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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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March 15, 2001

You Lucky Dog

If you grew up with animals, odds are you eventually wound up with one that just didn't fit in. Somehow, someway one of the dogs you had was either unable to get the house breaking thing down just right or turned out to be a little too aggressive with older ladies. (Which was actually a nice way of saying she bit them whenever she was able). Or perhaps that cute little cat had a tendency to jump up on the old man's bare chest at 3:00 AM claws fully extended.

Whatever the reason, there's a very good chance you had an animal that was "taken to the farm."

We had one. Her name was Jenny, and she was a unique beast to be sure. Part hound, part nuclear powered torpedo, Jenny was basically a Basset on stilts. Her ears were quite a bit shorter than the prototype, which wouldn't have mattered one way or the other because they were never in any danger of hitting the ground. My friend Bill Martin and I selected Jenny as a pup from the local SPCA based largely on the fact that she was cute and adorable.

This is not to be confused with mute and affordable. Words my father would soon realize could not be used in the same sentence with "Jenny".

The dog could bark. I mean really bark. Her hound heritage had given her the propensity to practice the craft, and whatever the breed was that had given her those long legs had also given her a voice box that could be heard for distances measured in parsecs, not miles.

But this wasn't her worst trait, nor certainly her most expensive. That, we would later discover, was an inextricable disdain for walking canes and anyone found to be in possession thereof. We never fully discovered from whence her distaste came, but our best guess was that someone had beaten her "faganesque" with one before she had ever arrived at the Society for the prevention of such things.
Whatever the case, she had an aversion for anyone possessing one that was nothing short of maniacal.

Fortunately none of her attacks resulted in the types of injuries that might require professional medical treatment, but by the time she had gnawed the high heels off her 3rd elderly neighbor, Jenny was well on her way to the "farm". But an amazing thing happened on the way. While stopping for cigarettes at a nearby "Bantam Market" (If you remember those you ARE old), Pop actually ran into an honest to goodness "farmer".

"Nice dog you got there buddy - think she can hunt a coon?"

"You bet ya", came Dad's wry reply. He saw no reason she couldn't tree coons as well as old ladies with canes.

"Wanna sell her?", came the response.

Dad gave the young man the full story of where this particular "hunter" had been and where she was presently headed. He appreciated his honesty.

"I'll take her", he said.

And off Jenny went riding into the sunset in the back of a rusted out pickup with 2 other purebred coon hounds that we later heard had made her the "Queen of the Kennel".

That was one lucky dog.

"Patrick" however, wasn't so lucky.

Patrick was my wife's sister's dog. Well, kind of - actually he was more sometimes my wife's sister's dog, sometimes her parents, sometimes whoever would take him when it didn't suit anyone else -'s dog. A pretty decent little Border Collie mix that had strayed into the hearts of them all, but was never able to transition into full family status due to his high degree of energy and inability to keep a low profile while living in an apartment complex.

Ultimately Patrick began to spend more and more time at the home of my father in law who finally decided that the best thing for the dog, himself and everyone else concerned was for Patrick to head on out to the "farm". And in the great American tradition he lied through his teeth - painting the best picture possible for all the little nieces and nephews that might question young Patrick's absence at the next big family dinner. I think that farm had "over 200 acres for a dog to run."

But there was one thing he hadn't counted on...

The Roanoke Times, "Pet of The Week".

Yup. There big and bold and bright as the Saturday morning on which it was delivered was Patrick's smiling mug on page 2 of the Extra Section. The caption read :

"This week's Pet of The Week is ‘Patrick', a wonderful Border Collie mix who is great with children ! All this dog needs is...

Carl was busted and busted big. If it hadn't been so funny, my wife and her siblings probably would've killed him. Lucky for him Patrick was adopted later that day by a young family in possession of the kind of real estate needed for a daring young pup as he.

Which just goes to show... every dog - even the "unlucky ones" - has their day.