07/05/2026
MAN’S BEST FRIEND
Please don’t mistake these written words and assume this grouchy old man doesn’t love dogs, because I certainly do. From my earliest memories, I’ve had a dog. They were my playmates, best friends, and, at times, due to Mr. No Shoulders, my protector.
Here again, please don’t take this the wrong way. Service dogs, which help our veterans, our blind, and sense oncoming seizures for their masters, are so wonderful.
My first inclination of how us Boomers once did things; dogs were outside animals, and how that treatment has changed! Growing up in the middle of nowhere, our dogs lived outside and were free to wander. They were fed table scraps, occasionally cheap dog food, and whatever they could chase down and kill.
Every now and then, one would disappear for a few days. No search party was formed; we just waited for the missing dog to come home. Most of the time, they did. We had a male boxer, a prime cow and hog catcher, who would, on occasion, leave for several days. The old Marine would say, “Brutus must be keeping house again.” I think that great dog spread half boxer puppies over most of the county!
Our local vet handled all kinds of animals: dogs, cats, cattle, horses, and an occasional pet chicken or such. Other than giving rabies shots, that was pretty much it. Everything else we handled ourselves.
When Better Half bought our first poodle, it became my responsibility to take our new little fuzzball to the veterinarian. I walked in for his appointment and saw a waiting room full of young, middle-aged and older women sitting with all sorts of dogs. Some small, big, ultra, and a few extra-large. One dog was so big he could have pulled a jersey wagon.
The chipper, bright-smiling little girl behind the desk said, “How can I help you?”
“My wife made an appointment for our dog to get his shots.”
“Name?”
I replied, giving her Better Half’s name.
“No,” she said, her smile breaking a tad as if I’d done something wrong. “Your dog’s name?”
“Oh, dear Lord,” I thought. “Truffles,” I said, my face growing red. “I wanted a different…” That’s when the gallery of ladies exploded.
“That’s such a cute name…”
“And he’s such a beautiful little puppy…”
“You’re so sweet to help your wife…”
“How clever…did you help her pick the name?” By this time, I knew my man card deserved to be burned, sword broken, and drummed out of the good ole boy club forever! Then it got worse.
“His last name?” she questioned.
“He’s a dog,” I replied, as if I’d just walked into the Twilight Zone.
“No,” she replied. “Your last name is his last name.”
“But we are of no relation…”
“Oh, here it is in the appointment book,” she said, as if she’d discovered the Hope diamond. “Harris. Truffles Harris,” she announced!
What is happening now is just unbelievable to this old Baby Boomer. There are dog parades, with these canines all dressed in silly costumes, playdates with other dogs as if it’s good for their self-esteem, and a host of other silliness. I once saw a post with pictures of a dog’s birthday party on the internet with huge balloons and party hats and such!
Dog toys! Really! This Boomer wouldn’t dream of spending hard-earned money on a toy for a dog. All they got was a worn-out baseball or an old bone they managed to find somewhere. That kept them occupied for months. Now there’s a whole huge rack of dog toys at our local Walmart and other stores just dedicated to pets.
The final realization for this old geezer is that he’s living in the Twilight Zone. Better Half and I were taking a few days on the Gulf Coast, so it became my job to carry the current dog to the local lady who boards. After giving my information came a question that removed the remaining wind from my sails. She so cheerfully asked, “You do want Abigail to have the spa treatment, don’t you?”
I just dropped my head in surrender and replied, “Why the heck not…”
