MY DOG SMOKE, a memoir

The life and times of a dog and his humorous adventures.

There is an old saying, “where there is smoke there is fire.” I had a dog named Smoke, and with him, the saying went, “where there is Smoke there is trouble.” Fire could also be associated with my dog because he was a Dalmatian, a breed commonly linked with firehouses. Originally, Dalmatians were used by fire departments in the days of horse and wagon. The dog helped steady the horses as they charged through city streets. If my dog were commandeered into doing such a task, for example, during the great fire of 1906 in San Francisco, the town would surely have burnt to the ground, instead of being partially destroyed.

 

The most challenging part of Smoke’s day was making his escape from our house. Usually, his getaway was through a door. My entire family was well aware of this strategy, and we all had to be on our toes while coming in or out. Of course, being human, we would occasionally slip up and bingo; Smoke would snatch the opportunity, and make his breakout. If we yelled at him to come back, he would turn his head and give us a cocked eyed look. One could almost see the gears in his mind turning. “If I make my break now the reward will be well worth it,” or Smoke would think, “I better go back or I will be in big trouble… again.” Usually, Smoke would throw caution to the wind and slink off into the bushes and vanish.  

 

At this point, there was not much we could do about it. Without a doubt, he could outrun every member of the family. I know this because I had tried many times to run him down, to no avail. The only thing we could do was waiting to see what kind of shape he was in when he returned. Sometimes he would slink back no worse for wear. He knew he had done wrong, so he would try to keep an exceptionally low profile, and hope that he would not have to endure many harsh words of disapproval. On other occasions, he would come back suffering from war wounds. 

 

Apparently there were other male dogs in the “hood” that also had a yearning for the fairer sex. When Smoke and another male dog were interest in the same female, most assuredly it led to combat on more than one occasion. Although Smoke would often return bruised and bleeding, there were plenty of young dogs in the neighborhood with that more or less distinctive Dalmatian coloring. This evidence alone was enough to prove that Smoke was more often than not scoring with the ladies, no matter what obstacles he had to overcome.

 

The local dogcatcher knew Smoke all too well. He was becoming a regular inmate at the town dog pound and had a reputation in the community as a Don Juan and village scoundrel. Things sooner or later were going to come to a head, and they did. 

 

Around the front of the house, we had a fence made out of grape stakes, which were about five feet high, two inches wide, with a sharp tip on the end. When becoming desperate Smoke would actually get over the fence by catching his front claws on the top of the fence, then pull himself up and leap to the other side. This was a risky maneuver, and he would only attempt it as the last straw. If you haven’t figured it out yet, Smoke was an absolute sex maniac. 

 

It was inevitable, and it finally came to pass. One day as Smoke was attempting to make his desperate fence maneuver, he caught his abdomen on one of the sharp stakes as he was attempting to make his leap to the ground. Well, sure enough, he gutted himself and was in serious trouble. Luckily, a family member spotted him before he bled to death. We got him to a vet where he endured an expensive surgical procedure.  

 

When he finally returned home after convalescing in the dog hospital, he was exceedingly gaunt and had lost the sparkle in his eyes. He surely was traumatized, and we all hoped that this experience would modify his behavior. It took several days until he sufficiently recuperated and was becoming his same old self again. 

 

One day as my mother was leaving the house, sure enough, Smoke made a break for it. That was it for my mother. Enough was enough. Smoke was on the brink of losing his manhood. Yes, it’s what you’re thinking. Smoke’s precious testicles were to be separated from his white with black spotted body. The two engines that drove everything that Smoke strove for and believed in were to be ingloriously swiped off with a scalpel. I surely was against this plan, considering I had a couple of those myself, and could relate to the horror Smoke would have felt if he had known what was about to befall him.

 

Off to the vet he went, wagging his bent tail that had been slammed in the front door a few years previously. My buddy, my pal, the friend I would hug when I was down and out was headed for the butcher’s block in ignorant bliss. The procedure didn’t take long, and Smoke came back the same day no worse for wear, except for a tentative stride as he walked. Little did he know the testosterone that was the center of his world was no longer dripping into his blood stream. 

 

As time passed, it was becoming apparent that Smoke was not interested in girls anymore. My mother was greatly relieved, as I am sure the rest of the male dogs in the neighborhood were pleased to have Smoke out of the action. The downside of Smoke’s surgery was his turning his attention to other pursuits, and becoming just as fanatical about them. 

 

Now food was his passion, his life, and his reason for existence. He just could not get enough of it. Case in point, my girlfriend and I had just returned from a backpacking trip, and I had left my pack in my bedroom. As my girlfriend and I were watching TV, Smoke struts into the room looking like he just snorted a pound of cocaine. He had gotten into my pack and had found a package of dehydrated milk, opened it, and ate the whole thing. His entire muzzle covered with white powder right up to his eyes. 

 

Just like sex, Smoke was not getting enough food at home to satisfy his appetite. His finely tuned athletic body was becoming fat and bloated. We had him on a diet, so he would remain healthy into his later years. He would have none of it. Food he wanted and food he would get. 

 

Now his great escapes centered on foraging for food. Neighbors would frequently leave food out for cats, and Smoke was well aware of this. So when he managed to get out he would make the rounds vacuuming up whatever food was to be found.

 

One day he moseyed on down to the local gas station and spotted the attendant eating his lunch in the office that was surrounded in glass. Smoke stood and put his front paws on the glass door begging for food. The attendant, being somewhat of a “baby” in my opinion, freaked out and thought the dog wanted to eat him. Being persistent, Smoke was not about to leave until he got a bite to eat. So the attendant panicked and called the police. Of course, when the cops got there, Smoke approached them wagging his tail hoping they had some food to offer up. Instead, Smoke had to do more jail time in the pound until we could pay the fine and pick him up.

 

On another occasion, I was visiting my friend Mike who lived next door. His rather overpowering Italian mother had been cooking a lovely roast in the oven. Can you sense something terrible was going to happen? You’re right! She had left the oven door open to let the roast cool and in comes Smoke through the back door, his eyes filled with intention. He goes straight for the roast, grabs it, and follows his original route out the back door. This dog was supposed to be my buddy, but like a heroin addict, Smoke would have sold out his own mother just to get that food fix. 

 

So here I was left holding the bag, trapped with an enraged Italian woman. I thought she was going to slice me up and cook me for the Sunday roast. She had a knife in her hand, and her head was a brilliant red. Discretion was the better part of valor, and at this young age, I still had the smarts to know when to make a run for it. I blasted out the back door following the same route as my dog and ran home to tell my mother what the dog had done before the phone call came in. We bought her another roast, and profusely apologize for our dog’s ungentlemanly behavior. I didn’t make my appearance at Mike’s house again for some time. Later that day Smoke rolled in with a belch and a fully distended stomach. 

 

Yes, as you might expect, there was another mishap perpetrated by my dog Smoke. This time, he made the newspaper. After once again pulling off an escape, Smoke managed to get himself into a bad fix. Now he got stuck between a fence and someone’s house. The owner, an older woman, had left a bowl of cat food next to the house in this tight space by her fence. Smoke had somehow got himself lodged in there and was unable to extricate himself. Once the dog realized that trying to get himself out was not in the cards, he began to bark and howl.

 

At this point, the woman came out and comprehended the situation. She vigorously endeavored to pull the dog free, but it was a no go. About this time she got the bright idea of pouring salad oil on the dog, in the hope that a little extra lubrication might overcome the friction that held Smoke fast. It didn’t work. One reason being there was no way to get a grip on a greased dog to pull him out. By this time she and the dog were both at their wits end, so she called the fire department. This was when the newspaper got into the mix.

 

Sure enough, the fire department showed up in their massive truck with a reporter in hot pursuit. After studying the situation for a while, they decided the best option, other than cutting the dog up into pieces, was to take down the fence. I am sure the pieces option was the one my mother would have chosen. The reporter was eagerly snap, snap, snapping pictures. Once they got Smoke out, back to the slammer (the pound) he went. 

 

This time, when we went to pick him up, the head administrator of the pound came out to personally tell us that if Smoke ever came back we would not be notified; Smoke would immediately be put to death. Actually, he said “to sleep,” but that term did not fool me. Holy molly, Smoke finally made it to the big time! He had a photo and story about his exploits in the newspaper and had a death sentence hanging over his head. Jesse James would be proud.

 

Happily, Smoke never was able to escape again. Of course, we were far more vigilant now considering the consequences of his breaking out. What was the most beneficial help keeping Smoke safe was Father Time. By this point Smoke was getting up in years, and his body was beginning to stiffen up. He seemed more contented to lay around day dreaming of his many exploits. All the b*****s he had "layed," and the many meals he had commandeered. He seemed happy and satisfied knowing that he had a life well spent, a life full of action, adventure, romance, and wholesome meals. Everyone that knew Smoke loved him, except for maybe Mike’s mother.

 

Reviews

[emmajoy]

What a great story! Laughed more and more as the tale went on, could near see some of the antics Smoke got up to .. tho did turn my head at the raunchy bits!

You really went to town on Smoke's frantic search for food and I laughed aloud at the stealing of the roast part .. mainly coz we had a dog that did similar! And he didnt have the addiction, was just plain badddd!

All in all your words just romped along; I can understand why that creature was loved by folk .. he was a real character! Cafe members need to read this ..