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- Sharp Edges
Sharp Edges
- By Chuck Palomino
- Published 02/10/2009
- Columnists , Feb 11
- Unrated
Chuck Palomino
View all articles by Chuck Palomino
By Chuck Palomino
Coquille is a city of dogs I have always told my wife that I didn't care much for dogs. That wasn't exactly true. It's just that my experiences with the canine set have always been less than positive. I had a dog when I was a young boy. A little kid in bare feet and coveralls needed a dog to complete the picture. It wasn't the "Old Shep" of country song and lore. It was a stray that came to our small house in the desert one day.
My mother fed it and like my father it would disappear for short periods of secrecy but always return. The dog never had much sense and an encounter with a milk delivery truck left it with one leg less than its peers. I named the three-legged dog Rocky. After the accident my father always called it Stubby. My memories of that dog are like bits of a dream that fade when you try to remember details after awaking from a restless sleep. I never thought much about dogs after those childhood days. I grew up, got married and was blessed with a child. As the kid got older my wife suggested with subtle hints that to complete our family we needed a dog.
I resisted. The suggestions evolved. They finally arrived at, "if you love me." So, we went looking for a dog. Ain't love grand? The dog, Josie, was destined to have a short sweet life and left this earth under the wheels of a motor home from out of state. My wife and daughter grieved. I was tasked with bringing the dogs lifeless body deep into the woods and without the ceremony it deserved, interring it.
As I said goodbye to Josie I vowed that this would be the last dog I would own. I was convinced that I was bad news for dogs. Of course this was not to be. Several years later a friend was ending a short unhappy marriage to a woman who had only periods of spotty rationality. They had a dog that they wanted to have a good home. I know that dogs sometimes mirror their owner's looks or personalities. In this case if my friend's wife was certifiable
or to state in the vernacular nuttier than a sack of squirrels, the dog was a perfect reflection. This hound could never seem to decide whether it wanted to be inside or outside.
When outside it would run full speed and launch its body against the back door. When inside it would whine and bark to be let out. Beyond annoying was the habit of eating anything rubber or plastic. This resulted in the loss of at least three new bicycle tires, several garden hoses, and a plastic laundry basket. I was convinced that this mutts mission in life was to terrorize me. Well...he wound up on a ranch where he had plenty of room to be as crazy as he needed to be. By the year 2000, my daughter had grown, left home and was gainfully employed in Seattle.
My wife and I, looking for a quieter life, moved to Coquille. Our house is near the park and even though my wife wouldn't broach the topic of another dog I would see her watching the daily parade of dog owners taking man's best friend to the park. She always commented on dogs riding in passing cars or on a leash in town. I knew she was pining away but my resolve was strong. Then one day an animal transport with Washington license plates arrived at our house. Into my life came a purebred, coal black two year old Pug dog, a gift to my wife from my daughter. This was Mr. Puggles. My wife hugged him with tears in her eyes.
She kept exclaiming, "Look how cute he is." In all honesty the last time I had seen a smashed face like that was in a movie. The face was on an animal hanging on the top of the Empire State Building swatting at airplanes. To make this long story short, Mr. Puggles is here to stay. My wife takes him for walks when it is warm, although he tires easily and is sometimes carried home. He spends cold mornings on my lap saying hello while I drink my coffee. I don't know what has happened to me. Have I fallen victim to a Coquille phenomenon? Maybe it is something in the water here. Maybe destiny and fate have been at work all along bringing me to this place. Even though I act jaded I think my wife suspects that a puppy has finally found a way to my hear.
Coquille is a city of dogs I have always told my wife that I didn't care much for dogs. That wasn't exactly true. It's just that my experiences with the canine set have always been less than positive. I had a dog when I was a young boy. A little kid in bare feet and coveralls needed a dog to complete the picture. It wasn't the "Old Shep" of country song and lore. It was a stray that came to our small house in the desert one day.
My mother fed it and like my father it would disappear for short periods of secrecy but always return. The dog never had much sense and an encounter with a milk delivery truck left it with one leg less than its peers. I named the three-legged dog Rocky. After the accident my father always called it Stubby. My memories of that dog are like bits of a dream that fade when you try to remember details after awaking from a restless sleep. I never thought much about dogs after those childhood days. I grew up, got married and was blessed with a child. As the kid got older my wife suggested with subtle hints that to complete our family we needed a dog.
I resisted. The suggestions evolved. They finally arrived at, "if you love me." So, we went looking for a dog. Ain't love grand? The dog, Josie, was destined to have a short sweet life and left this earth under the wheels of a motor home from out of state. My wife and daughter grieved. I was tasked with bringing the dogs lifeless body deep into the woods and without the ceremony it deserved, interring it.
As I said goodbye to Josie I vowed that this would be the last dog I would own. I was convinced that I was bad news for dogs. Of course this was not to be. Several years later a friend was ending a short unhappy marriage to a woman who had only periods of spotty rationality. They had a dog that they wanted to have a good home. I know that dogs sometimes mirror their owner's looks or personalities. In this case if my friend's wife was certifiable
When outside it would run full speed and launch its body against the back door. When inside it would whine and bark to be let out. Beyond annoying was the habit of eating anything rubber or plastic. This resulted in the loss of at least three new bicycle tires, several garden hoses, and a plastic laundry basket. I was convinced that this mutts mission in life was to terrorize me. Well...he wound up on a ranch where he had plenty of room to be as crazy as he needed to be. By the year 2000, my daughter had grown, left home and was gainfully employed in Seattle.
My wife and I, looking for a quieter life, moved to Coquille. Our house is near the park and even though my wife wouldn't broach the topic of another dog I would see her watching the daily parade of dog owners taking man's best friend to the park. She always commented on dogs riding in passing cars or on a leash in town. I knew she was pining away but my resolve was strong. Then one day an animal transport with Washington license plates arrived at our house. Into my life came a purebred, coal black two year old Pug dog, a gift to my wife from my daughter. This was Mr. Puggles. My wife hugged him with tears in her eyes.
She kept exclaiming, "Look how cute he is." In all honesty the last time I had seen a smashed face like that was in a movie. The face was on an animal hanging on the top of the Empire State Building swatting at airplanes. To make this long story short, Mr. Puggles is here to stay. My wife takes him for walks when it is warm, although he tires easily and is sometimes carried home. He spends cold mornings on my lap saying hello while I drink my coffee. I don't know what has happened to me. Have I fallen victim to a Coquille phenomenon? Maybe it is something in the water here. Maybe destiny and fate have been at work all along bringing me to this place. Even though I act jaded I think my wife suspects that a puppy has finally found a way to my hear.