Fuzzy

    Fuzzy arrived by train from Dumas, Texas. He walked out of the crate bearing his name and threw up on the kitchen floor.

    It was Fuzzy's way of joining the family. And seeing who would clean up after him.

    Since he was my dog, my mother cleaned it up.

    I was seven when Fuzzy arrived. He was about six weeks old. A Scotty, a gift from a cousin, he was my constant companion until someone dognapped him while I was away at college.

    Fuzzy's eyes sparkled and he always seemed to be smiling.

    He never tasted dog food. He thrived on human scraps.

    He loved to roam the countryside and explore.

    Fuzzy never got excited about anything. He never hunted, though he did enjoy running through a flock of chickens and making them scatter.

    Next to me, Fuzzy's best friends were three ducks: Larry, Curly, and Moe.

    Fuzzy and the ducks would nap together in the shade on hot summer afternoons, then waddle together down the road, up the hill, through the barbed wire fence, and across the pasture for a swim in the stock tank. In Texas, it's not a pond, it's a tank.

    Fuzzy only shedded hair on the front half of his body. The back half just got hairier and funnier-looking and extremely susceptible to cockle burrs and goatheads. Texans say "cuckle" burrs.

    Fuzzy's burrs and stickers made his rubbing against your leg a lot less endearing.

    A goathead won't come out of a dog's hair until you stick it in your finger and bleed on it. Cuckle burrs can be removed only with scissors.

    Fuzzy loved to pick peaches. He never ate the peaches, he just liked to jump straight up and try to grab the low-hangers in his mouth. He'd try again and again, sometimes for hours.

    Fuzzy went to school, about a mile from our home. The problem was he wouldn't just hang around outside waiting for me. He'd sneak through a door, scamper up the stairs, and stick his nose into each classroom until he found me. The school superintendent, Miles Murphy, one of the great Texas educators and shop teachers of the 20th century, had a no-tolerance policy on animals in class. So I had to tie Fuzzy each morning to a post at home. Incredibly, he still smiled when I returned each afternoon.

    But Fuzzy got even. During the summer, he showed up at the school looking for me and found Mr. Murphy, who was doing some painting. Murphy painted Fuzzy's black tail white.

    Within minutes Fuzzy sneaked inside and wagged his wet white tail against the green wall up and down both sides of the school hallway.

    Fuzzy almost never barked. He wasn't afraid of anyone. He was just a good old country dog.

    Then one day, as my 13-year-old buddy waddled along Texas state highway 289, a neighbor saw someone stop and invite Fuzzy into a car. I never saw him again.

    And my face hasn't had a good lickin' since.

Feedback