CICHELLO DOG SAGA Part 2 

'DOC' OR THE FISH IN THE BATHTUB

A couple of years after our dog Shadow joined the Air Force, things seemed a little more under control around our house. The kids were begging for a dog. My husband Sam was adamant. "No dog. I told you if we sent Shadow away, we wouldn't get another dog. And that's final!"

We perked along for a while, then one day, Sam took our daughters fishing. I'd been making inquiries and had heard that Boyle's dog had had yet another litter. This dog was probably responsible for 25% of the Weedsport dog population.

Anyway, after Sam's departure, I bundled up the boys and we drove over to Boyle's house. Apprehensive, I selected a cute little bundle of fur and returned home.

I stashed the puppy out of the way as Sam pulled into the driveway. He came into the house and deposited the ugliest fish I have ever seen in the bathtub, after filling the tub with water.

To make a long, loud story short, after learning of the puppy's arrival, Sam announced that the fish would stay...in the tub.. until the pup left.

Guess who held the winning hand in that deal?

For several days, forgetting about the stupid fish, I'd come into the bathroom, turn on the light, then jump a foot at the grotesque whiskers, the baleful eyes looking up at me from the tub. Needless to say, at some point, the fish departed. We did need to use the tub.

We named this dog "Doctor Pepper". (Remember the commercial "Doctor Pepper, so misunderstood"?) The name was soon shortened to "Doc". For weeks, Sam refused to acknowledge there was a dog in the house. Then he stated firmly that it was MY dog...mine to feed, walk, train and clean up after. Doc, understanding the dynamics at some sub-conscious level, always made for the green shag rug in Sam's office if he was going to have a mishap in the house.

It was his only hostile act.

Doc was a loveable dog, smart as they come, expert at winning affection. I'd catch Sam, if he thought no one was around, saying, "Sit. Beg. Good boy," and feeding the little beggar treats. Doc perfected his begging act and worked the village, especially the patrons of Tastee Freez, right across the street from our house.

Doc and our daughter Claire had a very special relationship. She'd rush home from school to see him, sometimes dressed him in a tutu. He'd wait for her at the top of the stairs at night, slept on her bed. She'd talk to him and he'd make dog responses. I swear there was a dialogue going on there.

Several years went by. Then came a not-so-good Good Friday. I'd taken all the kids to church. When we got home, a friend called to say she thought Doc had been hit by a car in front of Tastee Freez and that the village truck had taken him away. All of us got in the station wagon and drove to the village barn, hoping against hope it wouldn't be Doc down there. It was.

We put him in the back of the wagon, nobody saying anything. Claire sat beside him, patting him as we drove home. Sam came through like a trooper, digging a grave for him in the back yard. He wrapped Doc in a rug and we buried him after a prayer service. The kids acted out their pain in ways ranging from temper tantrums to total silence, to tears, to self-blame, "If I'd only fed him, he wouldn't have gone to Tastee Freez."

Sam made a grave marker with Claire's help. The marker said, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." A bit much, some might feel, but Doc was really a member of the family__a loving, fun, smart little dog. No trouble but for his fondness for depositing on that green shag rug.

No preparation for the dog that was to follow___Russ, named by me soon after his arrival as "our terminal dog."