Dog in the Florida Swamps

            We always took our time when naming a brand new puppy. We would wait awhile, watching and learning the ins and outs of the little soul that had become the newest member of the family. Sometimes the name would come instantly, like “Goof” when he came to us. There was no question, he was the goofiest, most lovable male we had ever had. “Kissee” smothered every one she met with wet sloppy kisses from the moment she was picked up at the breeders. “Pork” was the piggiest little Boston, shoving his way into the food bowl, vacuuming down the food, and so, he became known as what he was. Dog’s mom’s call name was “Booger” and she was one. Now with “Dog” there was never any particular name that came to mind.

            Where’s the puppy? we would ask. “Did you let the “dog” out? “Bring me the pup” we would say when we wanted to cuddle him in bed. A little neighbor girl, all of about three years old used to knock on the door to ask “Can PigDog come out to play?” So, all his life, he became “Dog.” He had all of the stubborn traits of his mother but was extremely smart. Training him to wear a collar wasn’t so bad, but the leash was not his idea of what any respectable puppy should have to bear. Trying to walk him up the street, me out front, leash falling behind, Dog, with all four paws stretched out, slithering on his belly, would be gathering a great pile of leaves as we progressed up the street. That was in Atlanta. One time when Sam was fishing from the rocks on the river near Atlanta, for some unknown reason Dog jumped or slipped into the river, and started to drift away, paddling furiously, soon to be followed by Sam, who jumped in fully dressed to save his sorry butt! .