Remembering Barfy…
My parents were firmly against having pets. No matter the depth of logic that our arguments held, my brother and I were always denied a child’s basic Constitutional right to have a dog. Mama always had the last word in such discussions with, “And besides all that, I don’t have time to feed and take care of a dog, and I know you wouldn’t.” Never got my pony either, but that’s a horse of a different color…
On becoming a father, I wanted to make sure that my kids had every possible experience and every affordable advantage, to help them become well rounded persons with solid values. So when my daughter was a toddler, I decided she should have a puppy that would grow up with her.
A neighbor’s beagle had been attacked and raped by another neighbor’s dog, becoming quite pregnant in the process. They were never sure, but the rambunctious miniature schnauzer a couple of doors up the street was the number one suspect. He frequently ran loose and would hump anything that would stay still for a few seconds. A foot at the end of a dangling crossed leg, a foot stool or hassock, a basketball. Oh, and don’t leave your freshly plugged watermelon on the ground.
A few days after the pups arrived we went and took a look. 
My daughter immediately fell in love with one of them, the one that came to her and suckled her little fingers. He was a cute little thing, this lovable product of a neighborhood indiscretion. We agreed to take him as soon as they were ready to wean. In the meantime, laws were laid down and imprinted into my brain — NO dog in the house. I dutifully built a pen out on the shady side of the house and started acquiring canine educational materials such as a rubber ball with a bell in it, rawhide bones, water and food bowls, and of course the obligatory stack of newspapers. Actually, having never had a dog, I had no frigging clue what I was doing. And I did it with passion and purpose.
The big day came and we were ready… my daughter and I, pumped and eager, my daughter’s mother barely tolerant but going along because our little girl was so excited. Within an hour the pup was throwing up almost continuously. That’s when I discovered that to welcome the puppy, daughter had shared her candy, in large quantities, with the little pup that was now barfing all over the backyard. We got him settled down, had a life lesson talk with daughter, then had a good laugh and decided on the puppy’s name: Barfy.
Through shrewd and intensive negotiations I had received one concession — that until grown and able to defend himself, Barfy could spend nights in the basement, the unfinished part of the basement. Each morning I would go down to find a few neat piles around, but just off the edge of the training paper. He had quickly learned that when needing to poop, he was to go to the newspaper, put his front paws on it, and take a dump or pee on the concrete. For the life of me, I could not figure out how to get him to reverse that and put his rear end over the paper. Years later I was to learn about training cages, which work miraculously within days to housebreak a new dog. But now all I knew to do was urge Barfy to grow up fast so he could stay outside.
Surprisingly, daughter became bored with the new puppy. I was growing tired of the morning cleanup ritual, and she-to-be-avoided was growing increasingly less tolerant. The gods must have been watching over me as the neighbor who owned the mother beagle said one day that their grown daughter was regretting having passed on the puppies since they were so cute. They asked if we would consider selling Barfy. After hemming and hawing and feeling the searing stare from she-to-be-avoided burning its way into the back of my head, I asked daughter and without looking up from her distraction of the moment, she said, “OK.” So we gave Barfy a new home, did not sell, but returned him to the original owner, and didn’t even charge them for three months of room and board and paper. Win-win-win.
Many years and dogs and cats later, I know that Mama was not always right, and I was not always wrong.
NOTE: Somewhere in boxes long buried in the deepest recesses of a closet, there are pictures of daughter and Barfy. Until I find those, these pictures are as close as I could find to the image in my memory of what Barfy looked like. These pups may actually be Jack Russell Terriers, but the look is close enough to a beagle-schnauzer mix that none but the purists would know the difference.]
12 Comments so far
Great story, Winston; wisdom is sometimes hard to come by in this life, ain’t it?.
When we were kids, my brother and I somehow talked my father into getting us a cocker spaniel puppy. After three days of messing, howling and chewing he was evicted, by unanimous vote (perhaps the only time we were ever to agree on something).
Since then, the one and only dog I’ve owned is China White, the Most Addictive Dog in the World, who showed up on our driveway one day - clean, healthy, housebroken and only about 6 months old; in short, he had everything but the user manual. It was love at first sight. He is now three years old, and sound asleep under my computer table.
I do love reading your posts, Winston. They cheer me up no end. This story could easily be about my child/dog experiences.
I just don’t have the “pet” gene. Completely lost on me why someone would want to live with an animal.
I have loved all my pets, but they are, indeed, much work and responsibility. They do, however, give back so much. I think there is someting wrong or missing in people who have not had at least one pet they loved.
The current topic of debate at our house is “should another cat become part of this family?” The little people vs. the big people. The little people are making a fine argument — they might win this one.
I hope you find the pictures of Barfy and your daughter…I’d love to see them. But….this little guy is an adorable fill-in. Nice story Winston.
Great story, Winston! Cute puppy.
A commentor named Jean said: “I think there is someting wrong or missing in people who have not had at least one pet they loved.” This is not, in fact, the first time I have heard this. It boggles my mind that anyone, based on their own affection for pets, would make an ad hominem argument relative to those who do not share their interest in living with animals. I’m not upset, or commenting further here to start an argument (Jean has every right to feel as she does and to express herself).
Maybe what I’m really saying is that modern dialogue in general seems to be filled up with “if you disagree with me you are not only wrong, but you are a bad person.” This is endemic in the world of politics, and, sadly, becoming so in just about every area where discussions arise and positions are taken.
I wish that were not so.
In re-reading my comment, I see that it is, indeed, extreme. Perhaps it is a wiser person who recognizes their disinterest (distaste?) for not having pets and then… not having them. That decision alone does not in any way make them a ‘bad person’.
My late husband and I chose not to have children. I still spend time trying to explain that. It was a wise decision for us.
My apologies, GR.
One of the most rewarding things about blogging and the class of bloggers I tend to attract and hang with, is that we can disagree or step on each others toes from time to time, resolve our differences, kiss and make-up and continue on our journey.
Mick Brady and I get into a basic disagreement over something political quite often, but we never disrespect the other, and I think we both grow from that. Not that we change each others minds, you understand, but at least in my case, I always come away from one of those exchanges knowing something I did not know before, and thinking more highly of Mick. I think this is called adulthood.
Such is the case with Jean and Gerry Rosser in their exchange of comments above. With no prodding from anyone else, they worked it out and I hope both feel good about that.
Now you must suspect that I would have fought to keep Barfy: how could you not keep a dog with a name like that? But your decision was wise for you and your family.
Winston,
Thanks for forwarding me the link to this post (which I would have read today anyway, having dedicated today to catching up on my blog-reading). It was fun, and it brought back some memories of how my daughters obtained their dog, Rosie, about 6 years ago. They still have her, and/but it’s been only recently that they’ve caught on to the you-wanted-this-dog-it’s-your-responsibility concept. But, aside from her occasional escapes from the house and backyard and her early maiming of my girls’ Barbies (I started calling one of them “Farm-Accident Barbie”), she’s been a wonderful dog for them.