"Ain't but three things in this world that's worth a solitary dime,
But old dogs and children and watermelon wine."
Tom T. Hall wrote the song and sang it wonderfully; you can find him singing it on the internet here:
OLD DOGS AND CHILDREN AND WATERMELON WINE - YouTube
As I get older, I find wisdom in those words, although I might substitute Rebel Yell bourbon for watermelon wine. Whenever I hear the song, I think of my old dog Bucky, who passed away about four years ago. Let me tell you a little about him, if I might.
We lost a dog, our beloved Charley, to an accidental ingestion of garden poison back in 1998. It broke our hearts, and it seemed that we would never again have a dog who could replace him. For months, we were faced with emptiness; a gaping hole in our lives that only a special dog could fill, even though we had two other nice dogs. Charley was gone, and it hurt. Bad.
So we went down to the Arizona Humane Society kennel, "just to browse around." We looked at dozens of dogs. Then, over in a corner sat this dog. He was obviously a Border Collie mix, a young dog, and came over in his cage to see me. His tail wagged, he smiled, and I was smitten. We asked to walk him around on a leash. He was calm, sat when instructed to, loved being petted, and enjoyed our company. We brought him home.
We named him Bucky, in honor of Bucky O'Neill of the Arizona company of Rough Riders, who died in front of the San Juan Heights in Cuba 100 years earlier.
And then, he started to rasp and cough. He drew ragged breaths. It seems he had picked up a case of kennel cough when he was brought in to the Humane Society. We took him to the vet there and got him treated. The vet said we had to quarantine him away from the other dogs in our family, and that seemed a hard thing to do. We placed Bucky in a bathroom, and for several weeks the little pup endured his isolation, feeling miserable, but not complaining. He was so glad to see us when we'd come in - often - to pet him and love him.
When he recovered, he was joyful with our other dogs, and romped and played with them. But then, another problem developed. He had developed an umbilical hernia, which was threatening to rupture. Again we took him back to the Humane Society, where the vet there performed surgery on his tummy. He recovered in short order.
Then we noticed yet another problem - the iris in one of his eyes had somehow become torn; where you would ordinarily see a round pupil, there was a jagged opening. He didn't seem to let it bother him, though, the plucky little guy just kept on trucking.
As the years went by, we called him our "lucky plucky Bucky." He was lucky to be rescued from euthanasia, he was lucky to be cured of physical problems, and he was lucky to be in a loving family, as we were lucky to have him. He became our new Alpha dog, herding the other dogs gently, and becoming their larger mentor. He was intelligent and loving. His favorite trick was his "charming dog" routine. He'd get up on a sofa, roll over on his back with all four paws in the air, and give us a goofy grin that said in no uncertain terms "rub my belly, OK?" And of course we couldn't resist.
As Bucky got older the lingering effects of his bout with kennel cough caught up with him, and when he would exert himself, his breathing would get raspy. The vet said there was nothing that could be done about it, as the damage to his lungs was permanent. But ol' Bucky didn't let it bother him.
When he turned 10 years old, we brought in a younger dog, our pit bull mix, Joe, as some friends could not keep him in their apartment. We worried about how two strong-willed dogs would get along. We shouldn't have. Bucky became the mentor, and taught Joe how to do things. When Joe would get rambunctious, Bucky would go over to him, roll him over, and lay a paw over him to hold him down - gently and with his tail wagging. Joe would get all submissive and settle down.
Bucky lived to be 11 years and one month old. One afternoon, while I was working on the computer, I noticed he was not around. I called his name and searched for him.
He was lying in a corner of our bedroom, very still. I reached out to touch him, and there was no response. He had gone there to die quietly and with no fuss or bother. Our friend had left us as unobtrusively as he could.
We had his remains cremated, as he was a pretty big dog. It was our intent to bury his ashes in the back yard.
That never happened. The box with his ashes still rests in our bedroom, not far from where he died. We could not bear to think of his remains in the cold ground, and so we kept him inside, close to us, where I hope he will ever remain. He's in our hearts.
And so when I hear that song about old dogs, children, and watermelon wine, I think of our old dog Bucky, the years of joy he gave us, and how lucky we were to have him around for the length of time he was allotted.
Shortly before he died, I took this "formal portrait" of Bucky in our living room. It's one of my favorite photographs. I wanted to share it with you, as I think it reflects the quiet dignity he possessed in his golden years. Old dogs are indeed special; if you have one or more, you have a treasure.
John
But old dogs and children and watermelon wine."
Tom T. Hall wrote the song and sang it wonderfully; you can find him singing it on the internet here:
OLD DOGS AND CHILDREN AND WATERMELON WINE - YouTube
As I get older, I find wisdom in those words, although I might substitute Rebel Yell bourbon for watermelon wine. Whenever I hear the song, I think of my old dog Bucky, who passed away about four years ago. Let me tell you a little about him, if I might.
We lost a dog, our beloved Charley, to an accidental ingestion of garden poison back in 1998. It broke our hearts, and it seemed that we would never again have a dog who could replace him. For months, we were faced with emptiness; a gaping hole in our lives that only a special dog could fill, even though we had two other nice dogs. Charley was gone, and it hurt. Bad.
So we went down to the Arizona Humane Society kennel, "just to browse around." We looked at dozens of dogs. Then, over in a corner sat this dog. He was obviously a Border Collie mix, a young dog, and came over in his cage to see me. His tail wagged, he smiled, and I was smitten. We asked to walk him around on a leash. He was calm, sat when instructed to, loved being petted, and enjoyed our company. We brought him home.
We named him Bucky, in honor of Bucky O'Neill of the Arizona company of Rough Riders, who died in front of the San Juan Heights in Cuba 100 years earlier.
And then, he started to rasp and cough. He drew ragged breaths. It seems he had picked up a case of kennel cough when he was brought in to the Humane Society. We took him to the vet there and got him treated. The vet said we had to quarantine him away from the other dogs in our family, and that seemed a hard thing to do. We placed Bucky in a bathroom, and for several weeks the little pup endured his isolation, feeling miserable, but not complaining. He was so glad to see us when we'd come in - often - to pet him and love him.
When he recovered, he was joyful with our other dogs, and romped and played with them. But then, another problem developed. He had developed an umbilical hernia, which was threatening to rupture. Again we took him back to the Humane Society, where the vet there performed surgery on his tummy. He recovered in short order.
Then we noticed yet another problem - the iris in one of his eyes had somehow become torn; where you would ordinarily see a round pupil, there was a jagged opening. He didn't seem to let it bother him, though, the plucky little guy just kept on trucking.
As the years went by, we called him our "lucky plucky Bucky." He was lucky to be rescued from euthanasia, he was lucky to be cured of physical problems, and he was lucky to be in a loving family, as we were lucky to have him. He became our new Alpha dog, herding the other dogs gently, and becoming their larger mentor. He was intelligent and loving. His favorite trick was his "charming dog" routine. He'd get up on a sofa, roll over on his back with all four paws in the air, and give us a goofy grin that said in no uncertain terms "rub my belly, OK?" And of course we couldn't resist.
As Bucky got older the lingering effects of his bout with kennel cough caught up with him, and when he would exert himself, his breathing would get raspy. The vet said there was nothing that could be done about it, as the damage to his lungs was permanent. But ol' Bucky didn't let it bother him.
When he turned 10 years old, we brought in a younger dog, our pit bull mix, Joe, as some friends could not keep him in their apartment. We worried about how two strong-willed dogs would get along. We shouldn't have. Bucky became the mentor, and taught Joe how to do things. When Joe would get rambunctious, Bucky would go over to him, roll him over, and lay a paw over him to hold him down - gently and with his tail wagging. Joe would get all submissive and settle down.
Bucky lived to be 11 years and one month old. One afternoon, while I was working on the computer, I noticed he was not around. I called his name and searched for him.
He was lying in a corner of our bedroom, very still. I reached out to touch him, and there was no response. He had gone there to die quietly and with no fuss or bother. Our friend had left us as unobtrusively as he could.
We had his remains cremated, as he was a pretty big dog. It was our intent to bury his ashes in the back yard.
That never happened. The box with his ashes still rests in our bedroom, not far from where he died. We could not bear to think of his remains in the cold ground, and so we kept him inside, close to us, where I hope he will ever remain. He's in our hearts.
And so when I hear that song about old dogs, children, and watermelon wine, I think of our old dog Bucky, the years of joy he gave us, and how lucky we were to have him around for the length of time he was allotted.
Shortly before he died, I took this "formal portrait" of Bucky in our living room. It's one of my favorite photographs. I wanted to share it with you, as I think it reflects the quiet dignity he possessed in his golden years. Old dogs are indeed special; if you have one or more, you have a treasure.
John
