Smid...in song...Part 2.

I heard Queen singing their song "Bohemian Rhapsody" while pulling up to the convenience store the other day. Instantly it hit me. That was a "Smid song". "I'm just a poor Smid, from a poor fam-i-lee..."

Here's a picture of Smid and his "Dad". Note the unauthorized biting of Dad. That was one of the rules that Sidney was prone to break. "Don't bite Dad." This was taken during a period when Smid wormed his way into our hearts by being what we called, "intentionally fuzzy". If you're fuzzy, you can get away with a lot more stuff than if you aren't. He was also good at batting his eyes and looking sad when he was being scolded. Melissa would ask him, "do you want to go to the pound?" and he would use both his sad eyes and his fuzziness to deflect from the topic. No one wants to go to the pound.

Travel dog II

When traveling East on I20, I liked to listen to the oldies rock stations. I'd bring music, but I'd get tired of it after a while and start playing the radio. All the oldies rock stations seemed similar along there. As soon as I'd get out of range of one, I'd find another. They'd be playing, basically the same stuff and the same commercials.

Smid would sometimes start acting oddly when were riding along. He'd start in the front passenger seat but then he'd start trying to ride in my lap. Then he'd go back to the passenger seat. Then into the back seat and/or the back floorboard. Sometimes he'd try and ride in the front floor near the brake and clutch pedals. A no-no. It would get tough fighting him off. It's hard to drive a 5-speed with all of his antics going on. He'd eventually calm down and go back to sleeping in the front seat.

It took some time to figure out what was bothering him. I started out thinking he was just a freaky little dog or he was losing it or he was getting senile. Then I noticed this cell phone commercial that came on the radio. They did their spiel and they'd play some sort of high-pitched cell phone noise. I noticed Smid started freaking out, right after that. It was the noise that was bothering him. You know how they are with commercials. They play the same ones over and over. I had to stay alert and shut the radio off before that tweeting noise, that was bothering him, came on.

One other time, we got caught in a thunder storm in Southern Alabama. I was trying to get to Meridian MS, before dark, to get to the Motel 6. Suddenly a large cloud moved in and it started raining extremely hard. It was one of those rains where I was leaning on top of the steering wheel and trying to see out the front window. I wanted desperately to pull over but I couldn't see what was on the side of the road, or even if there was a side of the road. Every time I looked into my rear-view mirror, all I could see were the lights of the semi that seemed to be on my back bumper.

It was a loud storm. Lots of thunder and lightening. The rain on the roof of the car was loud too. The whole thing freaked Smidley completely out. He shook and shook. He was inconsolable. I talked to him. I held him. I told him he was an itty-bitty baby. Nothing worked. Even after a nights sleep, he was freaky. I went to a few places I had planned on going, but Smid was freaking me out too. We ended up going home after a couple of days instead of three or four days, like I'd planned. Sidney was a great companion, usually. He was good company. But not when he was being freaky like that.

Travel Dog

In his day, Smid wore many hats. Or he would have, if he could have gotten one over his mo-hawk, or his ears. Sometimes, Smid was a Travel Dog.

I used to take genealogy researching trips. I left him at home on short trips but if I thought I was going to be gone for a while, like when I had a week off, I'd take Smid with me. Motel 6 became a big player because they accept small pets. I went into one, one time, and the lady behind the counter asked if he was small. I looked over my shoulder and pointed toward the car. Smid was up on his hind legs with his paws on the steering wheel. I pointed toward the car and said, "there he is." She said, "yeah, he's small." I said, "he's itty-bitty." That was an inside joke. You could sweet talk Smid and he'd get all fuzzy and bat his eyes, especially if you told him he was an itty-bitty beebee (baby). He ate that up for some reason.

One of the deals with taking Smid was frequent bathroom breaks. There's a roadside park on Highway 69, North of Minela Texas that I glance at, to this day, when I drive by. I think to myself, there's Smid's place. He tried to take the bark off of many a tree at that roadside park. You'd have to watch him because he'd try and lift his leg on all of the trees at the park. The little fella only had so much water. After a while, he was only ritualistically hiking his leg, symbolically urinating. I have better things to do with my time than watch that.

Since we'd usually head East on I20, we stopped at many roadside parks. He'd take his time at each one. He'd sniff around until he found just the right spot. It was at the Motel 6 when I discovered his "finish" trigger word. It was some handy information to know. Especially when the wind was blowing.

Smid...in song.

Melissa and I had the habit of slipping Smid's name in the midst of song lyrics. They just seemed to fit. We'd play something in the car and sing along to whatever, sometimes. It depended on the song. I'm a Poconut so something Poco related might be playing.

An example would be Timothy B. Schmit's CD, "Tell Me the Truth" & the song, "Something Sad". It contains the lyrics, "something sad about it baby". That can easily be changed to "something sad about it Smidley". One day we were riding with that song playing and singing along. When we got to that part, Melissa's friend, E.D. asked,"is that where you got Smid's name?" Melissa and I just laughed and explained. To look at Smid, you wouldn't expect him to inspire song, but inspiration is where you find it. "ssssSmid!"

I saw the song on YouTube the other day and just had to link it on Facebook and, yep, I sang along and thought of Smidley. There's something sad about it...and worth a smile.

Loretta left a void

It the last few years, since Smid's death, we've had a Basset Hound named Loretta (pronounced Low-retta). Melissa brought her home when Loretta was two weeks old. The mother had quit feeding her litter. We bonded with Loretta early, because we got Loretta early. Loretta looked like one of those "pound puppies". One of those little stuffed toys. All sad eyes, long ears and big feet. I can't imagine a cuter puppy than Loretta. Her looks went straight to your heart. Smid never thought much of her, but by then, he couldn't see much and he was an old dog. She was just a nuisance to Smid but they adjusted and just ended up not bothering each other.

Eventually, after the deaths of Smid, Sadie the German Shepard mix and her daughter Honey, Loretta evolved into an only dog and the apple of her Dad's eye. Loretta was the definition of "laid back". She acted like she wanted to be fed, take a nap and be left alone. With her looks, it was hard not to love on Loretta. That seemed to annoy Loretta. She put up with it. Affection needed to be on her terms. She'd wag her tail when she'd see me, but she didn't seem to want me to get carried away with all that hugging and stuff. She liked to have her back scratched, but when the scratching was over, she wanted to get on with her regularly scheduled nap.

Like with Smid, I have many memories of Loretta. The reason I'm writing this is, my dear friend Loretta has passed away due to complications from heart worms. She was over 8 years old. She left a void that Luvy, her canine sister of about two years, and I are left behind to deal with. Loretta had Sunday dinners with my parents (her grandparents), and their dog Barney. It was very few Sundays that Loretta wasn't eating people food, hand fed, from their table. Loretta left a void.

As with Smid, numerous stories.

Before and after pics. Before Loretta lost patience and after.

Loretta was about 6 months old in these photos.

Do ya?

Smid taught me to be careful what I was teaching him, because...you never know.

When we first got Sidney, naturally we tried to house break him. Teach him where to do his business. He was a stubborn little toot. He couldn't seem to get over how convenient it was to go, just wherever. You could tell by the look on his face that he understood what you wanted him to do, but it was like he was deciding if that's what he wanted to do.

We tried to implant in his mind, the concept of "outside", but what ended up happening was slightly altered. I suppose it came from the phrase, "do ya want to go outside?" In our human minds, we focused on "outside". We found out that wasn't Smid's focus. We'd say, "Smid, do ya want to go outside?" and he'd get an alert look on his face, but that was it. After a period of time asking that question and realizing he was reacting, but not acting like he wanted to go outside, I said, "well...do ya?" and he barked in recognition. His "outside" trigger word was "do ya". After that, we'd go through the routine of asking him if he wanted to go outside and watching him become alert and then asking the follow up, "do ya?" question. He'd go outside if a human was there to let him out. If no one was there...then wherever.

As a corollary, I found out on vacation, when he and I stayed at motels, and I walked him on a leash, that he had another trigger word. "Finish". I'd walk him and he'd sniff. He had to smell all the umpteen dogs that had gone before. He would take his time. It would be an interminable wait. One time, I said, "come on Sidney, finish!" and he gave one last sniff and got into his potty-going stance. It was as if he was saying, "oh, OK" and he'd go. After that, I'd give him a little sniff-time and then say, "finish" and he was pretty good about wrapping things up so we could go back in.

Who Mohawked that baby?

As the smallest member of the family, Smid sometimes got caught in situations, not of his own doing. He had his own doings, just not always.

Sometimes Sidney got caught in "his sister's" sphere of influence. For some reason, she could pretty much do him anyway she wanted. Had "his brother" tried something, Smid would have growled and shown his teeth. His sister could comb his hair and groom him with no reaction. He'd act like the compliant puppy. It was not uncommon for her to be able to have him in her lap and flip him over by grabbing all his feet at once, and he wouldn't try to get up and run away. He'd just lay there, batting his eyes. On one such occasion, he should have shown his teeth.

When I drove up to the house, I could see Smid chained in his usual spot. Except this time, something was different. When I got out of the car and walked up to him, he greeted me, but something was amiss. Someone had combed the hair on the top of his head in a "spike" and the spike was blue. Upon closer inspection, I could see that "someone" had painted his toenails blue, to match. I had my suspect.

When I went into the house, I uttered the question, "Alright, who Mohawked that baby?" Of course it was his sister. She started laughing. Who else could it have been? No one else could have controlled him long enough to do something like that. Anyone else would have been bitten or he would have hid in his rat's nest.

His sister was in junior high at the time, and the subject became part of something in English or Literature class. "Who Mohawked that baby?"

I tried to explain to her that Smid had his standing in the neighborhood. Who could take a watch dog seriously, that had a blue Mohawk and blue toenails? What would the other dogs think? Smidley should have bitten his sister, for general principles.

Living off the fat of the land...

Living with teenagers, Smidley learned to live off the fat of the land. With his bad eyesight, he morphed into a nose dominated little critter. He loved him some people food. Fast food was his favorite. Since teenagers aren't apt to put things away properly, he'd discover, and appropriate, all kinds of little goodies. If a person was to leave a burger sack, with fries, laying around, they wouldn't expect it to be there later if a person was to walk off. Smid was like a thief in the night, or the day for that matter.

My son was always involved in a running battle with Smidley over food. For some reason Smid considered himself an equal with Todd and therefore had equal rights to any and all food that Todd might have. Sometimes I'd hear Todd cussing Smid and griping that Smid had snatched some bit of food off of the coffee table. I'd tell Todd that Smid had not changed his M.O. over time. If you leave something unattended, Smid would get it. Don't expect any other behavior. He has his tried and true methods.

Then there was the "rat's nest". It was behind his favorite sofa, in the corner of the room. When Smid was in trouble, or feeding on his ill-gotten bounty, he'd go to, what I called, his rat's nest. Every once in a while, I'd look back there, usually when I was looking for Smid, and I'd see all manner of objects in that corner. Fast food wrappers, sacks, dog toys...my daughter's underwear(?). You name it. It was like an archeological dig. You could tell what Smid had been up to since the last rat's nest cleaning. Judging from what was back there, Smid must have had the constitution of a goat, or at least a similar diet. He appeared to be willing to eat, and/or, chew on anything.

The further adventures...

In the living room, the sofa is against the wall adjacent to the front door. That was one of Smidley's favorite spots. If the front door was open, he could get up there and look out the screen door and put his little nose in the wind. That way he could smell what was going on.

If someone knocked on the door, Smid would go crazy until he found out who it was. Smid was only friendly to family. With anyone else, he was hard to calm down. I usually had to hold him back with one hand when I opened the door. He came in handy when people from various churches came by to chat. They usually didn't stay long.

I missed my chance at the "witty" remark one day when a couple of cute girls came by from the Latter Day Saints. The remark occurred to me after I closed the door. It would've had something to do with Sidney getting the runs the last time he ate a missionary. Oh well, maybe in Smid's next life.

Go ahead...

Sidney was a constant source of amusement. At the same time, he was a filthy little beast, with filthy habits. Filthy to humans, that is. To him, it was just business as usual.

One of his things was cleaning himself, with gusto. He didn't care who, what, where. When the mood struck, he'd go to cleaning. By cleaning, I meaning licking himself in a most unmanly way. As a dog, such actions are perfectly acceptable. To humans, it was strictly X-rated stuff. People pay money to see such things, although I don't think anyone would pay to see Smid and his antics. If he was quiet about it, that would be one thing. Sidney was anything but quiet and anything but shy. He'd start going to town in any setting.

One such occasion was at Christmas time one year. My brother-in-law and I were sitting in the living room with a football game on and the kids playing in various parts of the house. Seeing as how Sidney was family, he was there also. Before long we noticed the noise of Sidney as he cleaned himself. There he was, in the living room in front of the TV. A person would've had to be deaf or blind not to notice. My brother-in-law, attempting to be funny, remarked, " I wish I could do that!" Not skipping a beat, I said, "Go ahead, but I think he might bite you!"

It was the old, I-think-he-might-bite-you joke and my brother-in-law fell right into it. Ya gotta take your shots when you can get 'em. You never know when the opportunity will come again.

Smidford P. Smidford

Smid didn't want any mail. Or at least it didn't appear that he wanted any.

Let me explain. In order for Smidley to "do his business" he was required to be chained to the handrail beside the front porch. That way he could hang out, do his business, and not be accidentally bitten by Willie, our German Shepard, who lived in the back yard. When Smid had to go, it was much easier to put him in the front.

One of the requirements was to not leave Smid out if the mail hasn't been delivered. Smid barked and growled at the mailman. Part of his problem was, Smid had cataracts. His eyesight was very poor. He was frightened by noises, such as someone walking on our wooden front porch. Inside or outside, Sidney was enlivened by noises on the front porch. If Smid was outside, we got no mail. When the mail was finally delivered, had he been left out, the mailman wrote on a piece of mail, "dog on porch". It was that "vicious" that inspired his name. I never saw him bite anybody, but he sure gave the impression that he would. Sidney was very unfriendly to strangers. We even got a circular from the post office explaining how many mail carriers are bitten by dogs each year. That was fruitless. We knew about all that, but the one doing the, potential, biting didn't know how to read and if he could, he couldn't see well enough to read.

It was speculated that the reason Smid wouldn't let the mailman on the porch was, he never got any mail. He never got any mail until one day, some sort of music-type magazine arrived addressed to "Smidford P. Smidford" with our address on it. Nope, it didn't make Sidney change his ways. He still acted like he didn't want any mail.

Smid...

Smid was a puppy given to my children, by their mother. Her boyfriend wouldn't let her keep a dog at their house, so he got to live at my house.

When she brought him over, he was this fuzzy, white and brown, ball of fur. Dark eyes and black nose. He was cute as a button, as most puppies are. His ancestry was questionable. Allegedly, a Maltese/Fox Terrier mix. The hope was that he'd be more of the Maltese-type and weigh under 10 pounds, rather than take after the 15-20 pound Fox Terrier. He was more in the, none-of-the-above category. His adult weight settled at 22 pounds. Not a big dog but not a little dog.

What to name the puppy became the discussion. Being a puppy and having children to play with, he loved to play. He had needle sharp teeth and a little growl that sounded something like one of those model airplane engines. Someone mentioned that he sounded like the noise a possum makes. I can't confirm that. I've never heard a possum make a noise that didn't sound like a hiss.

We all agreed that he sounded, in his own way, like he was "vicious". Coupled with those needle-teeth, he was. We decided he was "Sid Vicious". Named after either the pro wrestler or the punk rocker. We didn't care which. We started calling him, "Sid" or "Sidney", which somehow morphed into, "Smidley". I'm not sure how. Surely it happened over the course of time and through attempts at humor. "Smid" became the short form of  "Smidley". He was called Sid/Sidney/Smidley/Smid almost in equal measure. He knew who you were talking to, and about. I think he mostly clued in on the inflection. After a while, my daughter and I started saying, "Smid", dragging out the "s" and using some sort of inflection like when Jerry Seinfeld said the name, "Newman". It was unique between Smid and his humans.

Smid, very early on, coming out of his stance.

More later...

Put a handle on it...

When a person signs up to blog, we're required to come up with a handle to identify ourselves. That can be a head scratch-er. Do we assign something to ourselves at random? Do we use what someone else might call us? Surely we wouldn't want to do that. Some things we're called can be unkind or not-too-flattering. Some could be unprintable and violate site rules or rules of decorum. If I was to use any of the terms of endearment from any of my exes (who incidentally, all live in Texas), I might get run out of here.

What I did was settle on the handle, "Delectable Dave". No, I'm not really "delectable", there's a story behind it. It involves my misspent youth.

Back in the day, I was a cigarette smoker. My brand of choice was "Doral". I have no idea if it's still a brand or not, since I've long since left my smoking days behind. Back then, the running joke or banter was that I was going to smoke a "delicious, delightful, delectable Doral", as if those adjectives described what I was smoking. Really, any cigarette is far from that, Dorals included. Every once in a while, I'd say, "delicious, delightful, delectable Dave", just to change things up. Maybe it was the beer talking. After all, it was my misspent youth. I'm not always proud of it, but it was where I was at the time. Some of that stuff I haven't lived down to this very day. Perhaps this blog thing can be therapeutic. Maybe helpful in exorcising some of those old demons.

Anyway, like it or not, on here, I'm "Delectable Dave". Deal with it.

Let me throw this out there...

The inaugural first post. The kick off to what may, or may not, be a series of scintillating, entertaining blog posts. My first thought was to not get "blogged down", until I realized the term was "bogged down", as in getting stuck in a bog or swampy place. Let's not do that.

Blogging. Writing something on this Internet thing in hopes that someone will want to read it. Is it an ego thing or is just the way of this new-fangled cyber world  that we seem to find ourselves in these days? Does anyone really want to read these things? I suppose blogging can be educational, or be like the Led Zepplin song, "Ramble On". Part of the words to that is, "the time, the time, the time is now." Ready or not, here I come. I hope to entertain more people than myself. If not, I hope to have fun, anyway.