Before the Hot Dog….

Many of you who know me, already know about my third child, my little dachshund Sir Charles. However, my first exposure to having a dog as a pet, was when I was 12. My Dad rescued a pup from his mail route in Hamilton Beach, Queens. He was a mixed breed dog with beautiful markings and a spunky spirit. As a puppy, he was a ball of fur and never barked for the first couple of weeks he was in our home. Little did we know just how yappy he was going to become.

A little history behind that dog and myself. When I was much younger, I was attacked by a dog as I was walking into a baseball field while in my uniform. I was all of maybe 6 or 7 years old at the time. I was already a little intimidated by bigger dogs, but this just created a whole other level of fear. For years, from that point forward, I would avoid dogs at all costs.

Back in the 70s, roaming the streets of Queens, it was not that uncommon to encounter a stray dog. They were usually harmless, but some could be more aggressive than others. I would often avoid certain streets I knew where the strays were running about. On more than one occasion, I think I even jumped on the hood of a car to avoid an encounter with one of these street canines.

My Dad figured this was not healthy and perhaps the only way for me to get over the fear would be to bring a dog into the house. My mom wanted no part of it and my brother and sister were older than me and spending less time at home. That meant I would have more time and responsibility with the dog.

He brought home one dog that was already full grown. He was rather hairy and smelly and very energetic. I never even had the chance to get attached, as my mom showed my Dad the door. I should say, she showed him the door in which to take the dog out through and make sure the smelly pooch never returned.

Less than a year later it was the Fall of 1973. The Mets were having one of those crazy miraculous seasons. It was the year they made the late season comeback driven by the infamous battle cry of Tug McGraw, “You Gotta Believe!!!” They made it to the World Series against the heavily favored A’s. They had a 3-2 lead in the series and then went back to Oakland and blew it. Needless to say I was very upset. At 12 years old the Mets were still the most important thing in my life, besides my immediate family.

As timing would have it, my Dad came across a bunch of puppies on his mail route in Hamilton Beach. A woman who’s dog had the puppies asked my Dad if he wanted one. I guess the combination of him still trying to get me over my fear of dogs and wanting to cheer me up after the Mets demise in the World Series, he decided to take a shot and bring home a puppy.

I remember it was a rainy chilly late October day and my Dad came home from work and asked me to go back into the the car, “I forgot something on the front seat, can you get it?”

When I opened that car door and there sitting and shivering on the front seat was this ridiculously adorable puppy, I just remember scooping him up into my arms.

I named him Buddy. Not because of the old school thinking, my dog is my buddy. I named him Buddy, after my favorite Met, number 3, Derrel Mckinley “Buddy” Harrelson.

Buddy was not the best behaved puppy. He certainly found his voice. In fact, he loved to hear himself bark. He also had major teething issues and destroyed the corners of coffee tables and dining room furniture as well as many shoes and slippers while sharpening his new teeth. This also almost earned him a one way ticket out the door but his face saved him more than a few times and my Dad could never do it.

Buddy had a pattern of running away periodically, but would always return. Apparently he was of the streets and his genes kept calling him back. As the years went by, he took to staying close to my grandmother who had a room by herself in the back of the house. Buddy would spend most of his time sleeping there and staying close to my Nanna. We would often joke that he was my Grandpa who came back to taunt, but also watch over Nanna.

To that point, one time when Buddy got loose to roam, we received a phone call almost three days after he escaped. The call came from the security of Maple Grove Cemetery in Kew Gardens, Queens. First of all the cemetery was nearly 4 miles away, across many major boulevards and avenues. The fact he survived that was pretty amazing. However, the other curious point was that Maple Grove cemetery was the resting place of my grandpa. Coincidence? Who knows. But it added to the legend of Buddy.

In the late summer of 1983 he took one of his sojourns, but never returned. I remember my mom who never wanted that dog or any dog crying like a baby when we realized he was never coming back. What is it about dogs and our pets that creates this unique bond. To those who have never had a pet, you will not understand. Those that have, know the speciality of these relationships.

Buddy came into my life to cheer me up, keep my Nanna company, and just give our family another reason to bond. Hence was the legend of Buddy. He seemingly rode off into the sunset.

Many years later another four-legged puppy came into my life and let’s just say my life was never the same. I’m sure he will get his blog time. Ok. If you insist….here’s a couple of pictures.

As always…if you’ve gotten this far, thank you. Sunshine Always!!!