Fifty Cents a Pound
Happy was barely twenty pounds and bald when I shelled out a crisp ten dollar bill to the Clark County shelter in rural America. They found him wandering the streets. He had been eating out of garbage cans and living under an old shed. They shaved him down to his skin in order to remove the matted fur and treat him for fleas.
One of my girlfriends had just paid eight hundred dollars for a five pound foo-foo dog. My orphaned, homeless dog was a bargain at fifty cents a pound.
His first night in my apartment, he put his head on my pillow, and for the next 14 years we have the same battle every night. “Get your furry head off of my pillow!”
It was November when I brought Happy home to live with me. The holidays were fast approaching. I had a new job, in a new town and I was all alone and depressed in my new apartment. I remember staring at the glowing embers in the fire place; a glass of wine in my hand and my dog cuddled up by my side. “Isn’t this romantic Happy?” He licked my face.
He was underweight and scared when I brought him home. Today he is overweight and spoiled. He taps my face when it’s time to wake up and he growls at me when he thinks it’s time for a T-R-E-A-T. (Sorry I am used to spelling it). At fifteen years of age he is still healthy and energetic and long walks at the park are a part of our regular routine.
He rarely barks, has never disturbed the trash or chewed on my favorite shoes. How did I get so lucky? He has been my constant companion, under my desk at the office, riding shotgun in the car or sitting in my lap as I type, and of course hogging the bed. His existence in my life has outlasted two relationships, two laptops and two cars.
One ex-boyfriend loved the dog more than he loved me and he gets visitation one weekend a month. They do guy things like hiking in the woods, chasing squirrels, and urinating on trees together. Everybody loves him. The dog, not the boyfriend.
At the bargain price of just fifty cents a pound, my Happy dog is worth his weight in gold.
