DEAR EDITOR: “What’s up, Dog?” I have been fond of dogs since my childhood. These are a few characteristics of one male dog in particular that I owned and tried to understand his habits. Hoss was a large male German Shepherd. At one time his weight was over 150 pounds. He could lick any dog in the neighborhood, literally. Hoss was “bad.” That means better than good in street talk. At certain times for no longer than two weeks, Hoss loved his beautiful female companion, Sheeba, that lived here with him. From their part-time relationships, Sheeba was the caring mother of 42 offsprings. Even though all of their pups resembled Hoss, he never displayed any sign of affection for them, nor a sense of pride. After the two-week excruciating love affair would be over, Hoss would be off and running again. At times, he would be gone for as much as four days and nights. He roamed long distances from home, getting into as much as he could, literally, but never doing anything that was expected of him around the house. He never had to worry about where his next meal was coming from, or a good companion, so one need not be at a loss as to his quest. As other dogs were being shot and killed on the streets by vehicles and poisoned by intimidated or envious neighbors, I often worried that the same might happen to him. He lost his left eye out there when he was 6 years old. Someone or something almost cracked his skull when he was 8 years old. He had many fights that it seemed as though he had certainly lost. Hoss’s pace was at its fastest at ages from 5 to 9 years of age. When he was 11, climbing over the fence was getting to be a thing of the past. I would sit and observe the expression on his wrinkled face and wonder if he was probably reminiscing his good times. Could he have been thinking of all of the pups he had out there, and wondering which of those were really his, and where they were, and whether or not they were being taken care of by another dog or on welfare? I also often wondered if he thought of their mothers that he spent a couple of weeks with. How they must have cried and suffered, raising his brood without his protection from other dogs or his help to find a daily supply of food. Had he forgotten that moment of bliss? Hoss passed away at age 14. He was just a frame of what was once a “bad” dog. If anyone can accept being called “dog” with pride after this story, my only hope for you is that you get past 14.

Clarence Watkins

LaPlace