Inky
Sat., January 24, 10:18 AM
On a cold morning like this, when I put on two pairs of pants, a sweater, coat and hat and gloves, just to get my newspaper, I am so grateful that I don’t have to walk a dog. Then again, one of the nice things about Inky was that I could let him out by himself when the weather was bad; he’d come back as soon as he was done. Good dog!
Sister was still in junior high school in 1962. She babysat for some people whose dog was pregnant, and she decided she wanted one of the puppies. I was against it; I was sure she wouldn’t be able to take responsibility for it, and I didn’t want to do it. In the pattern of the third child, she got what she wanted; my parents wouldn’t have allowed Brother or me to have a dog.
[Brother and I used to say that Sister was of another generation. Born after World War II, she grew up without ever wanting something she couldn’t have. I think that perhaps, after all this time, Mother was too tired to be as strict as she was with the first two kids. And, of course, after she went back to work, certainly there was enough money to buy what we couldn’t afford before.]
Whatever the reason, Mother said yes and Sister brought home this puppy. He was really young; the owner had weaned the puppies at four weeks because nursing these babies was really hard on their mother. We had looked at dog pictures before the puppies were born, and Sister said that Saucy looked kind of like a Labrador, although she was brown brindled. The puppy was all black, and he looked almost purebred Labrador as he grew, but there was no doubt his daddy was a travelin’ man.
Sister took good care of the puppy – dubbed Inky – cooking him special food and cleaning up his accidents. And he was bright, learning commands like “Sit” almost immediately. And then Sister got sick.
This was no excuse; she was sick, with a high fever. There was no way she could take care of the puppy. Guess who was elected. And by the time she got better, he thought he was my dog. He thought so as long as he lived with us.
As a puppy, he really was cute. He was so little that he walked out of the harness we bought. When we took him for a walk, we’d bring a towel to put on a shoulder, because we’d have to carry him home. And he was bright and curious. He learned tricks from all of us, including my dad, who enjoyed him too. Dad was discipline: “Inky. Inky! Ink Spot, come here!” Notice the full name; Inky obeyed.
I left for a few months to finish my degree, and when I got back, I didn’t recognize the dog who had grown so. But he recognized me, stood up and put his paws on my shoulders. (I told you he had grown!) And once I was home, he was mostly my dog again. I took care of him, and he took care of me.
He had his routines. I got dressed and ran him around the block every morning before going to work. I fed him (except for treats he might get from anyone). At eleven each evening he went upstairs and lay down in the bedroom, even I wasn’t ready to go up to bed yet.
He got breakfast from my mother. Mother said she didn’t like the dog (he loved her and followed her from room to room if I wasn’t home), but she cooked bones for him. “I need to make soup anyway,” she said. Each morning when she made her own breakfast, she’d butter a piece of toast for the dog. “Say woof woof,” she’d say. “Woof woof,” replied Inky. (She didn’t accept one or three woofs, either.) Then she’d give him the toast, which he carried to the vestibule, where he’d lick off the butter and eat the toast. “It’s good for him,” Mother said.
Inky could be given a treat and told not to touch it. He would wait for the okay and then gobble it up. Occasionally we would wait a long time, just to test him; he always waited. Except once: we put a dog biscuit on the bedroom floor and told him no. He waited. We never gave him the okay. But as soon as we put out the lights, we heard it crunch. He knew we couldn’t see him!
Inky was protective of me. He’d even growl at people he liked if they put a hand out to touch me, even when there was no threat. He wasn’t taking any chances. When Sister and I danced together, there was the dog on his hind legs, trying to join in.
Inky was afraid of balloons, because he’d bitten one once. (Well, it looked like a good toy; he didn’t know it would pop.) On a later occasion, I was bouncing a balloon around the room and he acted very strangely, rushing at it and then running away. Then I realized, he was trying to protect me from the “bad thing.” He was scared, but he would try to take care of me. I put it away.
What happened to Inky? I don’t know. Mother thought I was too attached to him, and she had Brother take him to a pet adoption agency, the kind where you have to take the pet back if they can’t place it. After a week she missed him so much she phoned the agency, and they told her he’d been adopted the first day. They said he’d gone to a family with kids and a big fenced-in yard. He loved kids and he loved to run. I’m sure he was happy.
Not long after, Brother went into the Army and brought us his cat, Ichabod. I didn’t want her, but she was terrified and she cried… I’m such a sucker. Ichabod was stupid and not very interesting. Eventually Sister took her to that same pet adoption agency, where someone adopted her even before Sister was out the door. I swore I’d never have another pet…
Remember a few good thoughts for Captain Kangaroo. Because I always monitored TV with the kids, I watched him a lot. It was a great show.
