A Very short dog tale

When my dad died, I left a guy, bought a house, and got a boxer.

My very first dog was a boxer, when I was a kid of maybe 4 or 5. At that age, I had a lot of time to myself. Can’t say how much exactly, but in retrospect, I expect pretty much. I remember dialing the number of neighbors we once knew in far off towns and states.

“Hi!” I’d say.

“Why, my goodness, is this Karin?” they’d answer.

I would call the operator from time to time. He or she was always nice, and I’d ask if they had ever seen a boxer with pink nose. Our boxer had a pink nose. One operator in particular that I remember answered, “Well, no I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog with a pink nose. Where’s your mom. Can I talk to her about your boxer?”

I don’t know how long this operator and I discussed boxers and pink noses, but I do recall it was a very satisfying conversation.

My boxer’s name was Box. Likely I was to blame for that, but can’t say for sure. I do remember his dog house, which was a perfect replica of our house, same colors, design, trim and everything. My dad built it. It had a mud room, and a main room, with a rubber flap in front that you could push up on to its roof.

When there was rain and lightening, and this was Seattle so probably almost all the time, Box and I would sit side-by-side in the main room, my arm around his shoulder, and it seems his was around mine – but that’s not physically possible, is it? In any case, we watched the weather together.

And sometimes, when the wind would change – south to north, we’d get drops of water on our face. And I’d lick his face and he’d lick mine. Is that gross? It didn’t seem so at the time. It doesn’t seem so now.

When my parents brought home a new baby, another family came to take my dog away. They arrived in a station wagon, and it took some work, getting Box in the car and keeping me out. But much as we struggled, Box and I, we knew this wouldn't turn out well, that ultimately, we had no real say in the matter. Finally, there he was, locked inside, leaping from back to front and side to side. They drove him away and we never saw each other again.

Many years later, and actually many dogs later, I got another boxer. Sometimes Phoebe and I would sit on the front porch when it rained, and we’d watch the weather. I’d have my arm around her shoulder. And she had her arm around me. Or so it seemed.

There's a perfectly wonderful boxer who needs a home, and Petrea at Pasadena Daily Photo and I hope to guide as many eyes in his direction as possible.

So visit Patch to meet Vinnie, a dog who is practically perfect in all possible ways.