"It's A Dog's Life....."

 My rancher granddad frequently made reference to a “dog’s life” as he booted Ole Pup from in front of the screen door on the back porch, “Lazy hound dog! What a dog’s life!”

Granddad got Old Pup to follow him closely to chase snakes, where they (and Mutt Neely) were the only ones to ranch, up on Comanche Peak, near Granbury, Texas, back before there was a resort lake, retirement homes, or a nuclear power plant…. Back when the peak was covered with Caliche rock, scrub Mesquites, Cedars and was miles from town.

Again, when Granddad would stomp past Ole Pup and thump him on the ear to wake him up, point to that beat-up old ’54 Ford pickup as he was getting ready to go to the pasture to feed the sheep. 

While at the sheep pen, drenched from sweat in that Texas one-hundred plus baking sun, Granddad would yank that half-chewed unlit cigar from his mouth and give a shrill whistle, wave his sweat-stained wide-brim straw hat in a circle and mumble under his breath, “What a dog’s life!”  Ole Pup would uncoil from the front seat of the pickup truck, slink down to the ground, stretch his legs and trot off to circle the sheep to bring in the ones that had strayed too far away from the flock. 

 

Then as Granddad would wind down the day by re-lighting his soggy half-smoked cigar, head to HIS faded brown plaid overstuffed chair, and would give a yank on Ole Pup’s collar to drag him down onto the floor.   

As a youngster, I never knew just what he was referring to, “Dog’s life!”  However, I’m beginning to understand what Granddad was talking about now that we host our three oldest grandkids and their three small dogs that live inside the house and sleep on the sofa; sleep on the love seat; sleep on the overstuffed club chair; sleep on the wicker chest in front of the living room window, and often sleep on our dining chairs. When you sit down to visit or watch TV, inevitably one of the little ones reclaims their title of “Lap Dog!”  Within two minutes she’s snuggling & snoring!  Then there’s Gentle George, our 23 year-old grandson’s Cinnamon Lab that sleeps on the patio, right outside and up against the back door.  Without fail, when I go to my computer in the office, George ambles to the door, unwinds three circles, relaxes and slips off into “a dog’s life!”