusted. I’m not saying that he would ever hurt a child, but it’s just not worth a gamble.

That was not the answer I had expected. She was going to trade my dog for a baby sister or brother. Inside I smiled because I thought how similar it was when I was hoping that Mr. Rubner would be willing to trade his litter of basset hounds for brother Duke. For the next two hours I sat on the couch with my dog, petting and scratching his neck, while we waited for Dad to get home. Poor dog had no clue that he had done anything wrong, and he certainly would have no idea of why he had to leave.

Finally Dad walked through the door and he could tell instantly that something was wrong. I could not stop the waterworks and hoped that Dad could rescue us. Without a word he went straight to the kitchen, where Mom was cooking something that sizzled. The sound made it difficult to overhear their conversation, but I could tell that he was surprised and worried when his voice got louder, Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?

The only reply I detected was that Mom had started to cry harder. Soon Dad returned and looked at us with little sympathy. Dexter wagged his tail once, perhaps trying to generate support. No such luck. He had crossed a line.

Sorry, Lar, but Dexter can’t live here anymore. That’s final, so please get used to it. Your mother explained why, and I hope you will grow-up to always look out for your younger brother or sister. Dexter will be gone as soon as we can find a good home for him. We don’t mean to sound cruel, but who knows when another disaster may strike? Sorry.

So ended the presence of Miserable Dexter, basset hound supreme, dog show ribbon winner, my over-protective bodyguard and best friend.

Life was painful for a few days, when, like Pepper, they took away Dexter while I was at school so that I didn’t have to watch him leave. I had cried and pouted for three days, hoping that my parents would find a change of heart, but I didn’t expect them to. During those remaining days Dexter still slept in my bed, having no inkling about his uncertain future. Mom never came near me again in Dexter’s presence. Yet, when I wasn’t present, she would still pet him and give him treats like nothing had ever happened.

On Friday I came home from school in a despondent mood despite a two-day weekend without school. I had prayed for Dexter’s immediate transformation and my mother’s forgiveness, wishing that time could travel back a week and all was as it should be. When I walked through the door, I did not receive my usual greeting. No sound of scampering toenails across the linoleum kitchen floor. No excited panting, flying ears, or boundless enthusiasm attacking me at full force. I stood frozen because I knew.

Sorry, Lar, but Dexter went with Mrs. Sutcliffe this afternoon. She’ll keep me posted about him. Be sad, but don’t worry. He’ll be fine.

I knew that it had been inevitable but never gave up hope. If only I hadn’t been sleeping when Ma had come in to check on me. If only I hadn’t been sick. I really didn’t blame myself so much, but fate seemed to play a major role. I did promise Dexter’s mother that I would take good care of him. Hopefully, Mrs. Sutcliffe would be a positive extension of my vow.

Sniffling, I managed to say, You could have told me, so I could have said ‘good-bye.’

As hard as this is to believe, this way is easier. I hope you don’t mind, but Dexter asked me if he could take that smelly pair of socks that you tied in a knot to play fetch and tug with him. I sent them with him and he thanked me.

I looked at Ma as though I actually believed for a moment that Dexter could talk.

Sure. Then he’ll have something to remember me by.

She smiled, He didn’t need your smelly socks to remember you. He’ll never forget you, just like you’ll never forget him. True words I never forgot either.

It was years later after I had had my own son that I began to understand the bonding of any parent to care for and shelter a child, not unlike Dexter’s own mother, and that my mother emulated. I may have caught a glimpse of Dexter one more time in my life. At age twelve I was too young to get my driver’s license, but I could ride a bike forever. Months after Dexter was gone, I found Mrs. Sutcliffe’s address in the phone book. I decided to venture the two miles across town, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, even though I had promised myself and my mother that I would not search for him.

I found the house easily. Mrs. Sutcliffe had a white-picket, fenced back yard. A few times I thought I could see a moving body walking around inside the fence line. I never dared to get too close to look, fearful that Dexter might see or smell me and start barking, which would have made me feel glad, but not worth the risk.

One day I pedaled to her house and she was just coming out the front door, leading a dog on a leash. We had never met, so there was no risk of being recognized by her. But was that my dog? To be sure I rode around the block and came back looking straight at them. It was Dexter – same ears, sad eyes, and show dog jaunt. He may have been a little heavier, but I decided that it was him. I wanted him to look at me to see if he still recognized his boy. But we never made direct eye contact. He looked healthy and content, so I felt empty but satisfied that I had at least seen him and that I had kept my promise to Dexter’s mother. It was the last time I ever saw my best canine friend.

During my childhood I can only recall brief relations with dogs – one-night Pepper, four-year Dexter, and my last mutt. When I was a fourteen-year-old junior high school student, Ma asked me to go with her to see Aunt Amy in Chicago. I really had no desire; it was a beautiful, sunny day, and visiting my spinster aunt Amy was as much fun as having a root canal without anesthetic. But Ma really seemed to want my company, citing driving home alone in the dark. Dark? Did that mean the whole day? Dad, Duke, or my new sister Lynn were not invited, which I thought odd. Something was happening, and I had no other plans, so I succumbed to my mother’s wishes.

My aunt lived on Augusta Boulevard in a brownish and red brick four-flat apartment. She ran a dry cleaner pick-up service out of her ground floor flat. Every year my uncle Raymond would haul down freshly cut Christmas trees to sell from an empty lot next to Amy’s building. He was also the one who took Ginger and Suzie back to Michigan to lead full lives of running free on his own land. At least that’s what I was