Hugh Neeld: The Curmudgeon Report

Sunday, Aug. 24 is National Dog Day — not one of your major observances, but some of us dog lovers feel that it should be.

It made me think about my brother, a real dog nut, who lives in Portland, Ore. Several years ago his two dogs, which he’d had for many years, had to be put down because of failing health. One was a female Old English Sheep Dog, Chelsea, and the other a big, white male Samoyed named Boris. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he went overboard for his dogs, but I remember one time he stopped speaking to me for weeks because I failed to send Chelsea a get-well card when she had a cold.

All I can tell you about him is that he’s always been this way about dogs. When he was discharged from the Air Force, he got himself a small apartment. His three home furnishings consisted of a used television set, a lawn chair and a wire-haired Terrier/ Scottish Terrier mix, named Scotty.

He listed his telephone under Scotty’s name. It was the only Scotty in the “N” section of the Portland telephone directory. Before you knew it, the dog was not only getting more calls than my brother, but he was getting mail, too. Credit card offers, clothing catalogues, dating service information. You name it and Scotty could have had it—Mastercards, Discovery cards, low-interest car loans and discount air fares.

But back to the flap over the get-well card. Scotty was a long time ago. His latest dogs, Chelsea, and Boris, were good dogs. They ate, slept, dug up flower beds, dragged home an occasional dead animal and every once in awhile, just for the fun of it, swapped dog beds.

One time my brother threw a tennis ball for Chelsea to fetch, then called her to come. She came barreling back and hit my brother hard enough to knock him off his feet, resulting in a bad ankle sprain. He was off work for a long time, but he never held it against the dog. She was doing what a dog should — come when she’s called.

On another occasion, Chelsea disappeared one evening after dinner. The next day, a neighbor thought she heard an animal crying and went outside to investigate. On an adjacent lot a new house was being built. The partially dug basement had about a foot of water in it from a recent rain. Chelsea had jumped in for a swim and couldn’t get back out. The poor thing had been splashing around trying to claw her way out. She was rescued by the neighbor’s husband and brought home. She did alright afterward, but had a hard time walking. Her toenails were worn down from trying to get out.

My brother was lamenting the fact that Chelsea was injured, but nobody in the family had called or sent a card. When I heard, I called some of his step children in Portland. They took over a box of candy. I sent a card—a Hallmark.

I wrote, “Chelsea: I’m dog-gone sorry about what happened. That would have scared anybody’s tail straight. I’ll bring an old shoe the next time I come. In the meantime, hang this picture over your bed.”

It was a picture of three little kittens peering through a picket fence. My brother probably didn’t get a laugh out of it, but I know Chelsea did. I’ll bet she put it on the wall over her bed like I suggested—right after she paid her Visa bill.

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A question to ponder: Does it seem strange to you that in the '60s people dropped acid to make the world weird, and now that it is, they take Prozac to make it normal?

putterhugh@suddenlink.net

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Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.

Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
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