Doug Blough and Naomi

At our last rendezvous, I introduced yous, (where I’m from, we don’t say “y’all”) to my maternally named Naomi, but a picture is worth a thousand words, which would take me way past my word-count limit. As you’ve likely already noticed, I look nowhere near my recently-celebrated 68, a mere 10 years older than Naomi in the proverbial dog years. We’re both young pups at heart.

I’m no one-trick-pony, but let’s stay on the subject of animals and pet-related matters. As much as I’ve grown to adore Naomi in our two short months together, I’ll always miss my sweet Ginger-girl I was forced to say goodbye to a few months ago. She was the most perfectly behaved dog I’ve ever had the pleasure of trailing with a pooper-scooper for six years, but one evening stands out as the moment I fell hopelessly in love. Heading home, I had a powerful hankering for the Pat O’Hara’s Saturday special, corned beef and cabbage. I’m a hog for corned beef.

Driving up Doug Blough Hill, (East Sheridan, unofficially renamed) towards my house, I remembered my niece Tessa was playing in the city tennis tournament. I backtracked, parked, bid Ginger a temporary farewell and watched tennis for about twenty minutes before it hit me like a car battery to the back of the head: “My corned beef!” I says to niece-in-law Cindy, “Good God, I left my CB&C on my passenger seat two feet away from Ginger.”

I knew that hot, wafting scent was like a French poodle in heat for my new friend. Shielded only by a flimsy styrofoam container, it would take only a slight nudge with a wet nose to reach the promised land. I mean to tell ya, I went charging that 50 yards like a starving man obsessed with corned beef, risking a coronary demise. And there was sweet Ginger, sitting high and proud in my driver’s seat, my succulent dinner untouched, its aromatic seduction a wasted effort.

I knew then how special she was, but few know I almost lost her to a clueless kidnapper who thankfully only managed to get a few miles down the road. The clueless one was Powell’s own Dave Beemer, who I had been consoling in the CMA parking lot after church about his beloved dog Mowgli, lost the previous evening somewhere out in the boonies. As he’s ready to hop into his pickup, I urged him to get back up to that wilderness he and son-in-law Sam had searched feverishly the previous night.

After he drove off, I realized Ginger was nowhere in sight. Many times I had bragged how she never goes near a highway and always stays near my side, and now she was gone. A large part of the church congregation now joined in the search, when after about fifteen panicked minutes, I see a white truck pulling up with a bald head jutting from the window yelling: “Anybody lose a dog?” At first I thought it was Don Rickles, but soon realized it was Beemer; Ginger had bounded, ever so discreetly, into his open driver door and settled with nary a sound into his back seat almost as if she was trying to flee an abusive situation.

Now back in my arms, I hugged her with an undeniable, undying love, but I’m sure more than one judgmental Christian was muttering, “Sure, he puts on a show in public, but who knows how he treats that poor dog behind closed doors. She was obviously trying to escape the abuse.”

Ginger’s gone now, but the Lord once again blessed me with the perfect, gentle companion in a holy union no man shall put asunder. Naomi loves to sleep as much as I do, but get her outside and she’ll “go 100 and never look back.” (Actually she always looks back to make sure I’m still there). This gal is a definite Godsend keeper.

I should mention the Beemer hound, Mowgli was eventually found by a deputy in the back seat of a broken-down vehicle with a motley crew unconvincingly claiming noble intentions. Dave’s wife Cindy was ecstatic her precious Mowgli was home, but apparently far less elated he was accompanied by the husband. Of course, that’s purely conjecture on my part.