Pet Stories

SAMOYED - SITKA  - Published September 26 1991 in the Wichita (Ks) Eagle       
 
Sitka, a beautiful white Samoyed, came to us in 1984 to fill the ache left in our hearts when our 9-year-old friend Brandy, a St. Bernard-German Shepherd, died.
 
Although a house dog, Sitka loves the outdoors and happily lies in the snow, kept warm by his special fur.  He would fail as a watchdog because he sees all people as someone to love.  His size would deter the casual observer, but the neighborhood children soon learned that he is friendly, with fur as soft as a powder puff. 
 
As a house dog, Sitka has perfected the soulful look which makes it difficult to refuse him our "last bite", or a tidbit here, a goodie there.  When visiting the vet, we always weigh Sitka on the step-on scales to be sure he doesn't become overweight. 
 
On one such visit, I told Sitka to step on the scales.  I then leaned back to read the digital numbers.  However, another pet owner, observing us, commented, "He has one foot on the floor."  So I lifted the errant foot onto the scales and prepared again to read the weight.  The observer said, 'Now he's leaning against the wall."  This time I told Sitka to "lay" and was finally able to get a true reading, with nothing hanging over .  By now we were all laughing at a dog trying to disguise his weight much as a person might.
 
While walking around the neighborhood recently, Sitka was 'kicking a tree' when he noticed something brown, partially hidden by high grass.  While still tree-legged, he adopted a hunter's stance, then cautiously lowered his fourth leg before leaping onto the brown intruder.  All this time I was at the other end of his leash, silently chuckling as he attacked a brown cardboard box. 
 
Almost every evening Sitka sits near my husband, then puts one paw and his chin on the Lazyboy arm. This is a signal for Lew to lean back and put the footrest forward, so our 75-pound ball of fur, who thinks he is a lap dog, can jump into the middle of Lew's lap for his nightly scratch and rub. 
 
Sitka also has a signal for me.  He rummages through a basket of toys and tennis balls to find just the right ball, which he then carries to drop in my lap to tell me he wants to go outside.  Surprisingly, he never jumps in my lap and he never drops a ball in Lew's lap.
 
Sitka is a perfect traveler, always accompanying us on trips to visit relatives and his doggie friends as well as camping trips to Cheney Reservoir, the Hacienda RV Park & Casino in Las Vegas, Nev., and many other diverse campsites.  His longest trip was up the West Coast, through Canada and on to Alaska where his ancestors from Russia had been reindeer herders and sled dogs.
 
Since Sitka makes friends wherever we stop,we've had a lot of interesting visits with people around the country, usually started by someone saying, "Such a beautiful dog!  What kind is he?"

BRANDY - published June 4, 1992 in the Wichita Eagle
 
Brandy, a 140-pound combination St. Bernard and German Shepherd, became our companion as a puppy and was until he died of a heart attack nine years later.  He was larger than either of his parents, who belonged to a farmer near Hugoton, Ks.  However, he had distinct characteristics of both, such as one stand-up ear and one that flopped except when he became excited.  
 
We suggested to our teenage daughter the project of a complete name to incorporate his ancestry, coloring and size.  Using the dictionary, an atlas and encyclopedias, she christened him Brandenburg Johann Von Switzerklein, meaning:
 
Brandenburg - a historic division of Germany.  Shortened to Brandy, to indicate his coloring and the possible ingredient carried by the rescue dogs in the Swiss Alps.
 
Johann - German version of John, which means gracious gift.
 
Von - German title of nobility.
 
Switzer - referring to the origin of the St. Bernard.
 
Klein - a derivative nickname (i.e. opposite), since klein is German for small.
 
Brandy learned to recognize the sweeper attachment sound, and would come running to nudge me for his own personal grooming.  Baths, however, were a different matter.  I would coax him into the bathroom, get the door shut and then argue with him until he got into the tub.  Sometimes he tried to hide, or dug in his heels at the bathroom door.  Then I had to call on my husband for reinforcement. 
 
Although he was basically gentle, Brandy had a bark that deterred adults at our door until they had our assurance of safety.  However, at Halloween, he knew the callers were children, even in their strange faces, and he would run to the door at each ring to say hello, and maybe be offered a bite of candy.  Even with a head the size of a small dog and a mouth opening like a cavern, he would take one peanut from a small outstretched hand and commence chewing as if he had a hamburger in there.
 
The longer Brandy lived with us, the more protective he became, to the extent that should our children (now grown) came to the house while we napped on the couch, they didn't get past the kitchen and had to wake us by shouting our name.  He did not like conflict and would push himself between two people, whether they were scuffling or hugging; and my husband didn't dare give me a pat on the backside or sit too close if we were both on the couch.
 
When Brandy stood on his hind legs to greet people, his front paws were on their shoulders, and they were looking eye-to-eye.  But when he played with his buddy, a small poodle named Beau-Jacques, he laid down to give Beau more advantages for nose-to-nose contact.  Although he was a house dog, he only broke one vase and one coffee cup, with a long tail that became too exuberant.
 
Standing on all fours, he could rest his head on the table and could see the countertops, but he never helped himself, even to meat left out to thaw, except for one incident when he was an overgrown puppy.  My husband was late for supper and his plate, with a pork chop, was on the counter.  I left the kitchen and then heard "chomp chomp."  I ran back, but of course it was too late.  All I said was, "On no, Brandy,"  but he was ashamed and heartbroken and never did it again.
 
One evening after dark, we were at home watching TV and I was doing laundry.  There were three vehicles in the driveway and open-front garage.  Lights in the living room were visible from the front porch, and the laundry room lights could be seen from the driveway.  Brandy was lying at the picture window, his nose parting the drapes so he could see outside.
 
Everything indicated someone was home, so after reviewing the circumstances we feel Brandy saved us from a robbery or worse.  There was a loud knock at the front door (although we have a doorbell) and immediately Brandy gave one of his long, drawn-out "wraulfs," raised up and started for the door.  Lew told Brandy to "stay" while he opened the door, but no one was there.  Lew went to the end of the porch and watched while a car, with no lights, moved West to the end of the block and then turned North, finally switching on its lights.
 
When Brandy died, we lost a beloved family member, never to be forgotten nor replaced, but leaving our hearts full of love for the next pet to join our household.
 

 
BEAU JACQUES - Published November 25, 1993 in the Wichita Eagle
 
Beau Jacques, a small poodle, was a faithful friend and companion of my mother-in-law, moving with her from Wichita to Arkansas City, Kansas, and then to Albuquerque, where he died at age 14.
 
Beau was uniquely spotted black and white when born but soon became prematurely gray and white.  He still attracted a lot of attention, to the extent that strangers would stop them on their daily walk, to inquire about Beau's origins, and sometimes to ask if he might be for sale - to which Mom replied with a definite "NO".       
 
Around the neighborhood, Beau had many human friends, including Mrs. Langford, who would doggy-sit him when Mom was visiting out of state.  Several times Mrs. Langford telephoned Mom, and during their conversations, would have Beau listen in.  She took a picture of him with his head cocked at the phone and a puzzled look on his face.
 
When Mom and Beau visited us, Beau at 20 pounds and Brandy, our 140-pound Shepherd-St Bernard combination, had a great time playing and chasing each other through the house.  However, when it was time to get some attention and petting, jealousy reared its doggy head.  Finally, to keep everyone happy, we would pet Beau to our right side, from our seat on the couch, and with the other hand, pet Brandy lying on the floor to our left side, so they could not see each other.  One person trying to walk the two dogs had quite an experience, since Brandy could pull like a horse, and Beau's little legs went 90 miles per hour trying to keep up.
 
Beau had some unusual eating habits, thinking that anything humans ate was good enough for him.  Once he took a hot pepper out of Mom's plate on her lap, and then had to have his mouth rubbed with butter and water inside and out to relieve the burning.
 
Since Mom has always been allergic to regular tomatoes, one year she decided to grow her own non-acid variety out by the alley.  However, just about the time one was ready for picking, it would come up missing.  Mom, in her mind, was blaming some children down the alley, until the day she caught Beau helping himself. 
 
Another favorite treat of Beau's was ice cubes, especially when Mom would give him what was left after she finished a cold glass of tea.  He would usually lick and chew until the cubes were gone, but sometimes when there were extras, he would take the remainders and bury them in the back yard.   We always wished we could see his reaction when he tried to dig up one of his ice cubes - probably one of those puzzled looks.
 
 

PRETTYBOY - Published February 1993 in the Wichita Eagle
 
Are all parakeets named Prettyboy?  When reading a recent letter from "David"  to "Dear Abby", I was reminded of our Prettyboy.
 
Prettyboy was a house bird rather than a cage bird.  He did eat birdseed in the cage, but he preferred to sit on my shoulder, waiting for the exact moment I put a spoonful to my mouth, then to hop on my hand and help himself.  Another favorite eating spot was a bowl of cracked pecans, where he could peck at the missed nutmeats.  Any empty shells, he tossed out.  But nutmeats are not good for bird tummies, so we learned to hide the shells.
 
During our card games, Prettyboy liked to kibitz and check out any food.    As he hopped or flew around the table, he tended to scatter ashes, and of course, some of our guests weren't quite as tolerant of such goings-on as we were.
 
Although we kept water in the cage, Prettyboy also tried to share my tea or pop, hanging upside down on the glass rim to sip - until I caught him.  He never learned to bathe in his cage.  Instead, I made a cup of my hands under the kitchen faucet, so he could sit on one hand and lean over to splash himself with water, or sometimes sit in the water for an overall cleansing.  Nothing is as soft as the head of a small bird rubbing your hand.
 
When my husband came in the back door and through the kitchen, he learned to duck, because Prettyboy always made a beeline from the living room to the kitchen to greet him and they had a few collisions.  Once Prettyboy got in the refrigerator to look for goodies while I had the door open to find things for supper.  Luckily, I missed him and got him back out immediately.  Another time he was riding as usual on my shoulder, when I forgot and went onto the front porch to see about the mail.  I was so thankful he didn't decide to check his wings, as I hurriedly but calmly got back inside the house.
 
At bedtime we had to trick him into his cage by pretending to go to the kitchen, then surprising him standing at the cage door long enough to get the door shut.
 
And yes, David, when Prettyboy died, I cried.

HAMSTERS - published Dec 29, 1994, in the Wichita Eagle       
 
During the years all four children were at home, the two younger ones expressed a wish for their own pets.  Since we already had a couple of dogs, I convinced them that hamsters and goldfish (i.e.smaller animals) would be fun.  With a mother's optimism, I also envisioned them more easily handling the feeding and cleaning for smaller pets. 
 
The goldfish never lasted very long - probably too much feeding.  But this began our experience with rodents that lasted through a couple of hamsters and a rabbit, plus one white mouse, who at my insistence lived in the boys' bedroom.
 
The hamsters were cute and brown and furry, and didn't make much noise, unless you count the squeaking of their exercise wheel, which usually came at night.  We would hold and pet them for short periods or would hand feed them with carrot and lettuce pieces while letting them run loose on a TV tray - which would gradually tame them, according to the book.  But they were too flighty to allow out of their cage very long, and were never to be out without supervision.
 
I could never sense the hamsters returning any affection, and personally I never developed any great fondness for them - but believe me, I would never purposely harm them or any animal.  I mention this because of what happened with Rusty, our first hamster.
 
One day I had taken Rusty out of his cage for our daily "hands-on' experience, when the phone rang.  After a short conversation, I again headed for the couch where I had left some food on the TV table when one of the kids delayed me with a question.  All this time I was holding Rusty, which was obviously too long, because he bit me.  As any normal person would do, I reacted and jerked my hand, whereupon Rusty landed on the hardwood floor.  He seemed none the worse for wear, but unfortunately a few days later, Rusty went to Rodent Heaven.
 
Feeling guilty for what I felt was mostly my fault, I immediately bought another hamster for the children.  Our younger son wanted to name hamster No. 2, but then could not think of a name.  Finally I whispered to him, "how about Rusty Junior?".  He thought that was a good idea, but later I realized he had misunderstood my whispered suggestion, because we now had "Rusty John.''
 
Rusty John lived with us for a normal period of time but did have one scary adventure.  Someone, when returning him to his cage, did not get the door properly shut, and during the night Rusty John escaped.  We searched the house high and low, behind all the furniture, under beds, chairs, etc, but he was nowhere to be found.  Even food left by his cage did not tempt him out of hiding.
 
A week passed.  Then one evening the kids were in bed, I had turned the TV off, and the house was totally quiet - very unusual.  I heard something, a slight noise, a scratching.  My husband and I tried to follow the sound, and finally tracked it to our bedroom closet, where we found Rusty John, behind the closed door, in a deep box where we kept shoe polish, a brush and some rags.  He had chewed several places on the box, and the rags were now more ragged, but he had apparently obtained enough nourishment to survive his week in the wild.
 
After Rusty John, we had the white mouse for a short time.  Then the younger children became teenagers, busy with other interests, and I at last, no longer had a mouse in my house.
 

 
CINDY - published Sep 1, 1994 in Wichita Eagle
 
In December 1959, our 2 1/2-year-old son, David, who was diagnosed with leukemia in February, was in the hospital again.  Since Christmas was nearing, we obtained a cocker spaniel from the local animal shelter, who was waiting at home for David's return.  Santa Claus was to "bring her down the chimney, and leave her under the Christmas tree."  For that reason, and because she had long silky hair, black as a cinder, we named her Cindy.
 
Sadly, Davy passed away a few days after Christmas at the hospital, and never had a chance to meet his puppy.  At first we were too numb to make any decision about Cindy; then after a time my husband and I and our 5-year-old daughter realized we had become attached to her.  Cindy had become an integral part of our family, perhaps in some way helping to ease our grief.
 
From the first, Cindy was a loner, seeming to prefer the outdoors, and had her dog house in the fenced back yard.  A few years later we purchased a larger home, and after another couple of years our family doubled with three adopted children.  Cindy now was leashed by her house in the newly added open-face garage.  When we brought her inside, she stopped by each family member to say "hello," then headed for the back door to return to her favored spot.
 
There were a few occasions when Cindy wanted inside, notably during one of our typically noisy Kansas lightning and thunderstorms.  When storms materialized, she barked to come in and joined the inside pets - Pretty Boy, a parakeet; Rusty John, a hamster; and Sniffles, a terry-poo dog.  I remember one particularly exciting evening when all the animals were upset, and Cindy was doing her best to get in a crawl hole in the garage-turned-rec room, even though there were several boxes and furniture in the way.
 
A few times, Cindy got loose; broken chain, careless children, or some unconfessed reason.  Some good neighbors usually spotted her and brought her home, or sometimes even kept her in their house or back yard until we returned home from school and work.  Once though, she scared a mailman, and ever after she was blamed for the antics of three other black dogs in the neighborhood.  As a result, the older children picked up our mail at the old Seneca Square Post Office each day on their way home from school.  They didn't mind though, and even became such good friends with the postal clerks that their school pictures were displayed at the counter. 
 
Eventually, Cindy began showing her age, including the growth of several tumors on her body.  When she was 14 years old, some tumors had become apparent in her nose and one was dangerously close to an eye, but her veterinarian felt she was too old to have them removed under anesthetic.  Finally, a few days after Christmas that year, Cindy went to sleep for the last time, hopefully, in the great scheme of things, to join her intended companion, David.

"MICE" published in The Wichita Eagle, August 22, 1996
 
I think mice are rather nice.
Their tails are long; their faces are small,
They haven't any chins at all.
Their ears are pink; their teeth are white,
They run about the house at night.
They nibble things they shouldn't touch,
And no one seems to like them much.
But I think mice are nice.
   By Rose Fyleman
 
Only in Walt Disney cartoons or rhymes, could a mouse seem cute and furry.   Very few adults feel any fondness for mice.  Since medieval times they have been involved in a constant battle.  Mice try to get into houses.  People try to keep them out.
 
Over the years, I have been directly or indirectly involved in several close encounters in the waging of this battle with mice, which now seem funny.
 
All thru the house, not a creature was stirring, except a small mouse.
 
Toward the end of the Depression, I was a child growing up in Willow Springs, a small Missouri Ozark town, with my parents and baby sister.  Although I have no memories of being poor, Mother told the story many times of an unwarranted spanking I received for ruining my new shoes.
 
It seems I received a tricycle from my grandparents that Christmas, and shoes from Mother and Daddy.  When holes were discovered in the shoes, they assumed I was dragging my feet to stop the tricycle and were upset, thinking of the money necessary for another pair of shoes.
 
However, later my parents realized mice had chewed on my shoes which they had left on the floor near the wood stove to keep them warm for the next morning.  Mother always felt guilty about that spanking.
 
When the cat's away, the mice will play.
 
A few years later, same town, different house, we had a cat for mousing chores.  Mother discovered the cat had caught a mouse, but then she worried because she had also put some poison out and was afraid the cat might get secondary poison.  The cat didn't want to release his prize, so Mother thought of another solution.  She opened the door to the wood furnace and stuck the cat, still holding the mouse, part way in, in hopes the heat would cause him to drop the mouse.
 
What is so pretty and neat,
As a little mouse dancing on little gray feet?
 
When I was about 13, we moved to El Dorado Springs, Mo, where my father became the manager of a dry good store.  Before unpacking, Mother, my sister and I were sweeping and mopping floors and using wallpaper cleaner on the walls, when a mouse ran across the floor.  
 
Mother and Sandy both jumped onto the piano stool, screaming in fright and at me to get rid of it.  I didn't know what to do, so I grabbed the broom and started chasing the mouse, yelling at it to 'Go away."
 
I sure, with all the screaming and yelling, the poor mouse was more scared than us and it did finally find a way out, away from those crazy noisy people.
 
They all ran after the farmer's wife.
 
After graduating from high school, a classmate and I went to work in Kansas City and shared a small upstairs apartment in an older private home.  Although Ruth grew up on a farm, she was still afraid of mice.
 
One weekend, I was in our kitchen when I heard her shrieking from the bathroom.  I ran to help, but had to laugh first at the sight of her sitting on the stool with her legs held straight out and her arms waving in the air, while a little mouse was running round and round the small room looking for an escape route. 
 
Under the sofa, along the floor,
A friendly mouse, I want no more.
 
Fifteen years later, I was now married with several children and living in Wichita, Ks in a brick, insulated home.   Even with the newer home, mice from an empty lot across the street would find their way inside on cold nights. 
 
Some co-workers and I were discussing the problem during our coffee break.  I mentioned that recently I had been having a telephone conversation in the kitchen when a mouse skittered across the floor, apparently unafraid, and acting almost friendly.  We decided that was just too much, when they think they are pets. 
 
Skitter, skatter, Leap and squeak!
 
All of us agreed, we hated emptying mouse traps, but using poison was not always an option with children and pets around.
 
One of the other women had the best story about a mouse caught in a trap, but still squeaking.  She dropped the mouse into the stool to flush it into never never land.  But as the water became a whirlpool, she swears the mouse was swimming for his life, trying to avoid the final plunge.
 
Hickory Dickory Dick, The Mouse ran up the clock.
The Clock stuck One, and Down He Swum.
Hickory Dickory Dock.
 
(Note - Partial quotations are from 'Who is so Pretty?' by Elizabeth Coatsworth, and "The Night Before Christmas' by Clement Clarke Moore)
 


MITZI - Published June 30 1994 in the Wichita Eagle.
 
After my mother-in-law's poodle, Beau Jacques, passed away, Mom wanted another dog to love and for companionship, since she lives alone.   Through the newspaper, she found a lady selling some Schnauzers, and one in particular seemed to take to Mom, nosing her for attention, along with a lot of tail wagging and little yips. 
 
Mom's new friend, Mitzi, learned her first lesson quickly; to come immediately when Mom whistled or called,  Even back then, Mom walked with a cane, and she could not handle a disobedient dog.  Now, 10 years later, they still take daily walks, albeit slower, around the secured mobile home park, using no leash.  Though leashes are normally required for all dogs, the manager told inquiring pet owners if other dogs were as well-behaved as Mitzi, no leashes would be necessary.
 
Mitzi is not supposed to bark, and stays perfectly quiet in the house while Mom is napping.  But being an excitable dog, outside she sometimes forgets and will bark at stray dogs or cats, or maybe some children passing on their way to catch the school bus.  Then she remembers - stops - and looks at Mom's kitchen window to see if she has been caught. 
 
Mitzi also learned that dogs should not watch people eating, or beg from the table.  She took that lesson one further - she will not eat while someone is in the kitchen, apparently thinking they may be watching her. 
 
We spoil all pets - ours, the neighbors and our relatives' - so I usually carry treats in my pockets.  During our last visit, Mitzi realized where I keep goodies, and twice we found her pulling my coat out of the chair, trying to help herself to a treat. 
 
A lot of dogs play with squeaky toys, balls, etc. but Mitzi is the first dog I've seen that plays with a stuffed furry white dog, bigger than herself. She wallows her stuffed playmate, licks its ears, pulls it around the room, and then takes a nap with her head and a paw hugging her friend.  One problem, Mitzi tends to leave the stuffed dog in the middle of the living room.  If we are visiting with our white furry Samoyed, sometimes Mom, who is losing her eyesight, will tell the stuffed dog to move, thinking it is Sitka. 
 
Speaking of Sitka, being a Samoyed, he needs frequent brushing, which I try to do, even when we are traveling.  But when we visit at Mom's, each time I pick up the brush Mitzi joins us, pushing under my arms, walking over Sitka if necessary, until I give her a grooming.
 
Mitzi's regular bed is a purple shag throw rug, and no matter how many times Mom puts it straight, before Mitzi will take a nap or settle down for the night, she pulls, scratches, picks, whatever it takes to change the rug into a bumpy mess before laying down to sleep. 

BRANDY - PART 2 - Published in The Wichita Eagle on August 22, 1996
 
Brandy was a brown and black, overgrown, month-old puppy when we first met at a farm near Hugoton where he lived with his siblings and parents, a German Shepherd and a St Bernard. 
 
Our two younger children and I had moved to Garden City, Ks while my husband stayed in Wichita, closing up some loose ends before joining us.  We felt a big dog would be good for security - and BIG we got.   Brandy eventually became a magnificent animal, weighing 140 pounds with a 42-inch chest, able to stand flat footed while resting his chin on the kitchen table.  But he had a loving and gentle demeanor.
 
While Brandy was still young he learned to get the newspaper from our front yard, which earned him a goodie, and saved me from an early morning dash in the cold and snow.  Soon he was also helping me carry cans  of food from the basement to the kitchen, one can fitting easily in his large mouth.  That earned him another goodie.  He decided this was a great system and started taking books and the mail out of our hands to carry to the kitchen, hoping for another treat. 
 
Several years later, back home in Wichita, he really surprised a young woman who had come by our house to give me her rent check. You guessed it - he took the check from her outstretched hand and headed for the kitchen. 
 
Each morning as I combed my hair, put on makeup, etc., Brandy liked to stay close.  However, our bathroom was too small for the two of us.  He soon solved the problem by stepping into the tub and laying there until I was through primping.  Brandy also thought any piece of furniture big enough for him was good enough for him.  He napped on our bed and the couch, and sat in Lew's chair by the window, with his chin on the headrest so he could watch the outside world go by. 
 
When family or friends came to visit, we usually took them for a tour of the Garden City Zoo.  One nice day Brandy walked with us around the zoo, interested in all the new sights and sounds, trading challenges with a wild Mountain Goat and touching noses at the fence with a deer.  But then we arrived at the big cat area.  As we passed the lion family cage, Brandy suddenly bolted, pulling the leash right out of our son's hand.  The lions were sleeping and had not looked up or made any noise or menacing gestures, but apparently there was a wild odor around their cage which Brandy instinctively feared. 
 
A fellow employee, after hearing of Brandy's reaction, told how her Chihuahua always circled to the far side of the living room when they visited her parents. The reason was finally apparent when they noticed the Chihuahua each time fearfully eyeing her father's old powder horn hanging on the opposite wall - perhaps with gun powder odor.  
 
Once my husband and I were watering the yard and pulling weeds with the "help" of several neighbor children. They were visiting with us while petting Brandy, who was leashed, with the end under my foot.  Polly, a 3-year-old, decided to run through the sprinkler.  Her older brother, Jimmie, didn't think she should get wet, so he chased her, scolding.  Brandy pulled loose, ran after them, put his front paws on Jimmies shoulders and politely pushed him away from Polly.
 
Naturally 12-year-old Jimmie was frightened when this huge dog pushed on him, even though Brandy did not bark or growl.  My husband and I comforted the boy, who soon realized Brandy would not hurt him, but was only protecting Polly.
 
In 1984 Brandy unexpectedly died from a heart attack, leaving us grieving, but thankful for the many wonderful memories of a beautiful dog, during the 9 years he was our companion.

SNIFFLES - Published Feb 10 1994 in The Wichita Eagle

After much wheedling, since we already had a cocker spaniel, a parakeet and a hamster in our six-person household, our older daughter talked us into letting her have a puppy born to a relative's dog. Sniffles was of uncertain ancestry, with black curly hair, which gave her the look of a small bear. However, she was designated a terry-poo by her vet, and the appropriate hair-cut seemed to verify that assessment.

Theory at that time was to allow your dog to have one set of puppies before you spayed her, to activate her maternal instincts. We made arrangements and eventually Sniffles gave birth; unfortunately, she picked a day we were all at work or school and she used our bed for the grand occasion.

One day, a louder than usual spring thunderstorm had all the animals upset. Cindy, the cocker, was doing her best to get through the crawl hole in the rec room, in spite of boxes in the way. Prettyboy was squawking, going to each side of the cage looking for a way out, while rusty John tried to escape by going round and round in his exercise wheel and then burrowing into the papers.

Sniffles was shaking on our daughter Marilyn's lap, being hugged and comforted. Thankfully, there was no tornado - just some extra-exciting lightning and thunder; but this began a routine for Sniffles. During subsequent storms, she wanted on her mistress' lap, where Marilyn red to her after she ran out of soothing words.

Since they were very close, Sniffles didn't quite understand the concept of dating, or why she had to stay home, so she faked "limping" when boy-friends came by, in a try for sympathy. Eventually, Sniffles moved with our daughter through two marriages and divorces, stayed with Marilyn and Granny (recently widowed), and then they joined the Air Force.

She was friendly with most animals, sharing water with Bunnifer, the rabbit, and a bed with Sam, the cat. However, while stationed near Omaha, on their daily walk, a dog who had crawled through a hole in his fence, attached and bit Sniffles. They had their day in court, (for the vet bill_), with photos of the fence (surprisingly fixed the next day), and of Sniffles with her bad bite and scar. They won, but soon the man was transferred to an unknown base, and no funds were ever collected.

When Marilyn's long hours prohibited caring for a dog, Sniffles, now 77 in dog years, moved back with Granny. Her favorite toy became a Pillsbury Doughboy, which, when it became dilapidated, she retrieved several times from the trash, until Granny gave in and repaired and washed it "one more time". Their summer pastime was watching the grandsons in local softball games, where Sniffles sat with the team.

Sniffles was very well-behaved and intelligent. Once, when granny flew out of state, Sniffles stayed with my sister and her family and their pets on the farm. One morning they were all getting ready for work and school when one of the kids noticed evidence of a sick dog. My sister began cleaning the spot and wondered out loud which one of the dogs was ill. Her teenage son, in all seriousness, said, "Have you asked Sniffles?"

She had given her love and friendship to several families over her lifetime, but finally old age, blindness and arthritis took its toll and we had to give her up shortly after one Christmas when she was around 16 years old. So during the holidays, I am always reminded of these and other fond memories of Sniffles.



SUGAR - published in The Wichita Eagle

In February 1985, a pretty little white dog wandered into our yard. She had no tags, so I thoroughly walked the neighborhood, checked the Lost Pet lists in the newspaper and on the radio, and called the Humane Society, but had no success in finding her owners. Finally, I took her to the Animal Shelter but left my name to adopt her in three days. Her owner's mother claimed her, but the woman had more dogs than she could keep, including this one's parents, so she called to see if I was still interested in adoption.

Our daughter from Houston, Texas, was in town for her birthday, and had told me recently that she wanted a dog, so we went to meet with the woman. It was love at first sight, and Marilyn and Sugar became an immediate family.

Sugar, a 1-year-old miniature American Eskimo weighing in at 16 pounds, had cute pointed ears, a black pug nose, large round, expressive eyes, white fur mixed with biscuit and a busy tail that swept backward into an arch.

Soon after returning to Texas, the two devised a routine that accommodated Sugar's need for outside walks several times daily and Marilyn's job and college classes.

Sugar loved to play with small stuffed or rubber animals and over a period of time ended up with a good-sized collection because they were her friends and she wouldn't chew or tear them up. Marilyn would tell Sugar to 'Go get Doughboy" (or Alf or Whalie or Bunny), and Sugar would run to the kitchen or bedroom or look behind furniture in the living room until she found that particular toy, returning with eyes shining and tail wagging for Marilyn's approval.

Sugar had her 15 minutes of fame when a well-known dog food company conducted a nationwide search for a small dog to be the official representative for a new line of small-bites food. Sugar had been chosen along with four other little dogs, from a field of more than 500 regional entries. Bet Parks was the emcee at the regional contest in Houston, and it was taped by a local TV station.

Each of the dogs had two outfits, one casual and one formal, and some even performed a repertoire of tricks for the audience of relatives and friends. Sugar was a little nervous with all the lights, commotion and so many people, but she walked across the ramp with Marilyn like a budding Miss America. Although she did not win, we all enjoyed the experience, and we have a copy of the TV tape to help us remember the day Sugar was our little television star.

Car rides were one of Sugar's favorite pastimes, and she was a well-behaved passenger and house guest when visiting. She and Marilyn enjoyed numerous trips over the years, sometimes including Ferguson, the parakeet, to visit relatives in Missouri Albuquerque and Wichita, friends in Shreveport, La., and former Air Force buddies in Omaha.

In the fall of 1994, Marilyn lost her hearing in one ear. After a period of adjustment, it became apparent that a hear service dog would be a great asset and at times necessary for safety purposes. By this time, Sugar was so well behaved and trained, that the Texas Service of Rehabilitation agreed to have Marilyn teach Sugar to be her service dog, rather than bring a strange animal into the home. Sugar learned to bark at specific noises - door bells, telephones, alarm clocks, fire alarms and microwave dings - and was almost ready for her first official tests toward becoming certified.

Then, Sugar contracted an unidentifiable virus late in 1995. She received intravenous medication and feeding at the veterinarian clinic, then was put on a regimen of medicine, plus two hours each day under a sun lamp. In March of 1996 the two of them moved back to Wichita and joined our household temporarily. All of us were then able to help with Sugar's care and give moral support to Marilyn. Even our two dogs, Ebony and Mitzi, seemed to understand Sugar's illness. They would give her a nose touch or a lick but did not jump on her (like they do each other) or try to include her in playtime games.

Although at times Sugar seemed to rally, she continued losing weight. She lost the sparkle in her eyes and any interest in her stuffed animals - wanting only to rest on the bed or in someone's lap. Finally in June, Marilyn had to make the heartbreaking decision to give Sugar up, who it seems after 11 years had returned home to Kansas for her final days.

Back to Letters from Grandpa Ferguson's Desk

This page was last updated February 3, 2001.