 
# Dog Stories

Seven Tales of those Wonderful Animals

by

R. Bremner

Copyright 2012 by R. Bremner

Smashwords Edition

## ISBN: 978-1-300-33813-0

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## Author's Note

All of the characters and events in this book are fictional, and none is allegorical.

Any similarity to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

## Lady

Lady was simply the best dog I ever had. She had a calamitous life before we got her, but she was so sweet and happy and loved life so much she was an example to all of us.

We had been several years since our last dog, Samantha, and I had vowed never to have a dog again. But Sharon cajoled, begged, and bothered me so much, and she enlisted the aid of our son Sanjay to push and pull me toward a dog too.

I was determined not to get another Samantha-like dog. As much as we all loved her and as much as she loved us, she was vicious toward little children, and that I could not allow.

So we made the rounds of the local shelters. In Hoboken, we found Companion Animal Placement, whose animals were fostered until permanent homes were found for them. The foster "parents" tended to keep several animals at once. There were a lot of homeless dogs. We were introduced to Jeffrey, who was part beagle and part something large, who was energetic and lots of fun to walk. My six year old son even took the leash for a short while. But there were a number of problems with Jeffrey. First, he had a problem with carsickness. Whenever he rode in a car, he would vomit. I suppose we could leave the window open, but then if he was bothered by cars, he probably wouldn't put his head anywhere near the window. The second problem was more serious. Being high-strung by nature, when something, anything made him nervous, Jeffrey would "nip". Which is another way of saying he would bite. Even his foster mother, whom he knew well and loved, had been "nipped" on several occasions. That was all we had to hear, with a vulnerable six year old at risk. So Jeffrey, cute as he was, was a no-no. We were told about another dog, but she was blind and very shy and they weren't sure that they could let her go.

The next stop was P.A.W.S., the Pound Animal Welfare Service in Montclair. They had a beautiful looking dog named Mountie. She was auburn-colored and seemed very calm when we walked her. I was almost ready to take her when a tall man with a cowboy hat strode into the shelter.

"I don't know if I'd recommend adopting Mountain," he said. "We don't know her history. She's only been here a week, and maybe her owner will show up looking for her. She might have just wandered off." I was about to leave our name and phone number when he continued, "Besides, we haven't seen yet how she relates to other dogs and cats and kids." We weren't going to adopt Mountie, or Mountain as the cowboy called her. It was plain to see his affection for the dog and his unwillingness to let her go.

A few days later, Sharon, my wife, informed me as I came home from work that we were going back to CAP. "There's Jeffrey. They want to convince us to take him. And there's another dog, a blind cocker spaniel whom Robin (CAP's main ambassador and a dog groomer by profession) promises I can see."

So back we came to CAP, who had no place of their own but worked out of the Hoboken Animal Hospital. Sanjay, my son, was glad to see Jeffrey again. Sharon went downstairs to see Robin at the grooming salon, where the blind cocker spaniel was. Sanjay and I visited with the dogs and cats upstairs at the clinic.

In a short while, Sharon called up the stairs to us. We joined her down below. And there, she held a fluffy, black dog in her arms. The dog was almost half her size and was shivering.

"The poor thing is frightened. See how she shivers," said Sharon.

"It's only because she doesn't know you," said Robin. "She's blind, and she doesn't know what's happening. She'll be better when she gets used to you."

"Pet her, Sanjay," Sharon said, and the boy reached ever so gently to her head. He stroked it softly. "This is Lady."

"I think we should take her," said Sharon "She needs us."

I looked in Lady's face. You could not see into her eyes because a clump of hair covered them.

But as she moved her head and the hair fell away, I could see one glassy eye, and an empty hole where the other eye should be.

That night we talked about Lady. Robin had told Sharon her story. Lady was one of a number of cocker spaniels who were bred by a backyard breeder, a man who sold dogs for a sideline. But they were too closely interbred and some health problems emerged. Lady's glaucoma was one of them, and her one eye could not see at all. As for the other eye, they didn't know how she came to lose it. Abuse was one possibility. Then there was a fire at the breeder's place. Lady was saved, and so were her "husband" and son. The puppy was sighted in both eyes. But the father had one bad eye. Like Lady, they could not tell if it was due to the fire or to physical abuse. He wore a patch and it looked quite jaunty. The breeder was prosecuted for his crimes, and C.A.P. took the dogs. The father and son, being purebred cocker spaniels and sighted (and Dad looking quite cavalier with his patch) were quickly adopted. But no one wanted Lady, blind, trembling lady, with the weird looking eyes.

There was one other attempt to adopt her out. It was not a success. The home had another dog, and whenever Lady would misstep or bump her head, the other dog would bite her. The people returned Lady to Robin.

Sharon wanted her very badly. It was the maternal instinct, I think, and Sanjay talked about how we were getting three dogs: Mountie, Jeffrey, and Lady. So we decided on Lady, and I tried to explain to Sanjay that we weren't getting the other two. He smiled cheerfully and said, "Okay. Lady this week, Mountie next week, and then Jeffrey." I left it at that, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm.

So we brought her to our home. Lady was tentative at first, not sure of herself. But at least she stopped her shivering. I wondered how a blind dog would find her food, but it turned out we just had to fill her bowls of food and water, and she wandered over to them, albeit occasionally hitting her head on a chair or table leg. But she walked slowly and carefully, so she didn't hit her head so hard.

When we took her out to the backyard, she moved slowly at first. But then, as Sanjay and I stood on opposite ends of the yard, she would go from one of us to the other as each called to her, and as she began the grow in her trust of us, her pace picked up gradually until she was actually running in her strange plop-plop style.

Lady came to be very comfortable in our home, and she even learned a path to run to the front door and bark whenever anyone approached it. She was very happy in our backyard, and we even took her to the park on occasion, where she lost the fear of banging her head and let herself go.

After Lady had been in our home for several years, we "accidently" adopted another dog. We adopted him because he had run out of our house and got hit by a car, but he recovered nicely. Hanover fit into our home nicely and built a friendship with Lady. I think when we moved to another house, it helped both dogs that they had a companion to rely on.

The new house was much bigger. Our bedrooms were on the second floor, so the dogs came down with us to the first floor in the morning, and went upstairs with us at night. We thought it would be difficult for Lady, but she quickly learned to navigate the stairs, both up and down.

She was truly amazing.

After two years in the new house, we noticed a problem. Lady was huffing and puffing all the time, even when just lying down. We decided to take her to the vet.

Dr. Boutrous was an Egyptian doctor, a Coptic Christian whose home-office was always open. He loved animals and devoted his life to them.

"We worried about her, doctor," I said "Lady is about seven years old, and she's taken to wheezing."

"She's not seven years old," said the doctor. "Take it from me. Her teeth show her age. She's at least ten years old and probably older."

Dr. Boutrous took an X-ray. We waited for the results.

"Her heart is greatly enlarged," he said. "I'm sorry, but it's just a matter of time now. I can give you some pills to make it better, but they won't extend her life."

I was sorry that Sanjay had to hear that. His brow furrowed. He was thinking. "We'll go for another opinion," he said.

I agreed with him, who knows, maybe Boutrous was wrong. Sanjay was in school and I in work when Sharon took Lady to Dr. Brenda Queen, a highly regarded vet, who Sharon's friend had credited with saving her Sheltie's life.

Sharon called me at work.

"It's no use," she said. "Queen is even less optimistic than Boutrous."

"What can we tell Sanjay?"

"The truth."

We tried the truth but Sanjay wouldn't believe it.

"Lady is okay," he assured me, sounding very mature. "She will survive."

And survive she did, for over a year, through several refills of the heart pills. Even more amazing than that, she insisted on navigating the stairs up and down. We tried to set her up both downstairs and upstairs so that there was no need for her to change levels, but she always crashed through the barriers to be wherever one of us was. Then one night it happened. I was working on my computer and Lady was sleeping in the hall, when my wife came in.

"Honey," she said in a quiet voice.

"What?" I asked her.

"Lady is not moving. She's not breathing."

I have had other dogs in my life before and after Lady, but never one so quietly loving as her. She was special. I was shaken. I could see that Sharon was, too.

The hardest thing, though, would be telling Sanjay. We decided it was best to be straight with him. "Lady has died," we said.

Sanjay was not buying it. "No, she's not," he said. "She just needs to go to the doctor." We could not convince him of her death.

There is an all-night emergency clinic several towns away. They take deceased dogs. Sharon wrapped a sheet around Lady and I gently lifted her into the hatchback of our station wagon. We left Hanover at home. He didn't seem to know what had happened. That was strange for such an intelligent dog. The three of us went with Lady in the car.

In the clinic parking lot, I lifted her out. She seemed remarkably light. Some pooh had come out of her in the car. We didn't mind. Sharon said, "We're not coming in," and she hugged Lady goodbye. Sanjay said, "She's going to be all right. You'll see."

I carried her in. The girl at the desk told me to put her on a table in some room and come back. After I finished with the paperwork, she asked me if I wanted time alone with Lady.

Alone in the room with door shut, I said "Goodbye, Lady. You were the best dog ever. I love you." I hugged her. There was nothing more to say.

We were silent on the trip home.

Sanjay still believed that she was not dead. Whenever he asked about her, I would tell him, but he would say, "She's not dead, she's coming back to us. Why don't you call the doctor?"

Finally, Sharon and I adopted a story for Sanjay. Lady was on a worldwide tour with the doctor to help other blind dogs. She was now very famous, having conquered a heart attack and blindness, too.

Sanjay bought it. Each month he asked about her, and each month she was lecturing in another place. She was performing an important duty, teaching dogs around the world how to cope with being blind. One month, she was in France, the next month Japan, and so on. And when Lady's ashes arrived in the post, I had to hide them from my son.

Finally, after a year of this routine, Sanjay had had enough. "Lady's been gone too long. She's taught these other dogs enough. It's time for her to come home and be with us."

And then we sat him down and explained the truth. This time he was old enough to handle it.

So that weekend we gathered around in the far corner of the backyard, by our old black cherry tree. It was the three of us and Hanover, who gratefully was on his best somber behavior. We dug a hole, said a prayer, and commended Lady's ashes to the earth.

"Goodbye, Lady," said Sanjay. "I will never forget you."

## The Guard's Dog

The Toyota pulled up to the gate of the truckyard, and beeped its horn twice. An old man walked slowly toward the gate from the inside. The truckyard was only a short distance from the Pulaski Skyway, but might as well have been miles away from anything human. For in this desolate industrial park in swampy East Kearny, few things human were present to break the monotony.

The old man opened the gate. The guard did not know who the man was, but assumed that he was part of the family (or a friend of the family) that owned the truckyard. The guard parked his car by the side of the small office building. The old man grunted hello, as he did every Friday at 3:45PM when the guard arrived to begin his shift. The guard always arrived promptly at fifteen minutes before his shift started, so he had time to change into his uniform. He went into the building and the interior of the two tiny rooms, which consisted of two lockers and a small bench. He took off his clothes slowly and methodically, and put on the blue uniform while the old man waited in the adjoining room. The guard did not come dressed, because he did not want his parents to know that he was a guard. They would have worried for his safety, so all they knew was that he was a fulltime college student. They had no idea how he spent his weekends, and the fact that he was out Friday and Saturday nights, well, they thought that was normal for a young adult male.

The now-officially dressed guard opened the door to the adjoining room and stepped into it. He asked the old man if anyone was in the yard. "Just some owner-operators. They'll be out of here before ya know it. It's Friday night, ya know." And with that, the old man was off.

The guard stood in the doorway, looking out at the four men standing around a truck cab some fifty yards away. They did not appear to be working. With them was what appeared to be a small dog, lying in a relaxed fashion.

It was time for the guard's first rounds. He was required to make them every sixty minutes, carrying a clock that he would bring to each station, where he would find a key to turn inside the clock. He began his walk to the five guardposts that ran along the barrier fence. The second post brought him not so far from the men. He walked over to join them, with his notebook in hand.

"Hi, how're you doing?" he asked them. "Do you mind just giving me your names? Got to put them in the guard's log."

"Sure, why not," said the tallest of the men, who wore a shirt with all the buttons undone. "Long John Silver," he said, pointing with his thumb to himself. The nodding his head, said "and that's Robinson Crusoe. Those guys over there," he indicated two shorter men in tee shirts one of whom held a Coke bottle, "are Friday and Thursday."

"Really now," said the guard, trying to show amusement rather than frustration.

"Come on, Henry," said the second man. "Okay, I'm Tom O'Shea, he's my brother Henry O'Shea, and these fellas are Juan and Santo."

"Thanks." He scribbled the names in his notebook. "You guys going to be here awhile?"

"No way. We're wrapping it up now. It's the weekend."

The guard went back to his rounds, and he noticed that he had company. The dog was following him. "Hey!" he yelled. "Is this your dog?" "No!" came the answer. "That's some mealy mutt."

The guard noticed that the dog had no collar.

He was a little worried as he walked to the next station. This dog, with one ear flopped down in front and carrying the dust of the world upon him, might well be dangerous. The guard did not know dogs. His only experience was with a dog named Rex, whom he owned for two days as a fifth grader. His failure to walk or pay attention to Rex resulted in his father returning the dog to the pet shop.

But unlike Rex, who was impeccably groomed, this dog was a walking monument to filth. And how did the guard know what diseases he might carry? He didn't think the dog was rabid, but what else might be wrong with him?

The guard reached the second station, turned the key located there on a chain, and turned to the dog. "Look," he said, "I've got no food." He held out his arms to show the dog. The dog eyed him quizzically, and smiled with a mouth that showed several broken teeth. The guard worried that if not given food, sooner or later the dog would attack him. But for now, the dog followed along cheerfully, or so the guard thought as he completed his rounds.

The guard returned to the little office. He pulled the dilapidated folding chair outside, for it was less hot than the steamy building. When it would start to get dark, he would have to move inside for whatever small protection it would offer against the mosquitos who would visit in the evening. As he sat, the dog came to his feet and sat, looking up at his new friend. The guard didn't know what to make of this. If the dog got too hungry, the guard was sure it would fling itself at him in fury.

The two sat together in this manner for the next forty minutes, until it was time for the guard's next round. By now, the guard had come to notice that what he had thought were streaks of color on the dog's fur were actually streaks of dirt, and that his left ear was mangled, possibly chewed in a fight. The dog tagged along merrily as the guard walked to his first station. As he rounded the corner and headed to station number 2, he passed the men, who had hosed themselves off and were now toweling themselves dry. He nodded at them. Station number 3 was at the far end of the yard behind some truck cabs, and out of visual range of the truckers. After this station he could see two cars waiting to go out the gate and heard them beeping their horns. He ran to the gate, his keys jangling on his belt and the dog running along with him. He opened the gate, waved them through, and he was alone for the evening. The dog barked as the car left.

"Well, it's just you and me now, pal," he said to the dog. The dog was panting from his brisk run, and for some reason barked at the guard. "I don't have any food," the guard said in an irritated fashion. "I told you that." He finished his rounds with his companion at his side.

Things went peacefully enough for the next two rounds. The guard would sit and read, and the dog would sit very near him, as near as the guard would allow him to come. At the conclusion of his fourth rounds, the guard moved his chair inside, as darkness was falling and the mosquitos began to make their presence felt. The guard let the dog enter the building before closing the door. It would be hotter with the door and the one window to the place closed, but at least he could keep the mosquito population down. Somehow however, a few of them managed to get in, and he spent much of his time swatting them away. The dog merely sat contentedly. "Hey, you know you really stink!" said the guard. "Can't you sit over there?" The dog, however, did not move.

After his fifth rounds, the guard said, "You know, I was stupid. I should have used the hose on you. I bet you'd enjoy being clean." The guard thought a moment. "Come on, let's do it now. You'll like it." He walked swiftly over to a hose, which was hooked up to a spigot on the outer wall. He turned on the water, and the dog ran swiftly toward it. The slow flow of water quickly beaded on the dusty ground, and the dog, unable to drink, was confused as he ran around and around.

"Here," said the guard, "Come here." He aimed the hose at the dog, but the creature leapt back. No matter how the guard coaxed, he could not induce the dog to let the water hit him. "Don't you want to get clean?" cried the exasperated guard.

An idea occurred to him. He slowed the flow of water even more, and held the hose with nozzle pointed upward. The dog, reassured, approached the flowing water and drank. The guard let him drink for several minutes, feeling sorry for the thirsty animal. Then all at once the guard gripped the dog by the fur on the back of his neck, and turned the hose on him. The dog struggled to get away, but the guard held firm, and despite his fears, the dog did not try to bite or claw.

There was no soap, but the guard managed to clean the dog with his hands. At first, the water running off the animal was dark grey. Within a few minutes it had turned to light grey and finally clear. The guard let go of the dog, which started shaking itself furiously. Eventually the shaking subsided, though every few minute he would do it again. But he did not leave the guard's side and more than a little water hit the guard when the dog shook himself.

"There," said the guard. "Now doesn't that feel better?" The dog looked skeptical, but he seemed to enjoy the guard's attention, and came even closer to him. "Let's go back inside. The bugs are buzzing."

After his next rounds, it was time to eat his lunch. The guard unwrapped his huge sandwich of chicken, cheese, and mayo on an Italian roll. He took a bite. "Man, that's heaven," he said.

As he chewed, he was aware of the dog eyeing him hungrily. He thought he could even see the saliva on the corners of the dog's mouth.

"I guess you want something to eat," said the guard. "Didn't anybody feed you today?" Looking at the eager creature, the guard knew in his heart that none of the truckers, and certainly not the old man, had given the dog any food. With his fingers, he pulled out some of the chicken and held it out to the dog. The creature gently took it from the guard's hand, not snapping at it the way the guard expected. Once in his mouth, the food was instantly gobbled down. He stared quizzically at his benefactor.

"I guess you want more, huh?" he said. "I can spare a little more." Once again he held chicken out to the dog, and once again the dog took it gently but then gobbled it quickly. "Oh heck," the guard said, and proceeded to tear up his sandwich and feed it in pieces to the animal. Chicken, cheese. bread, all were given over until the sandwich was completely gone. "Oh well. I wasn't so hungry anyway. I could certainly afford to cut back on my eating," the guard said.

So the guard and his dog passed the night. The guard was indeed starting to think of the animal as "my dog".

Morning came. At eight o'clock, his double shift would be over. But no one came at first. The guard was dressed in his street clothes, ready to go home. The dog continued to shadow him. The day guard had to show up soon, or the nigt guard would have to do his first round for him. That was standard procedure.

At seven minutes after eight, the relief guard came. He was in a mood to chat, but the night guard wanted to get out of there. He started to leave then turned back for a moment.

"Goodbye, dog," he said. "I'll see you in eight hours."

## 2

At 4PM, the banged-up green Toyota returned to the truckyard. The car stopped at the gate, and its driver beeped. Inside the gate, a nattily dressed young man left the side of his own car, a gleaming, still-wet Datsun, and walked to the gate.

The young man had a big smile on his face. He wore a short-sleeved gold Polo shirt which showed off his rippling muscles.

"Hello," said the newcomer. "I'll take it from here. You can go home." He looked around, but couldn't see what his eyes searched for.

"Okay, said the other. "Just let me finish wiping down my car."

"You washed your car?"

"I do it every week. Gives me something to do, and I don't have to pay for my own water."

Just then, a small dog came running out from behind the truck cabs.

"Hey," said the new guard. "Did you hear my voice? Good dog!"

"Yeah, that one's been hanging around. Had to chase him away with a stick, so's he wouldn't bother me no more."

"Oh. Well, me and him are old friends. We get along. Did you feed him anything?"

"Hell no. Why should I feed him? He ain't my dog. I chased him away when I ate my lunch because he looked at me hungry. Probably has disease or something ."

In short order, the prior guard finished with his car and drove off. The new guard changed clothes and began his first round.

All alone now, the guard felt uninhibited in speaking to the dog.

"Wait till you see what I've brought you. I stopped at the supermarket on my way here. You're going to love it."

When his rounds were complete, the guard went to his car and extracted a grocery bag.

"Look at this! Cold cuts!"

He opened a sealed plastic container of roast beef and held a piece out for the dog to take. The dog snapped it up instantly, and it was gone just as fast.

"You like that, eh? There's more." And he peeled off a second piece of meat for the animal. Same result.

"You can have the beef now," said the guard, "but I'll save the turkey for later. I don't want you getting sick from eating too much. Or too fast."

The dog gobbled up what he was given. When the guard stopped parceling out roast beef, the dog lay down on his side with his full belly resting on the ground, and panting. I wonder when the last time was that he had a full belly, thought the guard.

It soon was time for another round. The guard embarked on his trip, with the dog prancing along, practically cavorting.

"Happy, are we?" the guard said. "I guess you've never had anybody pay attention to you before."

During the long, boring hours to follow, the guard sat outside and read. It was too hot to remain in the sweaty building. He tried to position his chair where he had the most shade but such was difficult if not impossible. He also worried about the dog, who would not leave his side despite the heat. It must be even hotter for him, with his fur coat, thought the guard. Finally the guard moved his chair to the space between two trucks, where there was some shade, and thankfully the dog went with him.

By 9pm the sun was very low in the sky. The lights in the truckyard had come on, though this was the last round that the guard did not need them. The dog padded along. The guard did not feel so alone with his little pal going with him.

By 9:30pm they had moved inside, for the limited protection against mosquitos.

And so, the night progressed. And went on to the wee hours of the morning. They had established a routine, walking the tours together. At 3:30am, the guard opened his second package of cold cuts, and fed the dog before eating his own lunch. Again the dog ate eagerly and furiously, until his belly was filled, and he lay on his side, sated.

"Enjoy it while you can, dog," said the guard. "Who knows when there'll be more." Then sadly, he added, "Maybe never."

The next hours seemed to fly by. After his 6:30am tour, the guard said, "You know, you need a name. You can't just be dog." He thought for awhile. "You're my buddy. So your name will be Buddy."

And then came the 7:30 tour, the last. The guard suddenly felt a rush of sadness. He spoke to his friend.

"I wish I could take you with me. But I can't"

Buddy looked up at him, smiling.

"I live with my parents and there's no way I can take you home with me." The guard wondered about that, but it was easier for him to reach that conclusion. "But I expect you to be here next week when I come, right?" But he doubted that as soon as he said it.

The dog's expression did not change.

And so 8am came and it was time to leave. The guard told his relief man to take good care of the dog, but the relief seemed not to take his entreaties seriously.

The guard stood at his car, about to get in. The dog was at his side.

"You take care of yourself, you hear? I want to see you next week when I'm back."

And with that he got into the car and drove off, not looking back. He knew that the dog would likely not be there next week. He knew that he probably could have begged and cajoled his parents into letting him keep the dog. But was the dog housebroken? What an embarrassment if he went in the house. No, it was easier this way. He felt like a heel. But he drove on.

He had gone almost two miles when he suddenly stopped. Fortunately, there was no other traffic on Fish House Road. He wheeled his car into a U-turn. He simply had to go back.

Arriving back at the truckyard, the dog, ignored by the other guard, seemed to notice his car. He made yipping noises as the other guard advanced to the gate.

"Forget something?" he asked.

"Sure did," he said and as the other guard opened the gate, the dog ran through it into the arms of his master. The master picked up his dog and placed him gently in the back seat.

## Samantha

Samantha was a psychopath. I know that's a strange thing to say about a dog, but let me tell her story and you'll see.

It was an ordinary enough Saturday when we first met her. We had just moved from an apartment to a house, and my wife of six months was just brimming with desire for a dog. She had been brought up in a family that always had dogs, and now that she was many miles away from home with no friends or family around, she pined for the love and security of a dog.

After some discussion, we decided that a shelter dog was the best choice. No reason to get a dog from a breeder or pet shop when there were thousands of pets languishing in shelters. So there we were at the Bergen County Animal Shelter asking about dogs. There were plenty of pit bulls and pit bull mixes and we looked at a couple of them. The third dog we saw was a skinny ball of white fur with an adorable smile. And right then and there Sharon was smitten. I was offered the chance to walk her, and I offered the leash to Sharon, but she wanted me to have the experience of walking a dog.

The dog was energetic and curious. She sniffed at everything in the yard where I walked her, seeming oblivious to the people and other dogs who were being walked. After about five minutes of walking, the dog went back in her cage, and we went inside.

"Well, do you want that one?" I asked my wife.

"I'm not sure," was the answer. "Let's think on it."

"We're going to think on it," I told the dog handler.. Then I added, "My wife's always had dogs. She's the expert. I've never had a dog."

"That's funny," the handler said. "From the walk, I would have guessed that you knew dogs and your wife didn't."

That night we decided to take the dog. My wife wondered, what if no one takes the dog and she has to be put to sleep. I didn't think they did that in that shelter, but I didn't know for certain. So the next day, back at the shelter (they used to call those things dog pounds, why I don't know. Maybe because the dogs would pound themselves against the gates, trying to get out) we filled out page after page of paperwork. Just when I thought my hand would fall off if I had to write any more, a volunteer brought out our white furball.

She was friendly, her tail was wagging, and she loved it when Sharon petted her. So we were all set.

At home we fed her a little in a bowl. The shelter had given us some food starter samples. We poured water in another bowl. It was clear that we would need dog food and dog bowls, we hadn't thought of them yet! So I said to Sharon, "You train the dog, and I'll go shopping for dog food and some bowls." We decided to name her Frisky. And I was off.

A half-hour later I returned with two dog bowls and some Pedigree dry dog food. I opened the door to find a snarling, angry dog facing me.

"Hiya, Frisky," I said taking one short step forward. The dog leapt back and barked louder and meaner if that was possible.

I couldn't get a word in between her fierce barks.

"Frisky!" declaimed Sharon, who had come running. "Be quiet, Frisky. This is Daddy." And she came up to me and put her arms around me to show the dog I was a good guy. But it was to no avail Frisky lunged and snarled, threatening me with her teeth.

Apparently in the half hour I was gone, Frisky had come to love my wife and saw herself as the great protector of the house. Although we had a cat, Frisky did not seem to mind her (she was already in the house when Frisky arrived). However by my absence, Frisky now thought I was an outsider, to be kept away from Sharon and Tramp at all costs.

"I'm sorry honey," Sharon said. "I'll take her away." She led Frisky to the den and put up a barrier.

That night, with Frisky barking whenever I made a sound, we sat in the kitchen. "I think we'll have to bring her back to the shelter," said Sharon. "I can't have my dog terrorizing my husband." She looked as if she were about to cry. I could see that she really loved that dog.

"FRISKY!" she shouted. "Be nice! This is my husband! He lives here too."

I got up from the table. "This is ridiculous. I'm not letting some dog that I just met run my life."

I went over to the doorway to the den. The thin barrier between us was not a gate and would not hold up if Frisky charged it.

"Now look here," I said in a loud, commanding voice. "You are not the boss of this house. You are my dog, and you're going to listen to me!" Frisky was quietly staring at me. And then a funny thing happened. She started to wag her tail and a smile appeared on her face. I took a chance and removed the barrier, and she came slowly to me, tail still wagging. I petted her and lo and behold she licked my hand.

"It's amazing!" said Sharon. "Now she knows you're her master."

"You're her master," I said. "She's your dog."

Sharon then noticed something, reading Frisky's papers. "She's not Frisky," she said. "It says here she's Samantha Jean."

I put it to the test. "Samantha!" I commanded. She immediately rushed over to me, her tail wagging.

"Samantha," my wife said sweetly and softly. The dog went over to her.

"See, she's a smartie. She knows her name."

Samantha was an extremely affectionate dog. She had a habit of putting her head under your hand and pushing it up, forcing you to pet her. When anyone came to the house, so long as we acted friendly toward the person and the person did not have a loud voice, Samantha treated them with love. My wife's friend June stayed overnight and found Samantha charming. June pointed out the odd way Samantha swayed her hips when she walked, a la Mae West. "I half expect her to say 'Why don't you come up and see me some time, big boy?'" June said. "What a vixen!" Likewise, Samantha loved my Aunt Sue, who had no liking at all for dogs. While Aunt Sue would back away, Samantha would come and burrow her face in Aunt Sue's hands.

My wife's father came for an extended visit, and this soft-spoken gentleman was Samantha's favorite. He took to feeding her most if not all of his buttered toast in the morning. One day he was quite busy and by lunchtime realized that he had forgotten to feed her his toast. He begged us to make him some toast for lunch so he could feed it to her. My father-in-law lost much weight while he was with us, and Samantha grew quite portly.

But Samantha had a darker side, too. There were two types of people whom Samantha hated. One type was people with a loud voice. We had a neighbor whose small backyard bumped up against our small backyard, a very nice Polish woman who shared her vegetables with us. There was only one trouble with her – she had a loud voice. Whenever she spoke to anyone outside, Samantha would go crazy. She absolutely hated this woman. If Samantha was inside the house when Violet spoke, she would growl loudly, grit her teeth, and throw herself at the door in an effort to get out. If Samantha was outside, she would run smack up against the fence, trying with all strength to break through.

Likewise, my friend Bill lived in deathly fear of Samantha. The bell rang one Saturday evening and when I answered it, a booming voice said "Hiya, Buddy!" That was all Samantha needed. She charged at him and positioned herself between him and me, growling and daring him to take one step toward me. I quickly grabbed her collar and scolded her, but it was no use. Then I had a brilliant idea. Just as I commanded her and she came to love me, Bill would command her and she would come to love him. I explained this plan to him over Samantha's angry growls.

"SAMANTHA!" Bill commanded. "You listen to me! I am your master! Obey!"

This plan went over like a ton of bricks. Samantha became more incensed than ever and I could barely keep her from breaking away from me to tear Bill apart. From that moment on, whenever I was to meet Bill, he would wait outside and I would come out. Samantha made my house off limits to Bill.

We also found that when walking Samantha, it was critical to walk her on the opposite side of the street from anyone, to avoid the problem of her lunging at passersby. It often required crossing and re-crossing the street, itself a problem due her penchant for stopping and sitting in the middle of the road. Any road. Like Orient Way, a county road with a speed limit of 40 mph on which people frequently drove 50. It seemed that one had to decide whether to risk the lives of people innocently walking on the same side of the street, or to risk one's own life crossing the street with a dog who would suddenly sit down as cars whizzed by.

The worst was yet to come. My sister's family visited. We let Samantha stay in the basement, where she'd be comfortable without threatening anyone. We had a nice visit with Sue and Harry, and their kids Mitchell, Jessica, and Ethan. When it was time to go, I walked them outside. Jessica, six years old, went back in the house to retrieve her purse. I cannot guess what made her go downstairs, but she came running out the basement door screaming, Samantha hot on her heels. She was terrified and the dog crouched before her in a threatening stance, saliva dripping from her sharp teeth. Jessica screamed again.

"Samantha!" I shouted. "Bad dog! Get away!" but Samantha wouldn't leave her be, until I yanked her by the collar. Fortunately Jessica was not hurt, only scared stiff.

"Okay," said Harry to me when I returned outside, Samantha locked safely in the house. "We'll be seeing you. Say goodbye to Killer for me."

And it got still worse. Sharon and I were walking Samantha in the park, and there were a multitude of people present to enjoy the day. Picnics, ball-playing, kite-flying, et al. There were three boys, they looked about eight years old, throwing a ball back and forth among themselves. Somehow, Samantha's leash slipped from my hand; she darted off in their direction. I watched in horror, helplessly, as a fluffy white blur hurtled toward the boys.

Samantha leapt at one of the boy, who yelped in fear. I was able to get there before she could do much damage, and I pulled her away.

The boy's parents arrived quickly and called the police. I sat disconsolately with Samantha who was smiling away. I petted her head, sure that the police would take her away. Sharon explained to them that Samantha was up-to-date with all her shots.

When the police showed up, they came over to us with the parents of the boy. They were very nice, considering the situation. The boy had not been bitten, only scratched. The police told us to keep Samantha in the house, and their animal expert would "visit" us the next day. I was sure it was the end for her. For her part, Samantha was surprisingly subdued. The other family wished us well and I took their number to call about the boy. Sharon promised that we would pay the medical bills. They were sympathetic, as they formerly had a dog that died in an accident, and they knew what it was like to lose a pet one loved. When they said that, for the first time I realized that I really did love the fluffy white assassin.

The next day I was at work when the Animal Control person came to the house. According to Sharon, he asked for all her vaccination certificates. Then, Sharon said, "He told me that Samantha is 'under house arrest'. She is not to leave this house for any reason for ten days. In ten days, if the boy hasn't developed an illness, they'll consider releasing her."

"What if the boy gets sick?"

"It's best not to think of that."

So that was it. Samantha was under house arrest. She could only go out to the backyard to pooh and pee, and then she must come right back in. No walking, even just in the neighborhood. I must say that although it was a burden, it was not so onerous. Still, we were terrified that the powers that be would decide to put her to death.

A week passed with no word from the authorities. Then eight days, nine, ten and no news. On the twelfth day my phone rang at work and it was Sharon.

"Animal Control called," she said. I bit my tongue.

"Samantha is off probation. She's a free dog. She can go anywhere and do anything."

"Glory be!"

From then on, we were exceptionally careful with Samantha. We could walk her around the block, but if any children were present, we must turn right around and go back the other way. And any time people were within a block's length of her, she would take great umbrage and bark fiercely. There was only one time I can recall when this noisiness did not occur. The people across the street from us owned some type of carnival business, and they were indeed rough customers. One of the women came out of the house carrying a garbage bag, and Samantha looked greatly offended. She snorted loudly and got ready to bark, to teach this woman a lesson.

All of a sudden, as she was putting it in the garbage can, the bag broke. Samantha looked ready to burst into action, but the woman burst into action first.

"DAMMIT!" she screeched, and gave the can a mighty kick, sending it into the street. "F**K THIS S**T!"

Poor Samantha was flabbergasted. Never had she been confronted with such raw, powerful emotion. And it scared her "speechless."

So from then on, the days progressed. Samantha got plumper, her love for us grew, as did her hatred of small children and anyone who dared intrude on her world. We learned to live with this dichotomy, though it was weird.

One night, we sent Samantha into the back yard to do her business. She did not return. After some time, I went out looking for her. I found her lying on her side. She smiled at me. She often lay on her side, it was comfortable since she had gotten fat, because it was easier for her than lying on her tummy.

"Samantha," I crooned. "Come here, baby. " She did not move, but just continued smiling at me. "Sa-MAN-tha!" I commanded. "Get over here!"

She pushed herself up and walked over to me. I petted her as she lay down beside me. I noticed she was not huffing and puffing anymore. In fact, she was not breathing.

I went in the house. "Samantha has died," I said. "I think it was a heart attack." I then realized that she had been drinking an inordinate amount of water. I later learned that drinking lots of water is a dead giveaway to a coming heart attack.

Sharon was crying. By chance, her parents were visiting. I called Dr. Beeber in Rutherford, who was incensed that I called so late.

"Whaddya expect me to do, huh?" said Beeber. "I'm tryna sleep for Pete's sake!"

"Calm down," I said. "We need to know what to do with the dog."

"Take her to the 24-hour emergency clinic in Caldwell. Don't bother me!"

I lifted her up to put her in the car. My goodness, she was heavy. Sharon did not want to come.

"It's an emergency clinic. There'll be dogs with emergencies. And there'll be an air of death."

She put her arms around Samantha in the car and hugged her. Once again the tears started to flow.

My father-in-law accompanied me on the drive. I was glad for the company. The trip seemed to take twice as long as it should have.

At the clinic, I carried her in. They took my information. Would I like a "group cremation" or an individual with ashes returned? I didn't really want her ashes, but figured that Sharon would.

So that was that. My father-in-law, who had many dogs in his lifetime, must have been through this ritual many times.

"So that's all there is?" I asked him.

"That's all there is," he said. "Let's go home."

I was glad that he was there.

## Hanover's Adversities

Hanover has always been a hard-luck dog. It's like the stars have situated themselves in the worst possible alignment for him. Even back to the day he came into our lives, he was a dog of woe. I remember picking him up from the shelter. A skinny, spindly cocker spaniel full of bounce. Though we already had a dog, my wife let herself be talked into fostering Hanover for a day or two, "until a good home could be found for him". Or perhaps, more likely, my wife asked for the chance to foster him.

On the drive from the animal shelter to the house, this energetic creature bounced all around the car, most frequently landing in my lap. No matter how often I pushed him off, the nervous creature wound always wound up there again.

At the house, he seemed to make himself right at home. He gobbled up the food we set out for him and bounded through the house, jumping on chairs and beds alike. Our regular dog Lady, was a blind cocker spaniel, with a deep voice, and she seemed a bit confused by Hanover's boisterousness.

That night, Hanover tried to jump on our bed when we retired. My wife pushed him off. He jumped up a second time, and my wife pushed him off again. This time, he fell into a suitcase, and was startled into quiet. So we were all able to sleep.

The next day, Hanover stayed home with my wife and son while I went to work. My wife had taken to calling him "Handsome" instead of Hanover, and he spent most of his time trailing after my son. A five year old cannot do much with a blind dog, so Sanjay was happy to have a dog that was active.

I arrived home from work about 5:30 that night, as usual, and opened the front door. I expected to be greeted by my wife and son. Instead, it was Hanover, who bolted out the door and raced around the house, with a laughing Sanjay right behind him. Then he raced back to the front, right into the busy street. I groaned as Hanover ran right into a moving car.

The poor dog was in agony moaning, as he lay on his side. My wife Sharon began dialing 911, but someone in the street had beat us to it, and a police car was right there. Sharon attempted to lift Hanover, but the dog bit her. You couldn't blame him. He was wounded and scared. The policeman lifted Hanover onto a child's round sled I provided.

"He's a good dog," the cop said. "He could have fought me but he didn't. Where you gonna take him?"

"There's a vet we use in the next town. If they're open, we'll go there." The cop helped me slide the sled into the back seat, while Sharon called the vet. I wanted to bring her to an emergency room first, but she wrapped her hand and sat in the back seat with the dog. We had to take Sanjay, as he was too young to be left alone, and somehow we squeezed his child seat in. We left Lady, our blind cocker home.

"Has Lady gone out after dinner?" I asked.

"No, but she'll hold it. She's a good dog."

The vet took him in immediately. After an examination, he concluded that he would give the dog a painkiller, then set the leg. It might hold, it might not. Hanover would have to stay overnight.

The next day I stopped over after work, bringing Sanjay with me. The vet explained that Hanover's situation was very precarious. I should be very careful, not letting him climb stairs, or go out of the house on his own, and he should be carried until the leg bone was secure in the hip socket.

At home, we treated him gingerly. I lifted him up gently and carried him outside when it was time for him to go. We all watched him carefully.

But despite all our care, the setting did not hold up, and poor Hanover's frame collapsed. We were beside ourselves. We called the shelter from whence he came, and they arranged for treatment at a surgical center. We took the dog there, and were amazed at the complexity of the place. A nurse took him from my arms, and we sat in a waiting room. Then we were led to a room where Hanover sat on the floor and a surgeon explained the treatment to us.

"We'll have to cut the bone where it sticks out of the socket," he said, demonstrating by putting one fist into his other, open hand. "The leg will then be free, with no connection to the hip...but that's okay, he'll be fine. The leg will swing free in the socket... you just have to make sure he gets plenty of exercise."

We were to leave the doge and await their call. The surgery would take place the next day, and he would remain at the hospital several days.

"No sense in coming to see him tomorrow. He'll be doped up through the whole day."

So we left him. But we called the next day and were told that he was recovering. And we went there anyway. They wouldn't let us into the room where he was recuperating, but they opened the door so we could see. He had a big bandage on his hip and he was sleeping. He seemed to be comfortable, so we left a bit reassured.

We came again the next day to learn that there had been a remarkable recovery. He was walking quite well, though favoring one side, and we could take him home.

"We all love him here," said the nurse. "He's so cute and so stoic."

We got to see the doctor, this time a woman, and thank her. "Give him lots of exercise, otherwise the leg will get tight and calcium deposits will form in the socket, and we'll have to operate again. Long walks and swims are the best for him. Take him to a doggie pool." I had never heard of a doggie pool, but I thanked her and Hanover walked himself to the car. It was almost funny, the exit from the highway to this clinic involved a treacherous turnoff across a busy intersection at which there was next to no visibility. I wondered how many dogs and cats had been injured in accidents on the way to the clinic!

We took Hanover home and he was terrific. He and our blind dog, Lady, became fast friends. The would both run to the door barking whenever there was a noise outside, the blind dog following in Hanover's wake Hanover soon made himself at home and lorded it over lady. Once I caught him in the backyard peeing on her head. I quickly pulled him away and gave him a lengthy scolding. He must have understood, because I never saw him try that trick again.

And Hanover developed a special relationship with Sanjay. The two were always together. Hanover slept at his feet. Sanjay felt that Hanover was the most intelligent dog who ever lived, and I have to confess I thought he was remarkably smart myself. He knew how to open doors using his paws on the doorknobs, and he always seemed to know what we were thinking.

Sanjay told a friend that Hanover had taught him a "pre-historic dog language" and introduced him to the god of the dogs, Olkmo. They would sit on our front lawn and Sanjay would chant "OLK-MO! OLK-MO!" while Hanover sat by his side. When the awful tragedy of September 11, 2001 occurred, we all felt deeply moved. Sanjay told us that at night while he was sleeping, Hanover would leap into action and go the many miles to New York to search through the rubble and pull out survivors, returning at dawn. I think he truly believed it.

So the years passed. Lady died, and Hanover was left alone, but he always had Sanjay. As Sanjay grew, he took over the job of walking Hanover, and he would not let anyone else do it. Hanover used to sit by the door until Sanjay returned from school. Sanjay would take Hanover, or "Hansie" as he nicknamed the dog, on all his play sessions with the other kids, and they all came to know and love "Hansie".

As time went on, the boy grew and the dog aged. We started taking Hanover to the dog park on weekends. Although he was small compared to the boxers, shepherds, and labradors there Hanover would always bully the other dogs and lord it over them. He wouldn't back down from any of them. Though some dogs would challenge him, his fierceness and loud voice would put them in their places.

About this time, we adopted another pup, who was tiny at first but soon grew into a huge strapping fellow with a deep-throated bark. Sharon thought Hanover was getting old now and a puppy would ease Sanjay's pain if Hanover passed away. Justin was a German Shepherd mix with very sharp teeth and claws. However, Hanover had no trouble asserting his dominance over Justin. With his high-pitched barks and a well-placed nip now and again, Hanover showed Justin who was the boss.

Hanover was still pretty feisty and Sanjay was in eighth grade when I took them to the dog park one July fourth. Because of the holiday, the park was nearly deserted. Only one other person was present, on a bench at the far end of the park.

Hanover trotted around, seeming pleased. I lost sight of him for a moment as he disappeared behind the woman's bench. Then I heard this squealing sound, sounding like a dog was in great pain or fear. I ran toward the bench.

There was Hanover, on his back, with two pit bulls on top of him, biting and scratching. I looked around and spied a plastic ball-throwing rod close by. I grabbed the rod and sung it again and again, hitting the pit bulls as hard as I could. For some strange reason they did not attack me, but left Hanover.

I started beating the two bullies with the plastic rod. I swung it hard and they yelped as they leapt away from Hanover. For some strange reason which I will never understand, they diid not attack me. Perhaps they were frozen with surprise. Or pain. Or fear.

"Run! Run to the car!" I shouted to Sanjay, and he complied. Hanover was up but I did not know whether he could run, so I scooped him up in my arms and ran as well. Justin, thinking it was a game, ran with us. We got to the gate of the dog run, and locked it behind us. A good thing, too, because the pit bulls had recovered their senses, and were close behind us. I looked back and saw the woman still sitting there, calm as can be, and holding tightly the leash of yet a third pit bull, much bigger than the others, with a muzzle on his mouth. If he had been let loose, Hanover and Sanjay and I would have been goners.

In the car, I called the police from my cell phone as Sanjay held the traumatized Hanover.

"We don't cover dogfights," the voice on the phone said.

"I t was no dogfight. These two crazy dogs attacked my innocent dog." I wondered if Hanover had provoked them by bullying them. "They tried to get at my grade school-age son!"

"The dogs attacked your son?"

"They tried to but we got away."

"I can't spare a car for dog-on-dog violence," he said. "If you want, you can come down to headquarters and file a report." I told him I would do that later. Right now, we had to get Hanover tended to. I looked at him. He was bloody but not bleeding profusely. I knew of a pet emergency clinic that was always open. I called them and explained the story.

"Bring him right in," the woman on the phone said.

At the clinic, Sanjay carried him in. They immediately took Hanover from his arms, and brought him into a room. We couldn't go in. I had to give them information about us, about the dog, and about the attack.

We sat in the huge waiting room for several hours. Fortunately Sanjay had a book in the car, and he was able to read for awhile. He also walked up the road apiece. Nothing was happening today. It was Independence Day. I watched while other people brought in their pets. A cat which had been hit by a car. A dog with some skin condition which made him itch terribly.

Finally, they brought Hanover out. He was no longer bleeding, but he had a tube coming out of his neck. He was sleeping.

"He'll be all right," said the veterinarian. "He's lost a little blood, but not much. He just needs this tube in his neck to drain the fluid."

"Blood will be draining?" I asked.

"No, no. Fluid. He may have some pus, or some leakage. But he'll be fine. You should have the tube removed in a week. We can do it here, or more likely you'll want your own vet to remove it. I'll give you some pills for the pain."

Hanover was fine, thank God, and he was very chipper when the vet removed the tube. The vet scolded us for taking him to the clinic instead of his own practice,

"They charged you a fortune," said Dr. Boutrous. I would have charged less than half because you're regular customers."

"But this was on the 4th of July. I was sure you'd be closed."

"For emergencies we are always open. That very night we had an emergency to handle. Anyway, this dog is fine. I'll put stitches in him and come back next week to take out the stitches."

Hanover recovered, and soon he and Sanjay were back to their routine. As for me, the Yahoo group for the dog park had some ideas about the identity of the woman who owned the three pit bulls. I soon had her name and history which was not pretty, involving at least two other attacks on dogs at the park.

I found that the police actually had written up the attack, and so I got the police report. I filed a case in small claims court. On the day of our court appearance, we had to meet with an arbitrator, who would try to work out a compromise, before going in to court.

The woman refused to admit any wrongdoing. In fact, she denied being present at Watsessing Dog Park that day. But I had the police report. And. I had emails from the dog park group identifying her. Of course the emails were not admissible in court, but she did not know that. We reached an agreement. She would pay half the $800 bill, in installments of $100 beginning next month.

The next month came and went without any payment. But as luck would have it, I was scheduled to testify as an "anti-character" witness against her in another dog attack case in Bloomfield. On entering, I spied her and went over to sit next to her as we awaited our case.

She apologized for not paying. "I lost my job. I can't find another and my unemployment checks are about to run out." I didn't know what to say. "Well, maybe you can pay just $70 a month?" She agreed. The case was postponed because the complainant did not show up.

But once again, no payment came.

At the next attempt to hear the case, I found her again. This time, in addition to an apology, she wrote out a check on the spot. I didn't know if it was good, but I accepted it. Her job situation had not improved. And there was something else.

"Today I have to go to the police and beg for my dogs back. They took them away from me. And they shot poor Remy. I hope he's all right. When the police came, he tried to protect me. He jumped on a cop and they shot him. I hope to God he's okay."

I did not tell her that I thought Remy would be put to sleep. She was shaking while talking to me. Once again, the complainant did not show up.

I never got any other payments, but decided to do nothing about it. I could have gone back to small claims court with a breach of arbitration, but I figured this woman had too many problems.

I did not want to be another one for her.

Hanover recovered well, and he and Sanjay went on together. It was several years later, and Hanover was (we thought) about twelve or thirteen years old, when his next adversity occurred. This one was not so easily conquered.

Sanjay and I were up at South Mountain Reservation, a wilderness area, with the two dogs, Justin and Hanover, We went on a short hike, but soon we lost the markings of the trail as we tried to keep up with the dogs, who were racing ahead. Finally we grabbed the leashes an started to make our way out of the woods. The length of the hike was two miles, twice what we had intended. But when we got to the car, both dogs seemed in fine condition, and both leaped into the hatch.

That night at home we heard a strange, scraping sound coming from one room. Sanjay came to get Sharon and me.

"Hanover's scrabbling around," he said. " He cant't get up."

There he was on the floor moving his forelegs, unable to move his hind legs.

We quickly put him in the car and headed for Dr. Boutrous. Though it was Sunday evening, we called ahead and found his Animal Hospital still open.

Boutrous scolded me for taking the dog on a long hike. It was supposed to be half as long.

"But he was fine, and he ran up the stairs when we got home," I said. Boutrous was unimpressed.

He asked us to wait outside the examination room.

The office was full of patients. I guess few other places were open on Sunday evening. Shortly, Boutrous called us back in the room. Hanover had an IV going into him. "He has had a stroke," said Boutrous. "He can recover, but it will take time."

"And he'll be good as new, just like he was?" I asked.

"He'll never be just like he was. But he'll come back, to some extent."

Hanover was moved to a cage. He still could not stand. Sanjay stayed with him as I settled up the bill. To make Hanover a little more comfortable, Sanjay had brought one of his shirts from the hamper, so Hanover would get his scent. The dog lay on that shirt and looked forlorn.

Two days later, we were called back to the office. As we sat in the waiting room, we could Hanover's unmistakable mournful yelp. I asked the receptionist if he had been yelping continuously, and she replied, "No only since you've been here."

It was hearing Sanjay's voice which set him off. When he spoke again, out came the same yelp. Sanjay rushed back to see him while I asked the receptionist/nurse for permission. Of course it was granted to spare the rest of the customers from that bone-chilling sound, and of course Sanjay was already at the cage.

Hanover quiesced when his master was near. I waited. After a long delay, Dr. Boutrous gave us some steroid pills and a natural brain enhancement herb, disconnected the IV, and there Hanover was walking again. I thanked him profusely and we were off.

At home, Hanover was relaxed, though he walked with his head tilted. He was able to go up and down stairs, and he ate, drank, and barked normally. But you could see something was different. In a few weeks, I got a refill of the steroids. Dr. Boutrous said that would be the last refill, the pills were not good for him long term.

In a few months, Hanover refused to go down the stairs. He was frightened. Going up was no problem for him, but there was no way he'd go down. So Sanjay carried him down the stairs whenever he went down himself.

Then, in about a year, Hanover would not go up the stairs. He tried once or twice, but he always slipped down. Now Sanjay, in his senior year of high school, took to carrying Hanover up the stairs every night to sleep in his (Sanjay's) room, and down the stairs every morning for breakfast and to go out. Sanjay eschewed all extra-curricular activities (except Science League once a month, where he won major awards) so he could come home after school and spend the time with Hanover.

At this time, a tragedy struck our family. Justin developed massive stomach bleeding. The vet stabilized him, but said it was just a matter of time. Justin passed away two weeks after Christmas.

Then one day, it happened. College. Sanjay hugged Hanover hard the day he left for college. I could see it was hard for him. Hanover, of course, did not know what was happening. Then his master was gone.

Now Hanover is home with us. He falls down a lot and makes messes frequently. But we try to be there for him. I carry him downstairs and feed him before going off to work, and carry him upstairs at night. Sharon carries him outside when nature calls. We will try our best with this dog, who has overcome so many adversities.

## Justin

About 8 o'clock on a cold December evening, the back doorbell rang. My wife Sharon was upstairs, my 9 year old son Sanjay was studying for a test, and I was watching television. Hanover, our cocker spaniel, barreled down the stairs and barked indignantly at the back door. I answered the bell. A bright-eyed, heavily made up young lady stood on our porch.

"Hi. Sharon there?" she asked. "I have her dogs." I was dumbfounded.

Sharon came bounding down the stairs, with Sanjay in tow. The two women greeted each other like long lost friends. Apparently, the visitor's name was Jennifer.

After the opening amenities, Jennifer announced again that she had Sharon's dogs.

"What dogs?" I asked, as we all marched outside to her SUV. There we were treated to the sight of many pups and an adult dog in a cage in the back of the car. They were moving quickly about their mother and making little yipyip sounds. They were so small and quick and identical, it was difficult to count them, but there appeared to be five puppies. Jennifer extracted a second dog cage and Sharon led her down the basement stairs with it. I remained outside with Sanjay, who thrilled at the yip-yipping going on before him. Soon the ladies returned. The cage was opened and Jennifer extracted the two of the little ones. To the cage downstairs they went. This process was repeated until all of the puppies were in the basement cage. Then the mother, who was squirming frantically, was carried down with great difficulty by Jennifer. The puppies squealed with pleasure at the arrival of their mother. Hungry mouths awaited her.

"Well, that's that," said Jennifer. Then to me, "you can start taking down all the cans of dog food in my front seat. Sure enough, there were many cans in her front seat, and Sanjay and I began bringing them in while Jennifer sat in the kitchen with Sharon.

Apparently there were numerous papers to sign. I left Sanjay to his task with the cans while I demanded to know what was going on. Apparently these five puppies and their mother, who was called Spice, were rescued from a pound in West Virginia, where they were scheduled for euthanasia. We were going to be fostering these five puppies and their mother until they were old enough to adopt out. Sharon had agreed to this over the internet. It was a crazy proposition, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut. The puppies were a little over a week old. They'd be ready to leave their mother in a couple of weeks.

Soon Jennifer was gone, and we were on our own with five sprightly, inquisitive puppies and their mother. And in a few days they were far more interested in chowing down ravenously on their canned dog food than they were in their mother.

But there was one pup who seemed left out. He was the last to his mother's milk, and the last, most likely to be pushed aside at the bowls of canned food. Which was odd, considering that he was the second largest among the litter. And he whined often, I guess at being shut out of the food. We dealt with it by feeding the puppies one at a time, making sure that each had an equal share.

The time passed quickly. With five puppies rummaging around the place, we hardly had time to think. Sanjay named all the puppies with very imaginative appellations, except for the one male among them. The whining male he named Justin, after his whining best friend who had moved far away. I have to admit, he looked cute and defenseless, a little round pup with a pushed-in face.

Before we knew it, it was time to take the puppies to an adoption "open house" at a Petco store. But first Sharon asked Sanjay if he would like to keep one of them. Sanjay quickly said yes, and just as quickly said Justin. All the little puppies were piled into a big cardboard box, where they quickly snuggled up against each other and fell asleep with the rocking of the car. All except one. He stayed alone in one corner of the box and whined. Sanjay extracted Justin and held him on his lap, and the dog quieted down.

At the open house, we watched proudly as four of our little ones, Snowfly, Stormwind, Koochie, and even tubby Frederika were quickly adopted. We had "socialized" them for humans, and they put on a big, affectionate show for the adoring crowds. And our little Justin, the cutest of all, was in big demand. A lot of people asked about him, but Sanjay was adamant: the dog was his.

On the way back from the event, Justin slept on Sathyan.

To make a long story short, we ended up keeping Spice, and she was reassured to have at least one of her young-uns back. Sanjay carried Justin everywhere, saying "Species: lapdog!" For his part, whenever Sanjay let him down, Justin would dart around the house, yipping all the way, starting and stopping and starting again.

He grew fast, and got very big. Much bigger than his mother. And his pushed-in face pushed out into the snout of a German Shepherd. That's when we knew what his father was.

As Justin grew bigger and stronger, Sanjay returned his affections to his "old" dog, Hanover. Although he still liked to walk Justin, he was no longer thrilled by the little imp that once he was. So with Spice pasting herself in her sedentary way to Sharon, and Sanjay paying more attention to Hanover, I inherited Justin by default. Justin followed me everywhere. When I went upstairs, he went upstairs. When I went down, he went down. Sharon started to refer to him as my "other son".

And as Justin grew, so did his teeth. From little nubs they became long and sharp. When I was not around to stop him, he would exercise his growing teeth on anything within reach. Tennis balls, chair legs, pillows, nothing was safe. I found that he had chewed the edges of our couch pillows and began to scold him, but Sharon protested. I would have expected her to defend her furniture, but she defended the dog instead.

Justin's teething meant the loss of a number of cherished items. There was my father's easy chair, which he always sat in and which I had had re-upholstered a considerable price. It meant a great deal to me. Justin tore the seat open and ripped out most of the stuffing. There was our antique rocking chair, which stood stately and proud. Justin gnawed at the legs until one day when I was sitting on it, it collapsed under me and I landed on my backside. Fortunately, I was not hurt except for my pride.

Taking Justin for a walk was an adventure. He was fine with people, but whenever he spotted another dog, he would go berserk. Straining his leash, barking loudly (and he had a LOUD voice), jumping up and down. It was all I could do to hold him. And the funny thing was, if he broke free he would only sniff and be friendly to the other dog. But the other dog owners didn't know that, and took great umbrage. Besides, when a dog was on the opposite side of the street, Justin wanted to charge across, regardless of the traffic.

Nothing I could do would make him behave. I tried scolding him. I tried rapping him on the snout. I even bought a citronella collar, that would spray citronella in front of him if he barked. The idea was that the spraying action and the smell would startle him into not having the sensibility to bark. Justin, it turned out, hated the citronella smell but barked anyway.

Sharon then enrolled Justin in a "Puppy Kindergarten" course. Strangely enough, it was Sanjay and me who had to go the "puppy school" with him. Mostly it was comprised of the dogs running around and a blonde woman named Morwena lecturing us on what was good and bad for our puppies, and how to make them mind us. All the five other dogs were purebred, including a boxer named Buster and a Jack Russell terrier named Stafford. Stafford's owners were very protective of him, but he was completely wild. During the play breaks, Stafford and Buster would run about furiously, with Justin in their wake. I noted this behavior of Justin's with interest, and later saw it played out in various dog runs: Justin would want to play, would run along beside the other dogs, but would not actually relate to the other dogs in a one-on-one fashion.

But back to the kindergarten. Morwena taught us how to control our dogs with certain commands, giving rewards when they cooperated. "Down" meant the dog should make himself low. "Off" meant the dog should get his paws off us. Five dogs eventually got it right and were showered with praise by Morwena. Justin got it continually wrong, but barked with umbrage over not getting his treats. Morwena petted him, gave a look of "what can I do, he's stubborn but lovable" and gave him a treat anyway.

Then she tried to teach us to make the dog listen by shaking a can of pennies and then by taking a shot of citronella spray. Buster and Stafford and the others were greatly affected by these actions and immediately got off Morwena. Justin didn't like these things but wouldn't remove his paws from her chest.

Eventually the class ended, the puppies were photographed with a cap and gown, and Justin bid goodbye to his buddies.

As the weeks went by, Sharon came up with an idea. We would hire this fellow known as the Barkbuster. His charge would be $400, but it came with a lifetime guarantee, meaning he would come back at no charge if the dog relapsed into his wicked ways. I was skeptical, but one day when I got home from work, there he was at the dining room table with Sharon.

"Honey, this man is the Barkbuster," said Sharon.

"Hello, Barkbuster," I said. I had noticed his car outside, painted with pictures of dogs and, in huge words, BARKBUSTER.

"Hello," he said. "I was just telling your wife here what we'd try to accomplish. This fellow here " - Justin was seated under the table - "seems a very smart dog. He'll be no trouble at all to teach."

The Barkbuster taught us to loudly say "Ba!" in a guttural voice whenever Justin did something we didn't like. The sound should stop him cold by asserting our dominance. When we walked, we must never let Justin walk in front of us. We must say "Ba!" which would make him stop and wait for us to walk in front.

Back inside, the Barkbuster showed us the can of pennies trick to scare the dog into obedience. When the dog barreled down the stairs barking at us, the pennies method worked quite well. And he taught us to say "OFF!" in an especially scary voice when Justin stood up and put paws on us. He shook hands and this time it was he who was off.

The next day, when I got home from work, Justin barreled down the stairs barking. I reached for the can of pennies and shook it violently. Justin abruptly stopped.

My wife came rushing to the hallway. "Don't do that! You'll break his spirit!"

Justin jumped up at me and put his paws on my shoulders. "OFF!" I commanded.

"Oh, no!" said Sharon. "The poor dog wants to greet you! You'll hurt his feelings!"

I continued to practice the Barkbuster's teaching for the next two weeks. However, it became clear that my ba-ing and my shaking the penny can and my commands were being subverted by Sharon and Sanjay who could spend much more time with the dog. After awhile I just let the Barkbuster's teaching go its way, along with his fee.

Justin had a penchant for sneaking out and pillaging the town. If you opened the front or back door and didn't keep him at bay, he would streak out. You'd be able to catch a fleeting glimpse of him as he darted this way and that, between houses, trees, and streets. Once when I came home, I found that Justin had had quite a jaunt that day. When Sharon opened the door to speak with Don, our mailman, Justin pushed past them both and started running. Soon Sharon and the mailman were chasing him down, shouting as he traipsed from house to house on Astor Place, poking his nose out here, his tail out there. He uprooted beautiful flowers in the yard of an older couple who could only watch in dismay as Justin shook a mouthful of daisies at them. Then he proceeded to pooh right in front of them. But they didn't complain. The old gentleman walked right up to Justin, who played peek-a-boo with him. Then the man managed to grip his collar and said "Gotcha! So you're the playful boy, are you?" Sharon and Don the mailman arrived at the scene and Sharon apologized with great embarrassment while Don held the dog.

"Don't be silly," said the man. "He's a delightful fellow."

"Yes," said the woman, "he brought some excitement to an otherwise dull day."

They made Sharon promise to bring Justin back to visit on another day.

Justin's good heart made most people love him. Despite his size, his sharp teeth and claws, and his ear-shattering bark, his playful demeanor and easy smile won almost everyone's heart.

But not quite everyone. I remember once a telephone repair gal showed up at the door... and wouldn't come in. "He's looking at me," she said fearfully.

"Yes," I said, "but he has a big grin on his face."

"He's staring at me. He wants to get at me."

I had to lock Justin in my room before she would come in. And that's the way it was. Strangers had great fear of our gentle giant. No one would dare to break into our house when Justin barked his greetings at them...which he always did whenever someone came to the door.

Dog runs were his special treat. When we drove to a dog run he would realize it by the time we were many blocks away. Justin would start to make whining noises, and they would get louder and louder, becoming full scale barks, and loud ones at that, by the time we were parking the car. (I may say at this time that Justin always barked uncontrollably and threw himself at the car windows whenever we drove by a dog on the street.)

Justin absolutely adored dog runs. He would spend all his time chasing whatever dogs were running. And if there was a ball thrown, it was a good bet that Justin would get there first. But Justin rarely socialized with the other dogs. One time at the Lyndhurst Dog Run (or Dog Park, as they called it, Justin was actually being friendly to another large dog when his companion suddenly yelped and tried to bite Justin. I rushed over, but the other dog's owner said "Don't worry. My dog has no problem with him. It's this other dog that bit his legs."

It was a bulldog, low to the ground, who was going around biting legs. His owner had been on a cell phone, and came over.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should keep him on a tight leash. He bites legs because I bite his legs at home."

I didn't take long in getting Justin out of there and away from him!

Justin roamed wild and free and loved it in dog parks in Bloomfield, Lyndhurst, Montclair, and wherever anybody would suggest that we try. It became a regular weekend stop for Sanjay and me. Justin became part of a regular crowd of dogs, led by a tiny fellow named Freedom, who though the smallest of the lot was also the speediest. Freedom led all the dogs on a merry chase, while Lucy, a tall thin white creature with brown spots howled. Lucy was the loudest dog I've ever heard. She could be heard many blocks away when her owner was bringing her to the park.

Justin was not aggressive at all. In any confrontation with another dog, he would back down. Sanjay, Justin, and I were at the Watsessing Park Off-Leash facility one day, when my nephew Colin showed up with a friend and Colin's dog, Ace. Ace was a beautiful young Malamute. We later learned that once, when they all were partying at a lake, Ace, in a rowboat with Colin's wife, fell out of the boat. Colin, onshore, ran fully clothed into the water and rescued Ace.

When they met at Watsessing, they went face to face. Both got low. But Justin got lower and spent more time down than Ace. Then they parted. Ace was more concerned with a remote-controlled toy truck that Colin was operating. He chased and barked at the truck. Justin was more interested in the ball we were throwing. On occasion, they ran toward each other and both prostrated themselves.

But after a couple of years of this, Justin changed as he matured. You might have expected him to mellow with age, but that's not what happened. For some reason he got easily agitated, and became downright mean at times. Who can say why? Certainly not me. Once at the Branch Brook Park dog run, he seemed okay for the first half hour...but then when a young German Shepherd entered the gate Justin immediately lunged at him. It took all my strength to hold him back. I am sorry to say that I blamed the other dog and scolded him to his owner. What can I say, I was defending my "other son." Still I felt ashamed for both of us.

Shortly after that, we brought him to the Watsessing Park Off-leash facility. I was relieved to see that we were alone. No chance for Justin to get into trouble. There was a tennis ball. I threw it, and Justin had a great time chasing it down. Sanjay and I took turns throwing the ball, until Justin tired of playing. I sat on a bench while Justin and Sanjay poked around the park.

Two other people showed up, a woman and a teenaged girl who seemed to likely be a mother and daughter, and a handsome shorthaired medium sized dog. They sat on a bench near us.

The girl spotted the ball and walked toward it.

"Here, Annix!" she said. "Go get the ball!" She flung the ball.

Annix started after the ball, but Justin had caught sight of Annix and the ball, and he tore off after it. Annix, having the first start, got there first. But Justin arrived a moment later. He barked ferociously at the other dog, and reached over with his teeth to take the ball out of Annix' mouth. Justin dropped the ball to his feet, daring Annix to try for it. When he did, Justin barked and threatened.

Battle was averted as Annix backed down. I felt sorry for that dog and wished Justin would have played nicely with him. Annix was behaving the way Justin would have behaved a year before. Before that streak of meanness came out. I leashed Justin and apologized for his behavior. The two ladies said they were sorry that we were going, but I could no longer trust Justin in a dog park.

After that, we no longer brought Justin to any dog parks. We did, however, bring him and Hanover to various remote nature trails and outdoor parks to walk, and occasionally there would be other dogs, but they were few and far between. It was safer that way.

At home, Justin got into the habit of lying on this futon we had, very low to the ground and near the television. Sharon would sit on it when she wanted to watch television, and Justin was always right there with her. It was difficult for me to sit on that futon because it was so low I had trouble getting up, but Sharon, Sanjay, and the dogs liked it a lot. And right next to Sharon would be Justin. She came to love that dog more than anything and anyone (except Sanjay, of course) in her life.

One day she noticed a change in Justin. He wouldn't bark. He wouldn't jump on the furniture. He only came down the stairs to go out and relieve himself. He paid no attention to his chew toys. He didn't want to eat, and only drank a little. He sat on the ground, immobile.

Sharon was upset. She lived for that dog. I thought he must have a virus. After two days of this behavior, we brought him to Dr. Queen. He wouldn't jump in the back of my station wagon, which he used to love to do. Sanjay had to lift him into the car, because I, having just had an operation, couldn't. I thanked the Lord that Sanjay was now old enough (17) to handle such tasks.

At Dr. Queen's, Sanjay managed to carry the big dog inside. He handed Justin to a burly attendant, who took him to a room inside. We were told to wait for the doctor.

In about fifteen minutes Dr. Queen appeared. "You've got a very sick dog," she said.

That of course was not what we wanted to hear.

"He's got internal bleeding, so first we have to stabilize that. He may have a tumor. There's got to be an ultrasound on him and then we'll know more,"

Sharon wanted specifics. "What if there is a tumor? Can you operate? Why is he bleeding?"

"We're getting ahead of ourselves. Without more testing, I can't tell anything, and I can't tell you anything. I shouldn't even have mentioned the word tumor. That word has too many connotations."

Sharon said to us, "I can stay here with him. I'll stay as long as it takes. You and Sanjay can go home for the night."

Dr. Queen interrupted her. "No one can stay here for the night. We'll be leaving soon ourselves, and I'm locking up. Your dog is fine now, he has a sedative and he's sleeping. You can call us tomorrow."

"But how long does he have to stay here?" asked Sharon. "He's very dependent on us. He'll be so lonely."

"He'll sleep until morning and then he'll have a very busy day. He certainly won't be alone tomorrow."

Sharon did not think so. "He'll miss us," she said, wistfully.

The next day, Sharon must have called Dr. Queen ten times. Was Justin okay? Was he lonely? Did he have a tumor? What was his prognosis?

"This Dr. Queen is so unhelpful," she said to me. "She always says, 'We have to wait and see.' Never any information about what might be wrong with poor Justin. Never any encouraging words." He was resting after his ultrasound and other tests. Dr. Queen got the results, but wanted corroboration from an expert. Day 1 was over.

The next day when I arrived home, Sharon and Sanjay were excited.

"We're going to get him tonight," she said. "Dr. Queen said he has a bunch of nodules which have a predilection to bleed. He could bleed at any time."

We went to get Justin. While we waited, I got the bill. I almost feel down.

"Two days ago, you said it was 700. I thought that was a lot, but I was willing to pay it if it helped Justin. This bill is double that."

The receptionist did not argue, she spoke matter-of-factly. I could see that she was used to people complaining about bills.

"That was before we ordered these extra tests. And we had to bring in an outside doctor for consultation."

I would gladly have paid much more if they had been able to cure Justin. Just then, the very dog appeared. He was smiling and wagging his tail rapidly.

"He's happy to see you," said the male attendant.

Dr. Queen also appeared. "He's stabilized now," she said. "He's stopped bleeding and has begun to recover. But with his condition, he could start bleeding at any time. If he starts bleeding in the near future, his body won't have recovered enough for him to fight it."

I asked, "Then we'll have to bring him back here?"

"No. I'm sorry, but it will be the end."

"Oh no!" said Sharon.

"Take him home. Enjoy him while you can. Try to make him comfortable. No jumping on furniture, no going upstairs or downstairs. There's no telling how long he'll last."

Justin seemed very happy, and he looked much better. He walked down the ramp, rather than the stairs, to our car. The male attendant lifted him carefully into the back of the car.

At home, Sanjay handled him with the utmost care. I held my breath hoping Justin would not fight being carried, but the dog seemed to enjoy it.

In the house, we didn't have to worry about Justin climbing the furniture or the stairs at first. He just lay flat on his belly. He wouldn't eat his dry food and he only lapped lightly at his water. Spice ate up the dry food that he wouldn't touch. I took off for the market to get some moist dog food. Sharon had me get some liver for him.

Justin nibbled a little of the moist food, but not much, while the liver was cooking. He actually looked a bit animated when Sharon fed him the liver. He ate about half of it.

It was strange, here was Sharon, an anthropologist who'd been in the war zone with ravaged people, and now she was serving a dog cooked liver.

The days went by. Justin remained largely listless, but you could see he was grateful for our attention. And he always managed to pull himself up and go to the door when it was time to do his business. Outside, he "went to the bathroom" immediately, and came right back inside to lie down again. Meanwhile, Sharon went to the market almost every day to get him fresh meat "which will be good for his blood."

Sharon called Dr. Queen every day. She was full of questions and ideas about what she could do to help Justin, but the answers were always discouraging.

"Dr. Queen is surprised that he's still alive," said Sharon. Strangely enough, that gave her hop. She said, "If he's lasted this long, despite that woman's doubts, then maybe he can beat this." I was afraid she was getting her hopes up without justification.

I took to sleeping on the couch downstairs so someone would always be near him. Lo and behold, one morning I awakened to find him on the couch with me! I didn't want him to jump down, so I just petted him. He hopped off the couch and I worried.

When I came home from work, I went upstairs to change. To my surprise Justin followed me up. He didn't run, he stepped gingerly on the stairs. All well and good, but now how was I going to get him down? I didn't want Sanjay carrying him down the stairs, they were too steep and he might trip, endangering both him and the dog.

I went down the stairs and tried to coax him down. His eyes followed me. His face was very intense. Then he went down a few steps to the first landing. He looked down at me with a deadpan expression on his face. Then he sheepishly came down the rest of the way, slowly.

The effort tired him, and he lay quietly on the floor. He refused food and drink. For several days he was very lethargic, but he did eat a little of the cooked liver each day, and drank a little bit.

At night he would drag himself over and lie by the couch while I slept. Sharon covered him with a blanket.

Sharon said, "That silly Dr. Queen didn't think he'd last a week! It's been two, and you're still with us, aren't you my baby darling?"

One night, I awakened to find him sitting up by the door. Soon Sharon came down the stairs. "He wants to go out," she said. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

He was only out for a moment. When he came in, he had a huge smile on his face like the Justin of old.

"He emptied his bladder, Sharon said. "He had a lot in him."

Justin crawled over by the couch and stared at me. I went to sleep.

It was very dark and quiet a few hours later when Sharon woke me with a whisper. Justin, still by the couch, was dead. Blood trickled from his mouth.

"Oh, my poor Justin," I said. For all the trouble he caused, chewing up my father's chair and the antique rocker and all our pillows, fighting with other dogs when he became mean, I realized that I loved him very much and my eyes glazed over. What would Sharon do without him? Soon Sanjay trudged down and took the news as a teenager takes news of death, with a pang of sorrow but no real fathoming of the gravity of the matter. But then I realized that Sanjay had remarkable understanding for a youngster his age.

What more can I say? Justin was mercury in a dog's body. We had him such a short time (six years) but he gave us so much.

## Spice

Spice was a simple dog. Not simple dumb, simple as in "plain and simple". She was easy to please. All she wanted in her day was to eat, drink, and lie down on a warm, comfortable bed.

Spice came to us one winter's night in a van with her five puppies. A rescue group had gotten her from a "kill shelter", one in which they give dogs a maximum of few days to stay. If they are not claimed by someone, they are put to death.

So we agreed with the rescue group to foster the six dogs for until the puppies were old enough to be adopted. That meant about two weeks, as they were already a week old. The gal from the rescue society, Jennifer, gave us two crates for the pups and mother.

Spice was a plain dog, with lots of soft fur, white and orange, who looked facially like a muskrat or badger. I wondered if she was a mutant mix with one of those. Later, we found that she was a likely mix of corgi (hence the thick soft fur) and beagle. Her face was singularly unattractive. She frowned steadily.

Spice was a terrific mother. She did something that I've never seen before, and am afraid to describe it here, for fear of disgusting all the readers. But she did it. And despite the puppy food which Jennifer provided to us, the pups were constantly at Spice's breasts. They were after her so much that she yelped in pain and started to run away. But then I swear she sighed as she gave it up and fell back into her motherly duties.

Fortunately for her, the puppies were eager to eat the moist food Jennifer had left for them and soon enough they abandoned their mother. Meanwhile, Sanjay took on the task of naming them.

There was Snowfly, the runt of the litter, who was the most aggressive when it came to eating.

Stormwind and Koochie were the philosophers of the group who could take food or leave it. Frederika was the largest and fullest and bowled the others over at mealtimes. Only Snowfly stood up to her.

Finally there was Justin, named for my son's best friend who moved far away. There will be more about Justin in his own story, but for now, we can say that Justin, the only male of the litter and the biggest besides Frederika, was the most shy and retiring at the "dinner table", and he whined about it continuously.

Spice did not like to leave her babies for long. She was house-trained and very good at holding herself until we could get her outside. With a basement full of dogs, that was quite an accomplishment. She was very conscientious about it. She did her business quickly outside so that she could return to her little ones.

The one time that was trouble was when Sanjay picked up Justin to cuddle him. Spice jumped down off the chair to which she had retreated, and snapped at my son. She made a very ugly face and growled at him.

That was enough for Sharon. She rapped the dog on the snout and scolded her viciously. "Don't you dare snap at my son! Your days here are numbered, Missy! As soon as these pups are gone, you're gone!"

One day when they were old enough, we packed all the pups into a big cardboard box and drove them to an adoption clinic at Petco. Spice looked truly stricken when her pups were taken from her. She moped and put her head down. Sharon petted her and talked gently with her, woman to woman.

"We can't keep all of the puppies here," Sharon explained to her. "But Justin will live here. We're going to get good homes for all of them. They'll be very happy."

Spice did not look any happier. She looked most forlorn.

They all slept on the trip except for Justin, who whined so much that Sanjay had to take him out of the box and hold him on his lap.

It was a highly successful trip. Four of the puppies were adopted by nice people and families, and not only that, Jennifer made them promise to keep the names Sanjay had given them. "I just love those names!" she said. The only questionable one was Frederika, whose new owner wanted to call her Molly. We don't know how that one turned out.

We decided to adopt Justin ourselves. He was the puppy that Sanjay chose. A bond had been forged between them. I think that his constant whining made a special impression on Sanjay. When he held Justin, the pup did not cry.

But back home, Spice was not happy. When we arrived, she picked her head up looking hopefully, but her hopes were dashed. She continued to mope for several days. We asked Jennifer when she would come for Spice She said that in a few days, a couple out in the country would be adopting her.in a few days. "They keep asking me about 'our dog'!" she said.

But Spice had a definite problem. When she poohed, I could see little white things in her waste. None of her puppies had shown that. So we called Jennifer, hoping they had a vet who could help. Instead, she told us to take her to a local vet and the rescue organization would pay the tab.

The first thing the Katz and Dogz Animal Hospital did was to hydrate her. They put an IV in her neck and water flowed into her. They also gave her a treatment for worms, which was what I was seeing in her pooh. We had to leave her for several hours while the hydration continued. They took a picture of Spice and Sanjay for their records.

When we came back, Spice had a huge smile on her face and a lump on her neck that looked like a tumor. Apparently that was from the hydration, and would gradually go down. "And she's going to pee a lot." We were to bring her back in a few days for another deworming treatment.

Dr Katzenbaum explained it to us. "These adult worms she's got are very tough to kill. And we can't do it all at once because it's too toxic for Spice. It will take three treatments."

"And then she'll be OK?"

"No, that's only for the adult worms. The babies and those not hatched yet are not killed. For them there are pills."

I wish she hadn't talked about "babies". It made me squeamish.

But it was as she said. Two more treatment, after each of which Spice was very happy (I think the hydration had almost a boozy effect on her), then pills to give her every day, and then after two weeks, she was clear. No little white things in her bm's.

But the cost of the treatments and the pills was getting expensive. And I couldn't get in touch with Jennifer suddenly. She wouldn't return our calls left on her answering machine.

Meanwhile Spice was settling in. She almost seemed to realize that she was not wanted, and she tried her best not to do anything that would not aggravate us. She didn't bark at all, consumed her food and drink as soon as it was served, and did her duty outside and quickly returned to the house, where she lay down unobtrusively. I had to remark to Sharon that "She's doing everything right," to which Sharon agreed, "She's trying very hard."

Spice favored her left hind leg, occasionally holding it up while she limped on the other three. . Jennifer ha d told us that Spice was found wandering the streets when picked up by Animal Control (new euphemism for dogcatcher), and so we thought her limp may have come from being hit by a car. And also we thought that she must have been put out by her owner once she became pregnant. But it was all speculation.

Finally we caught Jennifer on the phone. She said she had been out of state rescuing more dogs. Apparently there had been trouble with the Spice's prospective owners. The old man had fallen and broken something and we'd have to keep Spice for awhile longer. I assumed it was quite awhile longer.

"Actually, we don't have to keep her at all," I said. "We can bring her to a shelter." Sharon started to object (Spice had conquered Sharon's early dislike of her, and she felt quite defensive about her now), when Jennifer said "Oh no, don't do that. I'm sure we'll be able to find her a home."

And the already $1100 we had spent on her medical treatments? "I'm working on that."

To make a long story longer, the rescue group never made restitution to us and they decided to leave Spice with us. We were stiffed. We had no legal recourse because there was nothing in writing saying they would pay, or that Spice was not ours. They really couldn't care less if we brought Spice to a shelter but they bet that we wouldn't.

I was of two minds about it. I thought Spice was a really nice dog, but I felt that we couldn't really handle three dogs. There was Justin the puppy and Hanover the adult. Sharon had wanted to adopt Justin because she thought that Hanover might die in a year or two.

But now there were three. And Spice would have to be spayed soon, because we couldn't deal with another litter of puppies.

For the time being, we had Spice sleep with Justin in a crate in the basement. Justin would pass the night, but around 6AM he would wake up and start to whine. Then Spice would bark because her baby was unhappy. We took turns in running to the basement and letting them out, carrying Justin quickly outside to house train him, and then walking Spice, who waited her turn patiently.

After a week, we retired the crate and let the dogs sleep in our room. Spice, despite her weak leg, managed to climb on the bed to relax, and it was impossible to get her off. In time, we grew quite fond of her and her soft fur. Neither of the other dogs was quite as soft. As Sanjay remarked, "Spice was made for human pleasure."

But her fur created another problem. Both Sharon and I became sniffly and sneezy because she shed so much. Finally we decided to bring her to a grooming salon which advertised a "furminator" treatment, which not only dealt with the top layer of fur, but went underneath and handled the "undercoating" or so they said. I was skeptical, but Sharon wanted to give it a try.

We left Spice with the salon and received an angry call a few hours later. We heard a lot of loud barking of many dog voices in the background.

"You didn't tell us she wasn't spayed! " an angry voice said. "Don't you know 'it's the season'? All these male dogs are going berserk, jumping up in their cages and howling!"

They had finished her treatment, and I picked her up in that temple of cacophony. When she was home, we found that the furminator didn't do much good. She still dropped as much fur as before. However, we learned that with regular combings we could control the situation pretty well, and we could live with that.

Sharon liked Spice, but she had concerns about her temperament, considering her one bad time with Sanjay. So Sharon called in an expert, a dog behavioral person who was also a trainer. Morwena, of X Generational Pets, showed up one day while I was at work. That evening I heard from my wife of Morwena's exploits. While Spice was eating, Morwena shoved a big plastic hand on a stick in her face. Spice passed the test. Though clearly annoyed by the stick hand and stepping back from the food bowl when it was proffered, she did not attempt to bite or otherwise harm the stick hand. Morwena pronounced her worthy of being adopted. Sanjay thought the exercise was stupid. He said, "If somebody shoved a plastic hand in my face while I was eating, I would grab the stick and hit her with it." Thank goodness she did not test our son for his worthiness of being parented.

Now that we had accepted Spice as a member of the family (she had already made herself a member all on her own), the next step was to license and spay her. At her spaying, the vet recommended glucosamine for her gimpy leg. We gave it a try.

The other two dogs much enjoyed going to dog parks and running with the other dogs. Not Spice. At the Lyndhurst dog park and the Watsessing Off-Leash Facility, her reaction was the same. She would jump up on the bench where I was sitting and bury her head in my lap, while Sanjay ran around with the other dogs. Every once in awhile, some dog would make the mistake of trying to make friends with her, or poke its head at her. She would turn her face into an awful, ugly thing and growl and snap at the offender. The other dog would scamper away. Spice would then smile sweetly and go back to her resting in my lap. We only brought Spice to a dog park those two times. After that, we let her relax at home while we brought our other dogs.

So Spice became a dog of leisure, heading to a bed or futon whenever she could. And she ate and ate and ate. It was the life I guess she always wanted. Her gimpy leg improved remarkably. I don't know whether it was the glucosamine tablets or just the passage of time, but we totally forgot about the problem and were able to stop the tablets.

But another, more serious problem replace the leg problem. After a few years, we noticed something odd. Spice would bump into things and seemed to have a hard time navigating her way around. She always moved slowly, but now she moved extra slowly. A look into her eyes confirmed it. There was a green film over them. Cataracts.

We spoke with the vet. I wish I could say that we immediately cleared her visual problems, but unfortunately, we could not afford the operation. Spice would be healthy in every other way, well-fed and loved and cherished, but she would be blind.

So that is where we are today. Spice is a wonderful dog, and she has learned to climb the stairs up and down quite easily. She just does it slowly. She has all she wants to drink and eat. She doesn't go out much, except for the necessary, but then she never did. She follows Sharon wherever she is, whether it's lying under her computer hutch or snuggled in the kitchen while dinner is prepared, or at night curling up comfortably in bed. She always has a big smile on a face that we now consider very pretty.

And she has all our love.

## The Party, the Admiral, and the Dog

##

On a hot August night in the summer of 1976, I was returning my cab to the station when I spotted two figures walking across Station Square in the opposite direction. One was a short gal in a very short sundress and the other was a fellow who looked very familiar. When they reached the streetlamp beyond the Square's digital clock, I could make out the woman's floral print as well as the well-worn face of Edward J. O'Connor, Jr. I wheeled away from the station's cab platform and drove up beside them.

Ed poked his big face into the taxi window. "We stopped at the station and asked for you", he said. You were on a call."

"So I was."

"This is Angel," he said. She was behind his shoulder. I could see that she had short, choppy, unfixed hair and wore spectacles neither thin nor thick. I would have guessed her age at 33.

"I guess it would be."

"We're going to a party on West Passaic Avenue. Come along."

"I'm working till midnight."

"Come then." He gave the address. "I'm bringing India Pale Ale."

"I'll see. I'm tired, and I'm not a big party guy."

I knew that it was important to Ed that I go, because he would be needing a ride home.

I bid them goodbye and went back to work.

After midnight I locked up my cab and turned in my cash. Pete the dispatcher counted it up. "Some people came by for you," he said. I told him I knew and said my goodnight.

I am not fond of making decisions and prefer to let my body lead me on the easiest path. In this case, the steering wheel of my car turned onto West Passaic Avenue and I looked for the number on the darkened houses. A dim yellow front lamp lit the number on the house.

I rang the doorbell but there was no answer. I knocked on the door. The house looked dark. Then a dark figure approached from around the side of the house. It was Ed.

"We're in the basement."

A door on the side of the house led down some wooden steps. It was dim but not unlit.

"Mark rents this basement."

There was a small lamp in the corner of the room, but most of the dim light came from a few candles on an end table. People were seated on a blanket on the floor. Empty beer bottles were endemic.

Ed got up and shook my hand. He handed me a bottle of Ballantine India Pale Ale. It's cold golden green power was overwhelming but welcome on a hot night.

I was introduced around. There was Mark, apparently a poet, and next to him was Angel, listening concernedly to him and asking him questions.

There was Neil, with whom Ed and I had once travelled to New Hope, Pennsylvania for the day. Neil wanted to become an artisan working in brass and steel, but in New Hope he found only established artisans not wanting apprentices. I didn't know much about Neil, other than having beaten him in a chess match in New Hope and, feeling guilty about it, offering a multitude of excuses for the trouncing. He had extremely long hair and a craggy face.

Then there was Bob and his companion whom I assumed to be his wife. Bob was tall and broad, with a generous beard. Bob's gut spilled over his belt. He was introduced to me as a biker, but I don't know what work he did. His significant other was Miriam, who was apparently an editorial assistant. She was dressed corporate smart.

"Bob is the only one I've ever met who could drink a sixpack of India Pale," Ed announced.

"Well then, I have to shake your hand!" I congratulated.

"And her!" Mark suddenly burst out. Then more calmly: "Miriam still refuses to show my work to her boss."

"Marky, I have told you my agency does nonfiction. Nonfiction. Not poetry. "

"You work for a literary agent. You could at least show him my writings."

"He doesn't want your kind of writing. Lit agents are specialized."

Angel joined the fray. "You read everything before he does. You give him your recommendations. You could at least recommend Mark's."

"It doesn't work that way. If I start recommending stuff I know he doesn't want, I'll soon be out of a job."

"Well, you could at least talk to him and ask his advice."

Fortunately this Miriam person knew enough Active Listening to let the others talk themselves and anger out.

Ed worked his way so that he and I were on the end of the group, facing each other over a tie-dyed blanket that served as the table. Bob was making himself busy with India Pale and a game of chess with Neil. The other three were furiously discussing Mark's poetry.

We were more or less on our own.

"I'm very worried about Mark," said Ed. "What do you think of him?"

"I don't think of him," I replied. "I've only just met him."

"We'll talk later," he said furtively, and I knew he was dying to talk but was fearful of being overheard. I was quite surprised at his discretion. Ed was very blunt-spoken and he didn't care who heard him. "So what do you think of this Carter fellow," he asked, and it was off to the races with his stream of opinion on life, politics, and culture.

Since I had joined the fray late, it was not too long before the party began to break up. "All right, children, we have to get a move on now, said the Edster. Mark was holding Angel's hand as intoned breathily, "Don't forget to call me. Promise." "I promise," she said, her earth mother eyes looking deep into his.

Ed and I walked to the car and I noticed that Angel Bob, Miriam and Neil were all following behind us. Then the lightbulb lit in the dimness of my brain: they were all expecting a ride from me.

"I'm sorry, did I promise all of you a lift home? I don't remember that!" I had expected a short hop home to my apartment.

Mr. Ed quickly rose to the occasion. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. I did tell everyone that you would drive them home, and I had forgotten to ask your indulgence. How rude of me! Please forgive me."

Ed knew me too well. Of course I would give everyone a ride. But I am sorry to have to say that I was in no condition to drive, in my state of inebriation. Looking back now, thirty years later as a teetotaler, I can only marvel and thank the Lord God that there was not a crash as I whipped my vehicle through hairpin turns on my routes to let off my passengers. Of course, all of my passengers except Angel and possibly Ed were drunker than I was.

In short order and with very little memory of who I dropped off where, only Ed and Angel were left in the car. I was directed down the winding streets of Angel's town to her home. There was a basement apartment and we were all to enter it. "I'm not sure he should come in," our gracious hostess said. "He's very drunk."

To which the Edster replied, "He has to come in. If I expect him to give me a ride home."

She grudgingly nodded her head.

So we three jolly souls ventured down the steps to the doorway, although I was somewhat less than jolly, having had my right to entry challenged. It was a rather unpleasant apartment, with some flowery decrepit curtains on the only window, which looked out ankle-level to the sidewalk, and some fading artificial flowers in a vase on a little table in the studio-style room. I begged off to use the bathroom. Not wanting to participate in their jabber, I sat on the toilet lid and closed my eyes. Their voices came through loud and clear.

"I wanted Mark to meet a girl tonight," said Ed. "He's very depressed, almost suicidal, and he doesn't relate to girls very well."

"He seems nice," said Angel. "I'll be his friend, but I don't know if I'm looking for a relationship right now. I hope he doesn't self-destruct if I don't jump into bed with him right away."

"No, he'll be happy just to have a woman to hang on to. Speaking of which, are you sure you're through with the guitarist? No regrets?"

I heard a sigh. She said, "Oh yes, that went nowhere. That rolling stone gathered no moss, if you know what I mean. But of course, I just had to be the earth mother again and I'm living to regret it."

"What do you mean?"

"He hit me with 'well, you had a baby with your husband. If you really loved me you could at least have one with me." It was when I was the most vulnerable, and the most in love. So yes, I had one with him."

"But I don't remember you having a second child."

"No, there was a miscarriage. So sad. And it was such a relief to him. Me, I really wanted that baby. I cried and cried. I really love being a mother."

There was a long stretch of silence.

Then, "Hey, what's he doing in there?" she said, and Ed got up and knocked. I didn't answer. He opened the door and I feigned sleep.

"He's asleep," said Ed.

"Well, he can't sleep here!" said Angel. My mother will kill me. She's watching my daughter tonight."

Just then, I "woke up." "Good morning!," I said, "I feel so refreshed!" And it was actually true. I felt inebriated no more.

"You've been in the land of nod," said Ed.

"I believe it's time for me to hit the road," I said, taking charge. "To quote Shakespeare, parting is such sweet sorrow/That I shall say good night..."

The other two had nothing to say. "Are you staying or leaving with me?" I asked Ed.

"Going," said Ed.

"Then come on. It's almost tomorrow. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow/Creeps in this petty pace..." I looked directly at Angel. "That's Shakespeare too, darling. Macbeth."

She looked unhappy. Probably because it was clear now that I wasn't the drunken fool she had pegged me as. "I know," she said. "I was an English major."

Ed promised to call her, interested in how things turned out with Mark. I wished her good luck with her Markie project, and bid her goodbye The parting was sweet from that unhappy place, there was no sorrow. And we were in the car.

"Thank goodness you didn't set me up with her," I said.

"Why should I do that? I'm really worried about Mark and his gloomy demeanor these last few weeks. And Angel's a good kid."

I stopped myself before saying "She's no kid." As we stopped in front of his mother's house, Ed said, "I need you to come over tomorrow. I need a favor."

"What favor?"

"I need you to take a dog away."

"I can't take a dog. I live in an apartment."

"I know. I'll tell you where to take him. You have to take him. He killed a cat in the neighborhood. The people around are calling for his blood. They'll have him killed if he stays around. "

At that time I had no experience with dogs. "What if he bites me?"

"He won't bite you. He loves people. He's very sweet."

"Yeah, so sweet that he killed a cat."

"Cats are his natural enemies. Just come over tomorrow.'

"You haven't even asked me if I'm working tomorrow."

"Are you working tomorrow?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Tomorrow from four to midnight."

It was early morning and I was very tired. And I couldn't stop thinking about the dog with a death sentence. "Okay. I'll do it."

The next morning at about 11, I was ringing Ed's doorbell. I tried it three times and there was no answer. I knocked on the door.

A hairy fellow younger than Ed answered the door. Apparently the doorbell didn't work.

"Hey Ed!" he shouted. "Your friend's here."

.

Ed showed up. He was dressed properly in a button-down shirt and casual slacks, a study in contrast from the fellow I assumed to be his brother, who wore a rock'n'roll tee shirt and jeans.

"You're just in time," he said. Then to his brother, "Get Rex."

"You mean Jack," and he went into the interior of the house. My eyes followed him to the paint peeling on the walls, to the piles of books and piles of what appeared to be dirty clothes flung about everywhere. The front room was dominated by a portrait of a man in a naval uniform.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"That's the Admiral..." said Ed. Then after a few seconds, he added, "my father."

Ed had spoken only very sparingly of his family. "The Admiral," I gathered, was one of the youngest Admirals in the history of the Navy. Ed never volunteered any more about him or what had become of him, and I never asked. I knew vaguely that his mother had been an artist of some kind and of some repute. Now apparently she had had some type of breakdown, though again, I couldn't say that I knew much about her since Ed was largely mum on the subject. I did know that the Admiral had died very young, and maybe that had led to her breakdown. Or maybe their marriage had fallen apart, and that had led to her breakdown. Or maybe neither was the cause. I do not know if he was still married to Ed's mother when he died. Ed was quite sensitive on the matter, and I trod lightly.

Ed's brother reappeared with a peppy, grinning German Shepherd. I have rarely seen such a happy dog. In tow was a strange-looking lady with big, frizzy black hair in a shabby housecoat. I took her to be Ed's mother. Ed didn't see his way clear to introducing either of his relatives to me.

"Hello," I greeted his mother. There was no reply, but she did look me in the eye.

"Here's Jack," the brother said. The dog ran up and sniffed me, and licked my hand. I quickly put my hands behind me, but the brother said "He don't mean no harm. Jack's real friendly."

"Rex," corrected Ed. "Jack was the Admiral's name. These people don't show the proper respect by naming a dog after him."

"Where's he going to take the dog?" asked the mother.

"I want you to take the dog up to the Ramapo Mountains," Ed said to me, rather than to his mother. "Leave him off at Campgaw Mountain by Ramapo State College. There are good people there. They'll take him in."

I said "You want me to just leave him there all alone?"

The mother said "Why can't you just bring him to the Humane Society? They'll take care of him."

Ed spoke matter-of-factly. "The Humane Society will put him to sleep. He killed a cat. They won't adopt him out, and they can't keep him ad infinitum. They will put him to sleep."

"I don't see why we can't keep him. He's a lovely fellow," said the mother.

I looked at Rex-Jack. He was panting and sitting up, looking jolly as could be.

"These people around here have blood in their eyes. They'll have Animal Control kill him. It's only by promising them that he's going away that I've bought us some time."

Then he turned to me. "Take him to Ramapo. Just leave him in the woods."

His mother was holding the dog. "Goodbye, sweetheart," she said. She kissed him.

"So long, Jacko," said the brother. Ed said nothing and did not touch the dog. I pulled at his leash and he came enthusiastically out the door.

I didn't know how I would get him into my Toyota, but he leapt into the passenger seat and sat there like a person.

Ed came to the car as people watched from the sidewalk.

"Aren't you coming?" I asked.

"No," was the answer. "Thanks for doing this. I know you're an animal lover. I'll call you." Then to the crowd which was gathering, "All right folks, show's over. Nothing to see here." He walked into the house as I drove off.

The drive up to Campgaw was a long one. My companion sat smiling, not making a sound other than breathing. I could see he wanted to stick his head out the window.

"I'm sorry, I can't open the window any more," I told him "I can't take a chance on you jumping out."

I couldn't help speaking to him. It was a long ride and he was a jovial enough companion. "You know, this isn't my idea. I don't want to leave you up there. It's for your own good." Rex-Jack just kept on smiling.

"You'll like it up there," I continued, more to convince myself than him. I spoke with great conviction, knowing full well that he couldn't understand a word of my monologue. "There's lots of room to run around, lots of trees...plus, there's lots of small game. So you'll have fun chasing them around, and you won't go hungry."

Who was I kidding? The dog didn't know what I was saying, and I knew he was completely domesticated and wouldn't know what to do in the wild. My only hope was that he was young and very strong. He could indeed survive. I didn't believe for a minute what Ed had said about people taking him in.

I turned the car into the Campgaw Reservation dirt road. "Here we are. Fun, fun, fun," I said. I drove up a ways to something resembling a parking lot, where I parked and let the dog out. I unleashed him so he wouldn't get the leash caught in the branches.

"Well, here we are," I told him. "You're on your own." But before I could leave him he put his paws on my chest.

"Down, boy," I said. He got down. I thought that meant he knew the command, though much later with another dog, I learned the command was "Off". He must have been reacting to my tone of voice.

Rex-Jack danced around, seeming thrilled to be in such a free, open space. He tore off into the woods, and I was about to get in my car when he came running back. He barked at me, a happy bark which I assumed meant he wanted to play.

In my life since then I have had many dogs, including a blind, lovable Cocker Spaniel, a nutjob of a Spitz who bit everybody in sight, a sweet German Shepherd mix who died young of massive internal bleeding, and a Corgy mix who wanted nothing but to eat, drink, and lie in a bed. But back then I had no experience with dogs and I had no place to keep Rex-Jack. I looked at his playful face and all of a sudden I felt a rushing of blood to my face and a pang in my chest. "Goodbye, dog," I said and I got in my car to drive off.

But Rex-Jack put his paws on the window. "Okay," I said, and got out of the car. "Get in," I said, opening the back door. "You'll stay with my parents. I'll make them understand. And I'll come to see you whenever I can."

The dog hopped in and made strange chirping noises and breathed hard. "Let's go, Rex-Jack. It's a Brave New World – with apologies to Aldous Huxley." The dog gave no sign of comprehension, but looked happy.

The end

## Also by the same author at the same venue:

Stories for a Rainy day: Ordinary Stories for Extraordinary People

Christian Poems

Glob, the Monster Within Us

The She-Monster (one of the Stories for a Rainy Day, above)

A Returned Catholic Looks at his Church

Quotations from Chairman Rush: the Words of Rush Limbaugh

You are once again the stranger (poems)

##

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