Posted on
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A Thanksgiving to Remember
Every holiday season, I think of the one Thanksgiving that sticks in my mind more than any other. I think the reason is because it involves a dog.
The reason I grew up a dog lover is because it ran in my family -- not just my parents and younger brother, but my grandparents and all my aunts, uncles and cousins. All of them had a succession of dogs over the years I was growing up. I thought it was perfectly natural; that this was the way it was supposed to be.
One of the most avid and demonstrative of the lot was Aunt Polly, who lived near us in Fort Worth. Her heritage didn’t kick in, however, until late in life. I was in the sixth grade when she acquired her first dog. She and her husband agreed to take a little Fox Terrier named Jethro from a Fox Terrier rescue outfit. Now if that sounds like no big deal, imagine yourself taking in a 10-year-old-child you know nothing about and committing to be a good parent to him.
Like a child, Jethro had his own idiosyncrasies. He would only sleep on the bed on top of the covers snuggled as close to Aunt Polly’s face as possible. She tried everything to break him of this habit, including locking him in the guest bedroom for several nights. I remember her telling my mother how much the new door cost.
Not long afterward, they began remodeling their house. Although the cost was outrageous, it was way overdue and got Aunt Polly out of cooking the annual Thanksgiving dinner for a houseful of family. She did have her new oven hooked up, though, and was given the job of preparing several dozen of her famous yeast dinner rolls for the Thanksgiving feast at our house.
She decided to bake the rolls on Wednesday night and reheat them Thursday morning. Their kitchen was freshly-painted, and to keep the rolls from smelling like Sherwin-Williams, she put them on baking sheets in the living room to rise. She and her husband then went out to dinner. When they returned one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty, and Jethro looked like the Pillsbury doughboy in a fur coat.
Their veterinarian said to give him Pepto Bismol every two hours for the rest of the night. When Polly put him out to take care of business the next morning, he was drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He ran into walls and couldn’t lift his leg to pee and when he walked, his front half went in one direction and back half in another.
The vet said the yeast had fermented in his belly and that, although he was one drunk little dog, he would be ok in four or five hours. Afraid to leave him alone, they brought him with them for Thanksgiving dinner.
Everything went well except for the fact that Jethro was excessively gassy, a fact which was impossible to ignore. It was finally decided to lock him in the garage where we all took turns checking on him and reporting back on the state of his sobriety.
When I think about the special relationship that often develops between people and their dogs, I remember Aunt Polly and Jethro—as inspiring a relationship as any, and I also remember that Thanksgiving.
A question to ponder:
If you can’t cook, could you use a smoke alarm for a timer?
putterhugh@suddenlink.net
Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
The reason I grew up a dog lover is because it ran in my family -- not just my parents and younger brother, but my grandparents and all my aunts, uncles and cousins. All of them had a succession of dogs over the years I was growing up. I thought it was perfectly natural; that this was the way it was supposed to be.
One of the most avid and demonstrative of the lot was Aunt Polly, who lived near us in Fort Worth. Her heritage didn’t kick in, however, until late in life. I was in the sixth grade when she acquired her first dog. She and her husband agreed to take a little Fox Terrier named Jethro from a Fox Terrier rescue outfit. Now if that sounds like no big deal, imagine yourself taking in a 10-year-old-child you know nothing about and committing to be a good parent to him.
Like a child, Jethro had his own idiosyncrasies. He would only sleep on the bed on top of the covers snuggled as close to Aunt Polly’s face as possible. She tried everything to break him of this habit, including locking him in the guest bedroom for several nights. I remember her telling my mother how much the new door cost.
Not long afterward, they began remodeling their house. Although the cost was outrageous, it was way overdue and got Aunt Polly out of cooking the annual Thanksgiving dinner for a houseful of family. She did have her new oven hooked up, though, and was given the job of preparing several dozen of her famous yeast dinner rolls for the Thanksgiving feast at our house.
She decided to bake the rolls on Wednesday night and reheat them Thursday morning. Their kitchen was freshly-painted, and to keep the rolls from smelling like Sherwin-Williams, she put them on baking sheets in the living room to rise. She and her husband then went out to dinner. When they returned one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty, and Jethro looked like the Pillsbury doughboy in a fur coat.
Their veterinarian said to give him Pepto Bismol every two hours for the rest of the night. When Polly put him out to take care of business the next morning, he was drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He ran into walls and couldn’t lift his leg to pee and when he walked, his front half went in one direction and back half in another.
The vet said the yeast had fermented in his belly and that, although he was one drunk little dog, he would be ok in four or five hours. Afraid to leave him alone, they brought him with them for Thanksgiving dinner.
Everything went well except for the fact that Jethro was excessively gassy, a fact which was impossible to ignore. It was finally decided to lock him in the garage where we all took turns checking on him and reporting back on the state of his sobriety.
When I think about the special relationship that often develops between people and their dogs, I remember Aunt Polly and Jethro—as inspiring a relationship as any, and I also remember that Thanksgiving.
A question to ponder:
If you can’t cook, could you use a smoke alarm for a timer?
putterhugh@suddenlink.net
Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
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