jamieoquinn.com

This article originally ran in the Hattiesburg American newspaper and is reprinted with permission.  

When Smokey met me at the door with a wagging tail and squeak toy in his mouth, I knew something wasn't right.

This stray dog of two days had been double child-gated in the kitchen and had used his Houdini-like skills to take run of the house.

I was quickly struck by the abstract shadows that bounced on the walls where once there had been symmetrical forms.  This rare breed of animal, not only Husky but now evidently part beaver, had eaten 14 of my window blinds.  As I tried to reread the lost pet section, he sat on my feet and almost seemed to grin because he had ingested that part of the newspaper, too.

Dogs have been a part of my life since I was born.  In fact, my brother routinely reminds me of the two german shepherds that were given away on my account when I was just learning to walk.  Though friendly, they had a tendency to knock me down every time I went outside.  My mother and my four older brothers and sisters took a family vote of either keeping me or the dogs.  My siblings voted unanimously to send me away , but fortunately my mother vetoed the decision.  My brother Doug still sends me birthday cards that simply state "We should have kept the dogs".

On my ever-increasing searches for Smokey, who can climb a fence, unhook clips and chew his way out of a dog harness in under two minutes, I ran into our friend Raymond, who related a few childhood memories about his pets.

As a youngster he went with his dad to the vet's office to get their hunting dogs' tails clipped.  As the vet handed young Raymond the tails, he told him the "secret" to puppy reproduction.  Excited, Raymond went home and did just as he had been told, he planted the tails in a bed of sand.  He said he kept watch each time he went outside, but they never did grow new puppies.

It was only a little while later when this same vet presented Raymond with a dog, Queen.  Queen was a natural bobtail but everyone played along when Raymond exclaimed "She doesn't have a tail!"

"Well, you're right," the vet responded.  "We'll just have to order her one."

On each subsequent trip, young Raymond would ask about Queen's tail, but each time was told it had to be returned either because it was the wrong color, too small, or a different dog type.  They never did get the right one.

As I sit here glancing through Picasso inspired window blinds, I hope to catch a glimpse of the fur ball with a wandering spirit who over time has become ours.

The last time we say Smokey, he slipped out of his collar and bounded off with rear legs flying high like a jackrabbit, on to add another adventure to life.  We've come across others who have seen him on his trek.

Though his name changes depending on who feeds or plays with him, he's still the same friendly guy who lavishes the games of tug and gives slobbery kisses to anyone in range.

He's certainly touched a lot of lives.  I figure one day both past and present caretakers of this free spirit will unknowingly come together and begin to share his story, piece by piece.  We should be really easy to spot you know.  We'll be the ones at the local home improvement store ordering bulk loads of window blinds.