Although dogs and cats are assigned personalities in popular legend, I even have a pillow that states, "Dogs have owners, cats have staff," the truth is, every animal has its own quirky personality. You have to get to know them to find how they fit into your family situation. Some dogs seem to have a sense of humor, while other dogs take themselves very seriously. Some cats believe they are the king of the forest, despite being only ten inches tall, while others think they are a dog and follow you around all day. They all have something to give, but some pets will do it on your terms, while others insist on setting the boundaries for you to follow.
Each pet I have owned has come with their own funny stories to tell, and their own heartwarming aspects to know. Although some of these pets are long gone, they live on in memory as though they were here only yesterday. If you have ever wondered why people love their dogs so fiercely, it's because, at the bottom of it all, they love you unconditionally, and ask nothing more than food, a nice place to sleep, and some attention every now and then. Here are some of my favorite dogs from years gone by....
My dad was a hunter, and he and my uncle went pheasant hunting every fall. To do that hunting effectively, you need a dog to point out where the birds are, so you can flush them out and get a good shot at them. That's where Max came in. He was a purebred German Wirehaired Pointer, and his pedigreed name was Baron Fritz Max. But one look at his goofy face and you knew that just wasn't the name for him, so Max it was until he died.
Max was a very smart dog, and you could tell by looking in his eyes. He was well trained by the time he came to us, via my uncle (and his friend) who paid for him. In exchange, we kept him on the farm and fed and cared for and put up with him. Technically, he was my uncle's dog, I suppose, but his heart belonged to us, and in my mind, he was all mine. I showered that dog with love and attention, and in exchange, he showered me with wet slobber from his beard. Talk about wet kisses.
If you have ever been up close and personal with a GWP, you will know that putting up with one requires patience, a sense of humor, and a really big lawn. Because they have energy to burn, and they will burn you out if you don't have a really large area for them to run. He was a big dog, and an outside dog, but he had a kennel where we kept him if we weren't outside with him.
You had to keep an eye on him, because he was true to his pointer name, and if he went on point, he would stay there until he was called off. Occasionally, you would notice he was missing, and you would go looking for him. There he would be, in his stance, tail stump stretched straight out, and nose pointing like a statue, waiting for someone to come and notice. I would try to move him, and he would be stiff like stone, not wanting to mess up until someone released him, the silly creature. My dad worried that he would go on point up on the railroad tracks that ran behind the house and a train would run him over, because once he went into that point, nothing else seemed to exist for him.
When Max wasn't hunting, however, he was the perfect family dog. He would tolerate absolutely anything from me, and he put up with all kinds of nonsense. I rode him like a horse, I put silly caps on him. I ran around with him. He was about the fastest dog I've ever seen, and when he ran, it was like the wind. But he wasn't always great at watching where he was going, which led to one of the funnier and more dangerous aspects of owning him.
When you let him out of his kennel, it didn't really matter if he had been in there ten minutes or ten hours, he needed to run the yard. This does not mean he would jump out of his kennel and casually jog around. He blasted out of the door like a jet propelled rocket and shot around the entire farmyard, running down anything that might be in his path. Including us. Especially me.
When I let him out, I learned to hold the door firmly closed until both locks got undone, then stood to the side and flung the door wide so he could blast off. He would get a running start, pushing off from the edge of the kennel, and away he went. He nailed me a few times when I was unsuspecting, either because I didn't realize he had been let out, or I just wasn't paying attention. But when that kennel door opened, I would run for it to get out of his way. I am here to tell you, if you have once done an impression of a bowling pin, you don't need to do it again. Although I am sure it would have made a good entry on "America's Funniest Home Videos."
He was a dog with a sense of humor, too, as most GWP's are. He almost had to be, with his silly mug and the comical expression he always wore. He had floppy ears, and a beard that hung under his chin that was always wet and dirty. He would take a big drink out of his dish, then shake his head and spray water everywhere. Then he would invariably run over and shove his snout in your face or your hand or on your clean clothes, ensuring that you always had a reminder of him wherever you went.
When you talked to him, he would cock his head at you, and you would swear he was grinning and agreeing with you. He had little tufts of fur that stuck out from his snout in all directions, confirming his place as the clown in our world.
Max was on the go, and mostly, he wanted to go with us. Getting in the car was a signal something exciting was going to happen, so he always wanted to get into the car. If we pulled into the driveway while Max was out, we knew it was going to be a battle to get out of the car door before he got in.
Naturally, being little at the time, he targeted me more than anyone. I would fling open the door, yelling at him to get back, while he thrust his whole 60 pounds forward, struggling to gain a foothold on the floor. I would slide out the door, and he would slide in past me, and next thing I knew, he would be sitting on the car seat, looking smug and ready for a ride. Then I would have to take him by the collar and try to drag him out, all the while his wet beard would be in my face, deterring me from getting too close.
Max would hop into anyone's car, though, he wasn't picky who took him for a ride. He would hop in the back, he would hop in the front, he was ready to drive, I even saw him hop into a trunk or two. Max was ready for anything, and he always had his sense of humor along for the ride.
Max gave us a lot to laugh about over the years, and if I didn't live in the city, I would find another GWP to love. They are wonderful family dogs, friendly to everyone, and give you a lot of laughs besides.
While Max was on the outside, Petite was inside the house. Petite was the greatest dog to ever live. She was perfectly trained, not because I was so good at it, although I think I did do a good job, but because she was just naturally perfect. We named her Petite at my dad's suggestion, because it means "small" in French, but sounded fancier.
Petite was part rat terrier and part Chihuahua, with long legs, small ears, and a timid personality. While her mother would go hunting around the farm with fierce determination, and had many a success, Petite preferred the more quiet past-time of being with me. She paid for that devotion in a variety of ways, including being dressed up in doll clothes on a regular basis, and getting wheeled around the farm in a baby buggy. She never seemed to mind, never tried to run away. She just wanted to be with me, it seemed, and was willing to put up with whatever I dished out as long as I was with her.
Petite was a well traveled dog, and saw a lot of America, including one occasion when she saw it from the tailgate of a truck driving down the highway. We were traveling with my aunt and uncle, and my parents were in front when my uncle realized that Petite had emerged from the camper and was standing on the tail gate as they drove down the highway. I was in the camper part of my uncle's truck, watching the door swing back and forth, and panicked that it would be the end of my beloved dog right there on the roadway, while Harris honked and drove like crazy to try and catch up and get my dad's attention. When my dad finally stopped, which was probably only a couple of minutes, but seems like a day in my recollection, I remember barrelling out of that camper and grabbing my dog, crying and hysterical, and vowing never to allow her out of my sight again. We were a lot more careful after that to be sure she was safely tucked away before we took off.
Petite, as I said, was well traveled, and she made a wonderful impression on everyone she met. She would do what she was told, and she rarely growled or barked. She was simply a delight to have anywhere, loved any attention she got, and was receptive to everyone, big or small. She was my constant companion on our travels when I was small, and a better friend could not have been found anywhere.
Although Petite was timid, she was not afraid to socialize with other dogs. On one occasion, when I took her to the county fair for a dog show, we met another dog named Sampson, who was a Great Dane. We got the best picture of her, sitting on the ground sniffing noses with Sampson, her whole body smaller than his head. That was pretty much the long and the short of it, and winning a blue ribbon wasn't nearly as fun as the memory of that moment when she stood up to Sampson.
When my dad died so suddenly when I was only 12, Petite was my sounding board and my closest, perhaps only real confidante. I told her everything, how I felt, how I hurt, how sad I was, and she always had the right response. She would climb in my lap, lick my tears away, and cuddle in, reminding me that she still needed me, and that she would be there when I needed her.
I keep pictures of my Petite in various places around the house - one in the bedroom, one in my laundry room, and one on my computer, because the sight of her brings me joy and peace, and the pleasure of knowing I had the best dog ever.
I have had other dogs over the years, but none have compared to Max and Petite until the dogs I have now. We are gifted with two real personalities that should have been named Abbott and Costello, if only we had known how they would turn out.
TidBit is a Papillion, purebred, although he doesn't know it. I call him a mutt in an expensive fur coat. He is a typical guy - burping, scratching, rolling around in the dirt - despite his frilly appearance, he is all boy. He has long fur, especially on his ears and his tail, which is always a mess. I will brush him, and two minutes later, he is tied up in knots again.
TidBit is twelve pounds of ego on four legs. There is a name for dogs who think like him - it's called the Napoleon complex, because they are little dogs who think they rule the world. That would be TidBit. Despite being the smallest, he is definitely the Alpha male in this household, at least in his little brain, and he acts on that at all times.
TidBit's main joy in life is playing, and he does it with an intensity that is unrivaled. When you are throwing the toy for him to fetch, he is focused on that toy to the exclusion of anything else. You can see it in his eyes, as he stares it down, thinking, "Toy, toy, toy, toy...." He doesn't let that toy out of his sight for a heartbeat, and will fight anyone if they dare to get in his way. He can play for hours on end, and when you are done, he will take the toy and lay down with it, in case you change your mind.
TidBit is also a greedy dog, and his greed comes out with his toys. When he was a tiny puppy, he would take all his toys, put them in a pile, and then sit on them. We would laugh at him, since he had no rivals for the toys, but he wasn't kidding around. If you tried to steal one out from under him, he would growl and snap and try to back you away, because they were his toys and he wasn't going to share.
These days, he is not quite so greedy, unless he has a particular favorite. Which, of course, he does. We call it his pacifier, because it has that sort of shape, and he carries it around with him everywhere. When it's time to eat, he puts it in his dish so no one can steal it from him, and if his dish is empty, he will put the pacifier in the dish and shove the whole thing around to get your attention.
TidBit is a little dog, and he knows it, so when a big dog comes around, he drops the tough act and is willing to jump into your arms so you can save him. I have seen him hiding behind my other dog as well, trusting that someone else will take care of him in those situations. However, he will take on challenges that he feels he can safely handle.
One of those challenges is the air vent from the furnace, which at our house, are mostly located on the floor. I do not know the origins of his fears, but TidBit is afraid of the vent. I imagine at some point he was standing on it when the air started to flow through it, and it scared him. So ever since, he has tried to show the vents who is boss.
He will throw his pacifier or a ball on the vent, then shove it around and take it away, for all the world looking like he thinks the vent is going to jump up and snatch it from him. He will play this game over and over, like the vent is an animal, and he is the mighty conqueror. It is a silly little game, but allows him to feel that he is master, I guess, so we watch with amusement as he wins the game once again, and survives the experience without a scar.
He is a bundle of energy, despite his stuffed animal appearance, and doesn't consider a lap to be dignified enough for him to spend time on. He is probably the cutest little dog I've ever seen, even in the crowded Papillion field. When people look at him, they usually laugh out loud and compare him to a gremlin, which is ironic, since the gremlin people usually compare him to was named Gizmo. Which leads me to our other dog.
We also have a Jack Russell Terrier named Gizmo. He is a quirky rescue dog who found us at Wayside Waifs, which is run by the humane society. Don't kid yourself about getting a dog there, they choose you, and they come with issues. Espcially Gizmo, whose early life doesn't bear thinking about, but has left him with some emotional scars. In fact, sometimes I think he might be bi-polar.
JRT's have a well earned reputation for being energetic, and Gizmo is no different. He can cross our back yard in just a few bounds, and he is literally a blur when he is running full speed. He is a terrier, and takes his hunting duties seriously. There are a number of squirrels and bunnies that have seriously shortened their lives by taking him on. He runs out the door each time ready to go, and his main joy is chasing whatever might have taken up residence in the yard since the last time he went out on patrol.
He is a different dog inside, unless you ring the doorbell. He will patrol the house, but only for food crumbs that might have dropped. He is always on the lookout for a spare morsel that might have escaped from someone's plate, and he is willing to eat anything that might possibly be food.
When we first got him, he was confused about what constituted food, a confusion that has improved, but continues to be a challenge. He no longer eats shoes, although underclothing continues to be a favored snack. He will clean up the yard when he has finished his patrol if you don't keep an eye on him. He has been known to eat entire blankets that were placed in his kennel for his comfort, and he will eat anything from the trash that is remotely chewable. He has eaten his way through everything from cloth to metal, and I'm happy to report there have been no ill effects.
Cleaning up the yard is always interesting, because you never know what you will find. Finding red remains would be a concern in any other yard, but when I clean up mine, I assume Gizmo has eaten a crayon. I have found plastic toys, bones, blankets and a full assortment of other odd leftovers, and it is a wonder that he hasn't eaten himself into oblivion yet.
Gizmo is the most meek of dogs for our family, and anyone that he trusts. If you reach down to pet him, you will usually find him rolled onto his back, meek and submissive, afraid of his own shadow. But ring the doorbell, and a different personality emerges.
He will rush the door like Satan himself is on the other side, and he is going to bar entry or die trying. He jumps at the window, barking like a maniac, and growls and snaps and puts on a display that is pretty convincing. No one comes into our house unannounced, which works for me just fine. I'd just as soon back suspicious characters off and let them prove themselves, and Gizmo seems to be in agreement on that one.
Of course, occasionally that does backfire. On one notable occasion, a young man whom I will spare the embarrassment of being named, although if I did name him, it might be Taylor or something like that, decided to take a short cut to the back yard by jumping the fence. It seems my foolish daughter might have encouraged him in his folly, but it is safe to say he will never do that again. Gizmo, who considers the yard his personal kingdom, does not take kindly to anyone encroaching on his territory, and in the case of someone actually jumping into the yard, he will go into attack mode. The dog and the boy still eye each other with great suspicion, and I am afraid the cold war will never end between them, which seems to be just fine with them both.
Gizmo came to us not knowing how to play. Watching TidBit play for hours on end has taught Gizmo a little of the joy of playing, I think, and occasionally, he will even pick up a ball and toss it around. It's funny to watch him, because he is so awkward with it, and his play is a pretty solitary occupation.
Of course, the moment he chooses a toy for himself, TidBit is instantly jealous, which means he drops whatever he was doing to follow Gizmo around the house barking at him and whining. I tried buying two of several of the favorite toys to no avail. TidBit is not interested in another one of the same, he wants the very toy that Gizmo has every time, because of course it must be more interesting than anything else.
Gizmo is not a dog with a sense of humor. He is a sweet, loving, meek dog with a personality disorder, and we have learned to avoid the situations that set him off and make him fearful. One of the things that will set him off is the word "walk." When I mention going for a walk, TidBit runs in circles, so excited he can hardly stand it. His body jiggles, and he is literally overwhelmed at the thought of going out the door on a little adventure.
Gizmo, on the other hand, tucks his little stub of a tail as tightly against his body as he can, puts his head down low, and runs for his kennel, where he cowers against the back corner trying to be invisible. He would rather wait in his kennel, thank you very much, and he'll accept the closed door and the treat to go with it quite happily and regret free.
Gizmo does abandon me on one occasion, however. If food is to be found elsewhere, he will follow whoever has it to the ends of the earth, or at least another room in our house. He is shameless in his obsequious attention, blatant in his obvious desire to get a morsel or a bite for himself. Treat is his favorite word, and he will debase himself in any way you ask, if it will bring him the satisfaction of a crumb thrown his way.
While TidBit makes me laugh and he is a cute little bundle of fun, Gizmo is the one who cuddles up to me at night, lays at my feet during the day, and showers me with the kind of love and affection only to be found in the love of a dog. He always assumes I am right and he is wrong, and acts accordingly. When everything else in the world is going wrong, it is nice to have someone who thinks you can do no wrong, and treats you like a god on Mount Olympus.
I have recently read that people in financial distress are abandoning their pets as they abandon their homes, unable to cope with yet another mouth to feed, another responsibility to shoulder. I can't imagine walking away from my trusting dogs, their eyes fearful, knowing something is wrong. It sickens me to think that someone would abuse their faithfulness in such a way, when all they ask is to be with you, and they give so much in return.
I have read that many people in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina refused to leave because they wouldn't abandon their pets, and I understand that mindset a lot more easily. Our boys are an integral part of our family, and without them, we wouldn't be who we are. Although they don't come first for me, my children hold that place in my heart and my responsibility, they don't come last, either. They are a gift from God to us, and we are merely caretakers for His generosity.
One of my favorite authors was the wonderful James Herriott, who wrote about his adventures as a country vet in rural England in the mid-20th century. He chose for the titles of his books the lines from a wonderful poem which sums up how I feel about aminals as well. I leave you to ponder and remember the pets that have lightened your load and brightened your days.
"All creatures bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small,
All creatures wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all!
Cecil Francis Alexander (1818-1895)
All creatures great and small,
All creatures wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all!
Cecil Francis Alexander (1818-1895)
