As far as I can remember, few dogs called our neighborhood home. The families around had mainly kids and not dogs. But those canines that did take up residence on Maplewood and Cooper were memorable.
Across the alley from us, owned by the Dougherty’s, was a black and white medium sized mutt named Boots. Boots was a rather fierce dog, as evidenced by the muzzle he had to wear. He was not the kind of dog that you would go up to and pet, but nonetheless, he was a familiar and comforting fixture in the neighborhood.
Boots spent all of his time in the Dougherty’s house, backyard, or most memorably on their back porch. When a bunch of kids were playing in the Dougherty’s yard, incidentally agitating Boots, all John Doughtery had to do was issue the one word command, “Porch!” and with military precision, Boots would march directly to the said porch. I felt a kind of reverence for Boots and John for the obedience and the ability to command it, respectively.
Another neighborhood dog was a friendly German Shepherd-Collie mix owned by the Keister’s, who lived two doors down from us. They received the dog as a puppy. It was an adorable tan dog, and they named him Adolph Bone Hider. Except there was some question in the neighborhood as to whether Adolph was actually a he. One of the Mallow girls, who was an expert in such matters, insisted that little Adolph was a girl. Her opinion was ignored in favor of more established renderings. Well, as time went on, Miss Mallow was proved correct, though I don’t think she was ever given proper credit, and the pup’s name was changed to Ada Bone Hider.
But far and away the greatest dog of the neighborhood was our own Templeton. It was a small miracle that our family even had a dog. I had made half hearted requests for a dog as a child, knowing that it was about as likely as being allowed to have ice cream for breakfast. My mom had been a farm girl, with an unsentimental view of animals. Plus, even as a kid, I could somehow discern that she had enough on her plate.
But parents soften up as each kid comes down the line and my sister, Theresa, four years younger, was more persistent. “I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog,” was her mantra upon graduating from 8th grade, until one day I returned home to discover a black ball of fur trying to climb our back porch steps. We named him Templeton, a name suggested by my youngest brother Mike and inspired by St. Louis Cardinals infielder Garry Templeton.
I know I can’t capture the genius of Templeton’s personality in mere words, but here are a few examples. At 11:45, faithfully every work day, he would lie down in the front hall and stare expectantly at the front door, waiting for my dad to come home for lunch, where he would greet him most enthusiastically. (This was one of his big charms; he was gladder than anyone else to see you). On the rare occasion that my dad didn’t come home for lunch, at about 1 pm, Templeton would slink off with his tail down in search of comfort from someone else.
Templeton was a smart dog. In the winter, he always found the warmest place in the house, somewhere near a radiator, and in the summer, he would sprawl out on the kitchen linoleum with his legs straight out behind him.
Across the alley from us, owned by the Dougherty’s, was a black and white medium sized mutt named Boots. Boots was a rather fierce dog, as evidenced by the muzzle he had to wear. He was not the kind of dog that you would go up to and pet, but nonetheless, he was a familiar and comforting fixture in the neighborhood.
Boots spent all of his time in the Dougherty’s house, backyard, or most memorably on their back porch. When a bunch of kids were playing in the Dougherty’s yard, incidentally agitating Boots, all John Doughtery had to do was issue the one word command, “Porch!” and with military precision, Boots would march directly to the said porch. I felt a kind of reverence for Boots and John for the obedience and the ability to command it, respectively.
Another neighborhood dog was a friendly German Shepherd-Collie mix owned by the Keister’s, who lived two doors down from us. They received the dog as a puppy. It was an adorable tan dog, and they named him Adolph Bone Hider. Except there was some question in the neighborhood as to whether Adolph was actually a he. One of the Mallow girls, who was an expert in such matters, insisted that little Adolph was a girl. Her opinion was ignored in favor of more established renderings. Well, as time went on, Miss Mallow was proved correct, though I don’t think she was ever given proper credit, and the pup’s name was changed to Ada Bone Hider.
But far and away the greatest dog of the neighborhood was our own Templeton. It was a small miracle that our family even had a dog. I had made half hearted requests for a dog as a child, knowing that it was about as likely as being allowed to have ice cream for breakfast. My mom had been a farm girl, with an unsentimental view of animals. Plus, even as a kid, I could somehow discern that she had enough on her plate.
But parents soften up as each kid comes down the line and my sister, Theresa, four years younger, was more persistent. “I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog,” was her mantra upon graduating from 8th grade, until one day I returned home to discover a black ball of fur trying to climb our back porch steps. We named him Templeton, a name suggested by my youngest brother Mike and inspired by St. Louis Cardinals infielder Garry Templeton.
I know I can’t capture the genius of Templeton’s personality in mere words, but here are a few examples. At 11:45, faithfully every work day, he would lie down in the front hall and stare expectantly at the front door, waiting for my dad to come home for lunch, where he would greet him most enthusiastically. (This was one of his big charms; he was gladder than anyone else to see you). On the rare occasion that my dad didn’t come home for lunch, at about 1 pm, Templeton would slink off with his tail down in search of comfort from someone else.
Templeton was a smart dog. In the winter, he always found the warmest place in the house, somewhere near a radiator, and in the summer, he would sprawl out on the kitchen linoleum with his legs straight out behind him.
He wasn’t permitted to go into the living room or upstairs, areas covered in gold carpet or get on the furniture. But when we would come home after Templeton was alone in the house, we would feel the sofa and chair in the family room; invariably, one of them had a warm spot, indicating where he had lounged.
He would also come upstairs during nighttime thunderstorms, which terrified him. Someone would hear the jingling of his chains and eventually he would be led back down stairs and put in the laundry room.
Templeton had a girlfriend named Suzie who lived down the block. Suzie was Templeton’s twin, except that she was white and about 15 pounds heavier, owing to the fact that her owners fed her candy bars. When we wanted to tease Templeton, we would say, “Su-zie!” in a high pitched voice and he would run to the front door hopefully.
He would also come upstairs during nighttime thunderstorms, which terrified him. Someone would hear the jingling of his chains and eventually he would be led back down stairs and put in the laundry room.
Templeton had a girlfriend named Suzie who lived down the block. Suzie was Templeton’s twin, except that she was white and about 15 pounds heavier, owing to the fact that her owners fed her candy bars. When we wanted to tease Templeton, we would say, “Su-zie!” in a high pitched voice and he would run to the front door hopefully.
He loved cheese, eggs, meat, and peanut butter, which we used to kill ourselves laughing watching him eat. One day as I was getting ready to go to a potluck, I walked into the kitchen to pick up a plate of deviled eggs my mom had made. The eggs only covered half the plate. I didn't have to wonder long what happened to the rest of them, when Templeton nonchalantly strolled into the room, his muzzle ringed with yellow.
When I would come home from college breaks, Templeton would wait at the foot of the stairs until I arose late in the morning, greeting me like he had been waiting for me all of his life. He treated everyone in our family that way, and thus it was a sad day on November 1, 1994, when at the age of 15 and largely blind, deaf and hardly able to move, he had to be put down.
But what a dog, what a dog, what a mighty fine dog.
When I would come home from college breaks, Templeton would wait at the foot of the stairs until I arose late in the morning, greeting me like he had been waiting for me all of his life. He treated everyone in our family that way, and thus it was a sad day on November 1, 1994, when at the age of 15 and largely blind, deaf and hardly able to move, he had to be put down.
But what a dog, what a dog, what a mighty fine dog.
Pictured above is Templeton, the best dog in the whole world (next to yours, of course).
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