There was a time when it was not so uncommon for a young lady to walk past the house several times as I toiled shirtless in the yard, or to stop her vehicle while I worked, whether to ask directions, or to comment on the beauty of the lawn, or for any other excuse she might find to stop. But I have to admit to some surprise this morning when the car with two lovely young ladies slowed and stopped in front of the house, as the occurrences have slowed in direct relation to my growing width and graying head. Their excitement actually bubbled over into giggles as the driver rolled down her window, “Excuse me, are you by any chance Huckleberry_Hoo?”

Taken aback, as the “_Hoo” ending is obviously a pen-name, I stopped my work and wiped my John Deere ball cap across my forehead as I contemplated from where they might have learned of that particular nomenclature. Regardless, it would be a lie if I said my chest did not swell a bit to have two such young pretties inquiring. I shut down my string trimmer, sucked in my tummy, and walked over to the car so that we could more easily converse. I had concluded that these were obviously young Prosers with impeccable taste and were familiar with my work, a budding fan club if you will! “Why yes, I proudly exclaimed, “I am Huckleberry_Hoo. How may I be of service?”

“And over there... is that General Sherman?”

I looked over to where my dog Sherman lounged glassy-eyed in the chaise where he had been manning his post behind the card table with a sign exclaiming:

Try

“General Sherman’s Paw-Made

Deliciously Hard-Lemonade”

(It’s dog-gone good!)

“Why yes, that is Sherman. Why do you ask?”

“We were wondering if he might like to go for a ride?” They began giggling again.

“I expect that he would love to, but I am afraid you will have to come back later as he is currently engaged in gainful employment!“

The driver opened her door and whistled. I could see the joy in Sherman’s face... damned dog, anything to get out of work. They drove away with Sherman on the console between the front seats, his sun-glassed face poked through the sun roof, his ears, gums and Elvis bandana happily flapping the breeze.

Two hours later they were back. The yardwork done, I was reclining in the hammock with one of Sherman’s famous (and truly delicious) cocktails when the earlier mentioned driver solemnly approached me. “Mr. _Hoo, Sherman and I have decided to marry. He will be coming to live with me.”

Well now, here was a kicker! “Missy, you do understand that Sherman is a dog, correct?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak about my future husband that way.”

“Well then, tell me this, do you by any chance watch television?”

“No. Well only “The Bachelor”, and “AGT”, and sometimes “DWTS”, or “The Voice”, and “The View”, but no, not really.”

I laid back in my hammock secure in my belief that this case of young love would never last, safe in the knowledge that no one can ever love another person’s dog. “All right, then. I guess you should be together then. Take him.”

The wife and I were on the porch after supper, tossing a ball into the lawn for my “regular” dog, Josey Wales, when the “Ring” rang. My phone’s screen showed the young lady from this morning on the front porch, leash in hand. “We are on the back porch, Missy,” I laughed. “Bring him on ’round!”

There was a tear in her eye as she told us the wedding was off and handed me a bill for $4,000 for ‘engraved invitations on parchment paper’. It seems that Sherman attacked their TV whenever a commercial with an animal on it appeared, and all of the commercials seem to have one. “He also drank my father’s bottle of Johnnie Walker’s Gold Label! What a horrid little dog he is! And you trying to push him off on an unsuspecting stranger... you should be ashamed! You are worse than Trump!”

I could not contain my laughter as Sherman’s betrothed stormed off. “Now, you see there Pooky-Bear! There is what Proser’s get when they skim and don’t read the whole story. You just cannot retain what you read when you only skim, and often you miss the most important and best stuff!”

Glad our little family was back together, I whistled a happy warning. “Come dogs! Get in the truck... let’s run get some pecans, peaches and watermelon to celebrate General Sherman’s continued availability!

And so we did.

Egyptian cotton linens

Drape the porch in lily white

Crystal glass and silver

Feast on Dawn’s orange juice sunlight

Floral fragrant greetings

Freshly cut, dressing each vase

Veranda breakfast serving:

Bacon, biscquits, scrambled eggs

Upon his tippy toes

The first guest takes in the view

He’s asked, kindly, to leave, though

For he has no shirt or shoes

The story of little joe did not start out great

When we came and got him it was late

He looked like a fat little pig

He was a good little dog and did not dig

We took him home to meet the dogs

When he saw the family, he did a jog

He wanted to jump on us to be stable

That’s when sandy pushed him into a table

She barked and growled at little joe

Joe was scared and put his head low

Now they are friends after the fight

And they both sleep calmly in my bed every night

Then there is mean little cujo

She is angry at little joe

Cujo is very old and moldy

That’s why she looks like a bowl of guacamole

Joe is a sweet little dog

But not cujo not at all

One day they will be friends

And make amends

Spike only ever tried to bite my arm and slober over the orangey tennis ball in my puny hand. I couldn't even make a fist around anything more than a pencil, but I still tried to reach them around his neck.

I was always scared to get my hands close to such big teeth, and in retrospect, jerking my hand away was probably what discouraged him from approaching me. Spike was an outside dog, never allowed indoors for even a bath, and I only remember petting him five times, usually when no one was looking. They were afraid I would get hurt from such a big dog, but I honestly wish I got trampled once instead of knowing I owned a dog and could love it the way I crave to now.

Spike was a large boxer who looked like another dog named Ella from my Nintendogs. Ironically, I spent wayyy more time with Ella than I did with my real life dog. I don't remember what color my own dog's eyes were, or what kind of closure his leash had. I just remember that I was really sad when I saw him laying on his side on the cement in my backyard. My grandma told me he died and that my dad and uncle were digging a hole to bury him in.

I was sad for a dog I didn't really know. I don't remember what color Spike's nose was, or what shape his ears were. I remember feeding him the chicken meat I refused to eat because it had a vein on it and I didn't want to eat the blood. I remember staring for long periods of time and inching closer and closer to the wooden gate that corralled him away from my play area.

I remember nearly nothing but I did love Spike.