I grew up with dogs. Mutts always appeared in our driveway immediately after the previous mutt had passed away.
It was uncanny. My dad would try to chase the new mutt away, but the stray pooch would dig in and insist that he/she had found a home.
And that turned out to be the case.
Usually for about a dozen or more wonderful years.
And the dog usually slept on my bed. And that made my brother crazy.
So, as a kid, I would kiss and hug and bury my face into the mutt experience.
And I found that the shorter haired mutts had a certain wonderful smell.
Not the smell that your mom would associate with a clean house.
Just this great, immediately identifiable aroma.
(Exclusions must be given for dogs that rolled in dead woodchuck or that were sprayed by a skunk).
After many years, being a senior citizen living alone, I got a rescue mutt a month ago.
And she reminds me of all of the wonderful stupid mutt ways.
She plays dead sack of potatoes if forced to go outside in the rain.
And she does adorable love me snout on my leg when she wants some of my food.
And she has taken over the couch completely. Often getting in lay on her back Buddha belly position with four legs up.
But when she is sleeping in the ball position, I dig my face in near her face, and remember that wonderful doggy smell from my younger years.
Honey is a rescue dog. Six years old. Not sure if I want to know how her first six years worked out. Guessing that it wasn’t good.
But I am pretty sure that she has forgotten all that.
Spoiling will do that.
I host a radio show at a small public station in New York. Honey is my co host. I have her doing all sorts of wonderful on air tricks, when, in actuality, she is asleep near my right foot.
People call and ask for her.
How many rescue mutts wind up being radio show co hosts?
Not many, I would think.
Life is good for down on your luck pooches…sometimes.