Tail Tales

I'm mostly a dog lover, though I don't mind cats. Actually, I like all pets, though some — fish, for example — don't lead to deep relationships. We have a black lab who might be the best dog I've ever had.

But they haven't all been great. We had a beagle who was as cute and lovable as could be, but dumb as a rock. Whenever he escaped out the door (which was often) he would take himself on his normal walk route, because that was the only place he knew. When he dashed out the door and started on his route I'd walk it in the opposite direction, and catch him somewhere in the middle. He was always surprised.

I had an afghan hound, a mangy looking thing, who was a dead ringer for Cloris Leachman, the actress, and was, in fact, named Cloris. Whenever I'd take her for a walk people would stop me to excitedly say, "Do you know who your dog looks like?" Why, yes, I do.

My parents had a great dane named Duke who tipped the scales at about 160 pounds, closer to a pony than a dog. They never locked their door during the years that they had him, because no one in their right mind was going to break into that house. Once he escaped and was hit by a car. The driver jumped out of his car (it was a Toyota) to see if Duke was all right. Not only was Duke all right, but he was pissed, and leapt for the guy. Luckily, the guy got back into his car and slammed the door before Duke could get him. Not only was my stepfather the only person to whom Duke would listen, but he (Duke, not my stepfather) had a problem with flatulence. I wasn't that sad when he died.

But the worst dog, by far, was one we got from the pound a week or so before my borthday and only kept a few weeks. a mixed breed who was mostly German Shepherd, she was good natured, but very high strung. We thought that our relatively calm home might help her.

We named her Pinky, though I can't remember why. The week we had her prior to my birthday passed uneventfully.

Now, one my favorite parts of my birthday was the chocolate cake with rich chocolate icing that my mother would bake me. (My mother was an outstanding baker and cook.)

The morning of my birthday she baked and frosted the cake, and set it on the kitchen counter, where it sat undisturbed. For awhile.

I got home from school and rushed into the kitchen for an after school snack and a peek at my cake. Or what, as it turned out, was half a cake. Half the cake was gone, and the remaining part had bites that were suspiciously dog shaped around the edges.

It had to be Pinky. But where was she? I angrily yelled her name as I ran through the house looking for her.

I found her, cowering in my bedroom, afraid she was going to be punished. I also found the missing half cake.

Pinky had thrown it up. On my bed.

I was beyond furious. My mother threw out the rest of the cake, and my birthday was cake free that year. My cake was gone and, shortly thereafter, so was Pinky.

Man's best friend? Not on man's birthday.