Pogo, on the other hand, was plucky and active, and in the end, a heartbreaker. My brother had a thirteen-year-old's reasonable expectation of a dog that would be his buddy, hanging out, riding the paper route, playing catch, chewing the occasional bone. My brother named him after his favorite comic strip.
And at first, Pogo seemed to be on board with the plan. He ate a couple meals, checked out the scene, slept in his bed, got scratched behind the ears. Then came The Smell.
Maybe it was leprechaun's corned beef drag lure. Maybe there was a bowl at rainbow's end filled with infinite biscuits, or maybe a place in an ancient Roman fox hunt. Maybe it was unicorn pee. Whatever it was, Pogo surrendered completely. Nose to the ground, he vacuumed the yard, and then, like the last notes of a sad ballad, he was gone.
We were never going to get another dog after Pogo. It was too painful, and you never knew if you were putting all that love into a four-foot drifter. No dogs.
My parents were children of the Great Depression. This led to some interestingly distorted shopping legacies, including driving past Stop & Shop, Big Y supermarket and Price Chopper every week to go to the Meat Store miles away in Springfield. Even during the gas crisis of the seventies.
And once, at the Meat Store, after we parked and got out of the car, something ran under it. A little dog with curly hair and a diamond collar. A really, really rich dog. No, my sister said, it's not real diamonds, that would be stupid, it's a dog. He was terrified. He refused to come out from under the car. Until my dad took out the baloney.
We put a lost and found ad in the paper. We were only keeping the dog until the owner claimed him. He was very little and cute and fluffy. His fur seemed well-brushed so we were pretty sure someone would want him back. He was about five years old, and a mixed breed, alternately hilarious and embarrassing to my elementary school self: a cockapoo. His black eyes were bright, and he kissed us all the time. He couldn't get enough of us. We made him a little bed in the garage. But he was just a houseguest. We waited, afraid to get attached. A week later someone called, and I sat on the bottom stair, biting my nails until they turned out to be missing a white dog. And then the days and weeks went by, and although we were never, ever, ever getting another dog, for the next twenty-one years we had a temporary canine lodger.
Finders keepers. I like to think the losers weren't weepers. I like to think they ended up with a vagabond beagle.
