I cannot remember the older, larger dog’s history of why he was at the pound, but that’s where we got him some 7 years ago. He was older than a tiny pup at 4 months old, but immediately he belonged to my then 4-year-old son. And the small one? Well, she’s mine and I got her this winter from the sanctuary. Someone (someone horrid and mean and dastardly) threw her, her 4 siblings, and their momma dog into a ditch along a rural country road.
Lab-Blood Hound mix. Lab-Blue Heeler mix. Basically, we’ve got us a howler and a nipper.
Speaking of dogs, if you’re a dog person, how can you not be smitten with the infamous veterinarian/storyteller James Herriot of Yorkshire, England? Or at least be smitten with his animal exploit tales? Although this man is gone, his words remain. And in my house, several of his hardback volumes line the shelves. One of our all-time favorites is a story about Cedric. Cedric, the farting Boxer, is a rather large canine who lives with a fancy lady in a fancy house that oftentimes is full of fancy friends. Well, if you’ve ever shared your home with a dog, even for a couple of hours, you’ve not only been privy to his superPowers, but you also know, good and well, that the farting dog is quite a wonder. I wonder how he can stand himself? I wonder why he doesn’t pass out down there in his own fumes? I wonder when my eyes will stop watering? I wonder if he thinks this is funny? I wonder if anyone thinks I made that horrid stink?
Here are a few favorite lines from the Herriot story about sir Cedric:
Within seconds an aesthetic-looking gentleman was frantically beating off the attack as the great feet ripped down his waistcoat. He got away at the cost of a couple of buttons and the Boxer turned his attention to one of the ladies.
The atmosphere in the room became rapidly charged with an unmistakable effluvium and it was clear that Cedric’s unfortunate malady had reasserted itself.
Cedric made it worse, because at each rasping expulsion he would look round inquiringly at his back end, them gambol about the room as though the fugitive zephyr was clearly visible to him and he was determined to corner it.
Really? Good night, Irene! In my house, hysteria is Cedric’s middle name. And for those of us with childlike wonder, or as my husband would say, those of you with childish senses of humor, just the mere name “Cedric” brings repeated convulsions of laughter just in anticipation of the telling of the tale.
* This post is part of the dog daZe of June series.