Riley the dog was one swell pooch
Sometime before my mother died in 1996, I ran across a photograph of her and the family dog, a “wiener dog” Dachshund named Prince.
He was supposed to be my dog, but he was mom’s, she took care of Prince. Everyday, until he died in the early ’70s, Prince got a bowl of hamburger my mom prepared on the stove. To the best of my recollection, Prince never ate a dish of regular dog food in his life.
Pampered, yes. Loved, for sure.
The photo of mom and Prince in the kitchen on Brown Street contains a notation on the back in my mother’s hand. It reads, “My best friend.”
I never got a chance to ask mom about Prince and what he meant to her. I was too busy, I guess. I had a wife and a kid of my own. By the time I discovered the photo, mom had grown forgetful.
I remember thinking, of the photo and the sentiment on the back: Mom’s best friend was Prince the dog?
Now I understand better. Riley, our dog of long years, died recently. He was my companion. At home, he was my shadow. I couldn’t go anywhere without Riley being underfoot. I used to get mad at him; the dang dog nearly tripped me up any number of times.
When I was not at home, he was, which meant my time was hemmed in by his needs: his need to be to fed, his need to be let out of the house.
Four in the afternoon was dinnertime for Riley. “I gotta get home,” I’d think. If the hour was late and I was out, I’d wonder what he was up to. I’d rush back to the house to find he wasn’t up to much of anything.
I read once that dogs are genetically wired for loyalty and affection. This dog loyalty/love gene, if it does exist, is not replicated in humans. We are dislikers, even haters. To get a dog to hate, you have to treat him pretty poorly. To get a human to hate, all you have to do is wait.
We hate anything and everything: other people, entire races, ideas, certain words (for a reason I can’t rightly explain, I hate the word “continue.” Isn’t that odd?), certain sounds and smells, certain politicians, the news media – boy, do we hate the news media.
Dogs are lovers, not haters.
I recall the story of a guy, drunk at the time, dropping his dog from a second-story window. As this jerk got near the dog, curled in pain on the ground, the dog’s tail started to wag; the pooch was happy to see him. It was a sobering experience; the guy swore he never drank again.
My wife Barbara purchased Riley as a replacement for our dog Max, who was aging. For some unknown reason, Riley, a shih tzu like Max, attached himself to me.
Now, both Barbara and Riley are gone — Barbara before her time, Riley right on time. He was really getting up there. Toward the end, he would flop on the floor and moan in pain three or four times a day. It was heartbreaking, but then he’d recover. I thought maybe he’d make it through the summer. It wasn’t to be.
In addition to Prince, Max and Riley, I’ve had two other dogs in my life. We inherited Bradley and Lincoln from my daughter Mindy when she had the twins. They were good dogs, though Bradley was a bit gruff and Lincoln was … insane. Talk about needy. Lincoln couldn’t snuggle close enough, whether it was on the couch or in bed.
Lincoln reminded me of the Groucho Marx-Margaret Dumont movie scene, in which Margaret’s character says, “I want you to hold me! Closer! Closer!” And Groucho’s character says, “If I hold you any closer, I’ll be behind ya.”
It’s no more dogs for me. Riley was the last. I’m getting up there. I don’t want to lose another dog, and I don’t a dog to lose me. Besides, I want to experience not having to be back home at a certain hour. Dogs require attention.
Riley was a great little fella. In the way only dogs can, his love was unconditional, his devotion unlimited. He and I were boon companions. I thought the world of him. I guess it’s my mother in me.
Richard Robbins lives in Uniontown. He can be reached at dick.l.robbins@gmail.com.