A Dog and His Chicken Part One

A friend recently told me they found it interesting that I loved dogs so much as a boy but that I do not own one now. I am sure the reason for that is wrapped securely in a sad event that happened with my last boyhood dog and his chicken. Now, I am sure you have heard of dogs taking up with various farm animals and helping to raise them. This is one of those stories. But before I tell you that story let me give you a brief rundown of dogs I have owed…or should I say dogs that have owned me.

I had sworn off ever loving another dog after Princess died. I did not think I could take the pain of losing another dog I loved. But that commitment did not last very long. When we moved we moved to a house we purchased in Fort Worth. It was a nice little place with a big back yard and a huge garage.

While we were looking for homes my mom and dad met an elderly couple that was selling their home and became good friends with them even though we did not buy their home. When they did sell their home and prepared to move to a small apartment they asked our family if we wanted their dog. He was a miniature daschund…a smaller version of Princess, my dog that died in my last story, but rust colored and can you guess his name…that’s right…Prince…the couple had given him that name. Prince was welcomed by me with open arms.

He was a peculiar dog. He had to have a particular rug that had to be placed on our couch every night before he would go to sleep. After he hopped on the rug, scratched at it a few times, we then had to cover him with a baby blanket. One night we forgot to put the rug on the couch. The next morning there was a hole the diameter of a basketball in the couch cushion. He evidently kept scratching at the cushion to get comfortable.

The next morning when I saw the hole, I was afraid my parents would get rid of Prince but my mom simply said it was her fault because she forgot to put his rug down. She said, “I understand how hard it is to sleep in a strange bed.” She simply turned the cushion over and never forgot again to put down the rug. I realized then and there I was not the only one in the family who loved dogs.

Prince also played soccer. Even though he was only the height of the ball, he was able to push and guide the ball around every tree and other obstacle in the yard with ease. I never seemed to be able to take the ball away from him. He would steal it from me though and run it from one end of the yard to the other. He would then wait for me to get it and start to the other end and then steal it from me. Occasionally he would even weave it between my feet as to say, “Come on, slow poke, are you going to let a dog outplay you.” We would play this game of back and forth for what seemed like hours.

This amateur athlete was already old when he was given to us. The sides of his face were turning grey. But he ran and played with me every day like he was a puppy. One day, I walked into the garage and found Prince lying peacefully on the floor. I tried to wake him up but quickly realized he had died. I stood there looking at him for some time in deep contemplation. It looked as though his old body had just given out from having so much fun with his boy. This time I did not cry over the loss of my friend instead I smiled. I did not feel as though his life had been cut short or interrupted by the seemingly unfair circumstances. He had been subjected to a life of happiness, fun, and pampering. Today I can verbalize what I realized back then, “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”

To Be Continued…