DOGS’ TALE
Our family has had two great dogs, Whitey and Millie. Whitey was my family’s second dog, an SPCA adoption. Buy first came Max, more about her later. My wife Joni found him at the SPCA and inquired about adopting him. The whole family had to drop what they were doing; I had to leave work, and my daughter Annie had to be pulled from recess, to check him out. He was about a year old and met all the qualifications, already house-broken and could tolerate cats. They paraded their test cat before Whitey to assure us he would get along with our cat Stimpy. We took this little white ball of fur home, and he’s been a great dog. He had his weaknesses, but as long as we keep the bathroom doors closed so he can’t chew up the trash, and the litter box for the cats picked up so he can’t chew other things, he’s a great pup.
After Whitey we had another fantastic dog, Millie who was with us fourteen years and who I greatly miss.
While I was growing up we also had a dog and his name was Spoofy or Pook for short. Just like Whitey, Pook was not our first family dog. In the case of my own family, the first dog we had was Maxine, or Max for short. My wife worked with a woman and her brother’s dog had pups. The mom was a pure bread German shorthaired pointer, but a dog apparently got over the fence, so the pups had no papers. We picked Max because she was the quietest pup of the litter. About a week after we brought her home we found out that her calmness was due to a full-blown case of worms. Once cured of the worms she was never the same. Unfortunately, Max never became a pet, too high strung and always wanting to roam. Our dog Whitey follows the example of our cats and sleeps most of the time, except when there is a thunderstorm. Max never stood still. We have a large backyard, and Max was constantly going under the fence into the neighboring gully. She was a hunting dog. When our neighbor put up a chicken coup next to our back fence that really got Max’s attention. She sometimes would stay overnight in the gully after crawling under the fence. Then one day, she managed to get herself hit by a car. My wife saw Max in the gully covered in blood. When she was around our family she was constantly jumping on everyone. I had to lock her in her cage when my wife came home from work for she would jump all over Joni as if Joni had been gone for years and not only twelve hours.
Then came that fateful Sunday. My wife was at work, and I was working in my garden. Annie and Lynn were in the backyard playing with Max when a neighbor from a few housed down brought her daughter Ashley, a friend of Annie’s, over and asked if Ashley could play with my girls. I said sure, the mom left, and I went back to my garden. Soon I heard a blood-curdling scream and looked up to see Ashley holding her face. Max had bitten her through her cheek and into her gum. I ran the little girl back to her house and that’s when I met her black Lab for the first time. Her dog was thankfully calmer than Max. I then met her father, the lawyer, for the first time that thankfully was calmer than most lawyers. Ashley finally removed her hand from her face, and it appeared as if someone had painted the bottom of her face with red paint. Ashley’s parents took her to the hospital immediately, the same hospital where Joni was working her weekend as an R.N. I called Joni and told her what had happened and she said she would go to the emergency room to meet them. I eventually found out what had happened. My neighbor, who saw what had occurred said that Ashley was holding a stick up and teasing Max. Max went for the stick, her aim was bad and got Ashley in the face.
We had to isolate Max for ten days in the garage and then Joni took him to the SPCA for adoption. After that experience I never thought we would have another dog but with Whitey we really got a great pup.
TO BE CONTINUED
February 5, 2026 at 3:49 pm
From the moment we take our first breath we are terminal, that’s reality. It is what we do between that first breath and the last that is important. Life is a crapshoot. I was reading the obituaries one morning, you do that as you age, when on the same page I found one for a four year old boy and one for a 103 year old woman. If that doesn’t make one stop to ponder this gift we call life, nothing will.
Back to the subject of this article. As I sit here writing I can hear the coughing and wheezing of our asthmatic cat, Sally. I’ve never been a cat person. I’m a dog person and love the companionship and love a canine returns. I find cats to be aloof and wanting only your service. You fulfill their needs and then you get that look, ‘You can leave now’. But as with all generalities, there are the exceptions that prove you wrong.
My family has a history of owning cats, primarily due to my daughter, Lynn. That history began with a pure white kitten name Stimpy. He was found standing next to his dead mother, a recent victim of a run in with a car. So young, he needed to be fed with a bottle. The woman who found him, my wife’s coworker, discovered she was allergic to cats so we adopted him.
Perhaps due to his early association with humans, he was extremely sociable, wanting to be where the action was. Our neighbor swore that Stimpy was unaware he was a feline and chose to be human. As with most of our cats, Stimpy developed health issues, three years of injections for diabetes and finally succumbed to a mouth tumor.
Then there was Zosia, Polish for Sophie, the name of my beloved aunt, Auntie Zosia. This mature cat walked up to my wife and Lynn while they stood in a schoolyard. After many attempts to locate the owner with no results, she stayed but not for long. Zosia developed a lung tumor and went downhill fast. A prolonged stay with the veterinarian was little help. I took Lynn with me to bring Zosia home and was presented with a bill for $450. With a shaky hand I made out the check. Lynn could tell I was more than surprised. Sensing my shock, she looked up at me, she was about eight or nine at the time, and said, “Would you rather she died?” Lynn could always, and still does, tell it like it is. Zosia died, then our dog, Whitey, died and we were left pet less.
After a while, Lynn decided that condition needed to be remedied and one Sunday afternoon she and my wife visited the local SPCA. There Lynn found ‘The Kitten’ and named her Lucy. Due to a bureaucratic detail, Lucy could not come home until Monday. Monday afternoon I took Lynn to pick up Lucy, but Lucy had been adopted. There was supposed to be a hold on the kitten, but she was gone. Lynn lost it there at the SPCA. I suggested a look at the remaining kittens and, with a tearful Lynn, went to have a look. That’s when Sally came into our life.
Lynn chose the names based on Charlie Brown characters and Lucy was gone and could not be replaced, hence Sally. That was 14 years ago. Sally is a grey tabby with a white-tipped tail. Late last year she began losing weight; asthma has plagued her for years. A trip to the vet diagnosed renal failure with the prognosis of not making it to the New Year, but Sally proved the vet wrong and continues to hang in there. Due to her kidney problems she now resembles a holocaust survivor, skin covering bones, but is active and constantly hungry.
Whenever I sit in my recliner she will jump into my lap and look up with her big green eyes thanking me for the care and love.
I still don’t consider myself a ‘cat person’ but I’ve become a ‘Sally person’. I’ll miss her when she’s gone, but I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere soon.
Then there’s Sammy. . .
Here’s Sally
May 29, 2014 at 8:55 pm
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