Going to the Dogs #27
Recently, while my dad was visiting, he saw a few pictures on the refrigerator of my dogs. He said they looked familiar, but wanted me to tell him their names: Mosby and Puppy (Patzcauro). For some reason he became fixated on Mosby, a pill of a Weimaraner who I adored. "Where are they?" "Dad both Mosby and Puppy passed away." "Oh." He kept tracing his finger on the the pictures as if that would somehow enlighten his memory of them. Then out of the blue dad said while pointing at Mosby, "He pushed me out of the bed." He seemed surprised, and I laughed because it was one of the funniest stories my mom ever shared of the many Chuck puppy-sitting adventures.
All our family pets LOVED my dad; my dad did not always return the sentiment. In their eyes, he could do no wrong. In his eyes, they were a nuisance that we inflicted upon him as our built-in Grandpuppy sitters. My mom 'loved' all the four-legged fur babies that came into the house. While puppy-sitting, my dad was their servant who fed and walked them everyday. My mom was the warm lap and treat giver. My parents served important purposes in the eyes of our fur babies.
As my brother lived within a few miles of my parents, he did not use their puppy-sitting services as much as I did. I always lived out of the area and travelled extensively. So my parents would fly down to dog sit or the dogs would be brought to my parents house for the puppy sitting. Dad did most of the day-to-day caretaking, while my mom would tell the dog stories each night when I called to check in. My mom could weave a tale like no other, especially when it involved the dogs and my dad.
Mosby was spoiled to no end. He slept each night in our bed so he of course expected the same with my parents. My mom was clear that that was not happening while Mosby was staying with them. So they tried everything to get him to sleep on the floor with treats and his baby on the cushy dog bed. Mosby was having none of it. He crawled as quietly and softly as a 70-lb Weimaraner can manage in between my parents on their queen-sized bed. Mom would tell him 'No' in her most forceful voice. Mosby would move back down to his bed for all of 10-15 minutes: rinse, wash and repeat.
Dad was so frustrated that he said he would go to my brother's old room in the twin sized bed and bring Mosby with him. I know there must have been much grumbling on the part of my dad and his nuisance grand-puppy. Dad laid down on the twin bed, Mosby began on the floor right next to the bed. Sometime during the night, Mosby did Mosby and crawled into the twin bed with dad and maneuvered his way in between the wall and my dad on the bed. As Mosby would sleep, he would begin to spread out by pushing out his legs. Somehow he spread out enough that my dad, in a dead sleep, would move to try and accommodate the pushing.
My mom heard a loud 'thud' and a loud voice. She jumped out of bed and ran into my brother's old room. My dad was laying on the floor looking up at Mosby who was cocking his head and standing on the bed looking down at my dad. Mom said a few choice swear words came out of my dad's mouth as he realized Mosby had effectively pushed him out of the twin bed. That is when dad gave Mosby the nickname "Devil Dog".
In re-telling the story to my dad and showing him pictures of Mosby, he nodded that he remembered. I realized in remembering, it was like a gift. Chuck smiled and shook his head at the memory. For a few minutes, he was remembering other Mosby stories. While I knew he would forget again, I looked forward to re-sharing the puppy stories with dad.