man himself!
Since his master was a Green Beret, this four-pound little shit, thought he was, too. He strutted around like he was a German shepherd. As time went by, I realized there was much more to this tough-guy demeanor than having a big, burly, rough and tough owner.
He appeared to take most everything in stride, but he had the cussed stubbornness of my uncle, as well as his military bearing.
Soon after we brought him home, I showed him his food and water. Because of his impeded vision and the completely new environment, I kinda forced his snout towards the water bowl, and he snapped at me.
“Ok, got it buddy. You are in charge. My mistake, I thought you were blind and might be thirsty, but don’t worry about it. It won’t happen again.”
We took Hacksaw to the vet and had him checked out from head to toe. His chronic bronchitis started getting better immediately without my uncle’s secondhand smoke. We had a couple of his teeth pulled and put him on an antibiotic to heal up the infection in his mouth. There was also another minor complication: when he would lick and clean himself he was transferring the germs to his manhood.
You see, after his oral surgery, the doctor sent him home with a plastic cone around his neck, preventing access from top to bottom, in the hopes this would give his penis a chance to heal. So as ridiculous as he looked walking into the office he looked doubly silly on the way out.
Upon returning home, I placed Hacksaw in his bed and went to the kitchen to rustle up some vittles. After about twenty minutes or so I went to check on him, and what did I find? He was licking himself, cone and all. So against, my own wishes, I took a further look at the situation.
Then I placed a call to the veterinarian’s office.
“Hello, this is Ivey Mae. I just picked up Hacksaw from his surgery. Isn’t the cone supposed to keep him from licking himself?” I ask.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“Well, I have to come back to the office. He needs a bigger cone. He may weigh barely four pounds, but it looks like over half of that is below the waist.”
Another trip to the vet’s office and now I have a toy poodle wearing a cone twice the size of his body because he is apparently built like a Rottweiler. Now I see why he is so confident. No little man syndrome for him!
Weeks later, all is well on both ends of our regal little old man: no more odor or irritation. We had him groomed, and he is feelin’ ‘fine as frog hair,’ while he has the run of the house. In between his napping, he cruises around our floor like a Roomba. Slowly he walks around, swinging out that leg. When he bumps into the wall or furniture, he doesn’t miss a beat and just turns whichever way he can and keeps walking.
Every once in awhile, we have to go over and help him. Our big Lab, Gracie Burns, will start barking to alert us that he is stuck like Chuck. Hacksaw will be standing in a corner, waiting patiently. When he gets in a corner and turns left or right, with a wall blocking him at each turn, he will stand there and wait for someone to pick him up and move him.
I pick him up, place him in a new spot on the floor, and he simply starts walking again.
Enter Beezer.
A year and a half after Hacksaw joined the family, I rescued an abandoned kitten, and you know how playful (i.e.crazed) they are.
This little cat would prance around Hacksaw and often pounce on him, trying to engage him in play. But Hacksaw would simply stand there, patiently waiting for this energetic kitten to stop his playful assault, and then mosey off along his way, swinging his leg out in a circle.
One day I was writing in the back room, and heard a horrible yelp-type scream from the family room. I ran into the room to find HS standing up, all alone and crying. By the time I grabbed a hold of my shoes and car-keys to whisk him to the vet, he was calm. As he had calmed down so quickly, my common sense told me that whatever immediate danger there was had passed, and if there were still a problem, it would get worse. I waited and kept a close watch, but he was acting completely normal: he drank some water, went for a walk, then took a nap.
Sure enough, he is not completely all right because he has lost his appetite.
Oh no! This is not good. I always heard that when an animal loses his appetite, it means the end is near. I prepared myself for the worst because if he was suffering, I would have to put him down.
Off to the vet we went.
I told the veterinarian that “when this first happened, after the initial screech, he seemed normal, so I thought maybe he had a bad cramp or something sudden, but certainly not dangerous.”
I watched closely as Dr. Drop Dead Gorgeous, gently checked him out.
Then he looked up at me and asked, “Where is that little kitten you found? Does he have access to The Saw?”
“Well, sure: they all roam at free will. Why?”
Then he took a little flashlight and directed it downward at Hacksaw’s left eye and pointed.
“Do you see that?” he asked. “The kitten apparently scratched hell out of his cornea. Now we know why he screamed, that is really painful.”
Mystery solved.
On the way home I looked over at the lucky little guy as he stood straight in his seat, looking more like a little lamb than a poodle.
Poor Hacksaw! I know what he’d say if he could, and he would be right on the money:
“This is a great place to be rescued to. They take you in, fix your problems, feed you, and love you. They buy you toys and give you Boar’s Head ham and sausage. They bathe you, give you medicine and keep you free of itchy fleas and disgusting ticks. I am nice and comfortable in my little blue bed. These new masters must be related to my Green Beret, because they are being so nice to me, even though they are kinda loud.
“But damn! You could be dazed as a goose with a nail in its head, but whatever you do, don’t stop eatin’! I’m tellin ya’ll, don’t even slow down when you are full. ‘Cause if you lose your appetite around here, they will put you to sleep quicker ‘en shit!
Three: The Pink House
When I was in grade school, my parents hired an architect and designed their very own dream house. The new house echoed. It was huge. Rolling over on the lush, powder blue carpet, I came right up to my reflection in the mirrored doors that covered my closet. Looking past my eyes and staring at the vastness around me, I thought, “Wow, I can fill this whole place up with stuff.”
I loved the smell, too. Our new mansion on the lake had a brand-spankin’-new smell, like a furniture store or a new car or the bag of summer clothes from Belks that Mother bought us each year for vacation. My wonderful blue room held my very own antiqued white bedroom set, hand painted with the slightest etch of powder blue to match the carpet, and thick linen drapes that flowed all the way down to the floor. Amongst all of these new household
