I've grown a bit weary of just rambling about the days goings on. I've developed a spot of jealousy for diaries like The Fool or Uberhamster because of their ability to recall the past with clarity and precision. Every once in a while, I'll recall a certain story or event that has taken place in my life and want to tell about it, but, unfortunately, I cannot recall sufficient memories to clearly reconstruct said event. I think this is partly due to my spending the entire summer of 1991 in a anti-depressant fog. I've noticed since that time that I have a hard time recalling things from before that time (except for football memories...those tend to be the strongest) or during it. I am going to try, however, to tell you all a story of one of the greatest friends I ever had.

When I was little, I can't recall the exact age, but I do know I was rather small, definitely pre-school age, my father surprised my sister and I with a gift. I don't know where he got it, but standing on the front porch all dark and furry and full of energy was a little puppy. And I mean puppy. He was almost all black except for his ears and neck which were brown and some brown on his nose. His coloring looked a lot like a German Shepherd, to be honest. He was sort of long (he was too young to tell really) and he had short stubby legs. He ran to us immediately and began chewing on our fingers with those sharp-ass little puppy teeth of his and licking our faces leaving us smelling of puppy breath. It was love at first site for me, I don't know about my sister, but I had found a friend.

Upon further investigation (meaning dad told us), I found out that he was a mutt: that he was part Doberman, part German Shepherd, and part beagle. Yeah, odd parts, but I didn't care. Due to his black and brown coloring, I believe, we arrived at the name of Smokey. Honestly, I don't recall how we came up with the name, I just remember calling him Smokey. For a while, during his puppy years, he was kept in a box, but he was never house broken. He became an outside dog. It wasn't too bad, living in Missouri. We had some warm summers, but we also had quite a bit of rain. We had some cold winters, but we had a nice, insulated garage and a nice big dog house for him to live in. Smokey was a good dog, but he had a few bad habits that we just couldn't seem to break him of. Hey, I was still a little kid, what did I know about dog training. Sadly, my parents didn't really care enough to try and get him some obedience training so we had to deal with it. Smokey's worst habit was jumping up on people, especially if they were with me or my sister. Smokey wasn't a big dog by any means, but his claws were always a little painful to be dug into your hip or your tummy. He didn't care, though, he just wanted some lovin'.

Now, when I say that jumping up on people was his worst habit, I mean that he did it all the time. He had other habits that were far worse. For instance, he could not stop chasing cars. Many a time, I would be in the yard playing catch with my dad or sister, or messing with my bike or doing something and would hear a car coming up the hill in front of our house. Not 2 seconds later, we'd hear the jangling of tags and a low-riding black/brown blur would come streaking from the side of the house, jaws snapping and throat releasing a menacing growl that belied his little exterior. Most of the time, his little, stubby legs would not be able to carry him fast enough (or the car would simply speed up) and he would end up sucking exhaust and barking. But he was having fun. There were also times where he was too fast. These weren't the fun ones. He was hit at least 3 times, and by hit, I mean hit and thrown a short distance. He'd just get up, limp off to lick his wounds and wait for the next unlucky four wheeled chew toy. More often, though, he got rolled. We lost count of the times he got rolled and it ended up taking a toll on him. His speed fell off and his energy just seemed to deplete a little faster than normal. But he still tried.

Smokey wasn't a mean dog by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, he'd bark his fuckin' head off any time a stranger came by unescorted, or a strange car pulled up, but he never, and I mean never attacked anyone. We had occasional complaints by neighborhood people, however, of him chasing them on their bicycles, snapping at their heels and shit. It did happen, on rare occasions, but he never meant any harm...it was all in fun. There was a nasty woman who lived down the street from us named Barracks. Her son Raymond was a year ahead of me in school, and about 7 years behind me in behavior. She used to ride her bike around the neighborhood quite a bit. Even though she denies it, she used to taunt Smokey. Especially in his later years. She would ride by real fast to see wher he was, and then ride back by very slowly just waiting for him to chase her. One day, she waited a bit too long and he actually got a piece of her pants leg. I almost died laughing when she jumped off that bike and ran after Smokey yelling and tossing obscenities. When she looked at me and said "You'd better do something with that dog or I'll sue!", I just flipped her off and smiled. I knew she had taunted him and I had other witnesses. Of course, some of the didn't see shit, but they were my friends and they'd say what I asked them to. She never did anything anyway. That wasn't the worst experience with Smokey and his so-called "biting".

Every year in my home town, around the first weekend of June, they have a redneck fest called Jubilee Days. When I was young, it was fun to go to. They had the main street blocked off and there were rides and games and food and it was fun. As I got older though, things changed. The "bad" element started hanging out and causing trouble. It became a redneck-o-rama. The rednecks would pick fights with the "rock-n-roll" kids, the sleaze bags from school would pick fights with any atheletes they could find and most of the adults disappeared soon after dark. Anyway, they have an annual "contest" called the Queen Contest. Local girls would get up on stage and there was a dress competition, a talent competition, and a question and answer segment. Kind of like a beauty contest, but they weren't always judged on beauty. The year that my sister was in the contest, there was another girl who was in it and was going to sing. Well, my mother is a master piano player (despite her declarations to the contrary) and this girl wanted to practice her song at our house earlier in the day before the contest that night. We had Smokey out that day and I heard him barking. Not long after he started barking, the doorbell rang and there was a frantic knocking on the door. My mother opens the door to find this (ugly) girl standing there crying and claiming "He bit me! He bit me!". There was a little scratch on the backside of her foot that was bleeding a little, but hardly anything to be so upset about. Needless to say, my dad put Smokey in the back yard and chained him up. Later on that night, I went to the Queen Contest, and when this bitch got up to sing, I booed her. I booed her anytime she got on stage. I felt a little better. Score one for Smokey.

I hated when my parents chained him up. He was either chained to his 5-ton (literally...it was solid wood) dog house, or he was chained to a "cork-screw" stake in the yard. I hated it because every time I went out to see him, he would come running to me until he reached the end of the chain and then he would snap back like a steer roped in a rodeo. Then he would stand on his hind legs, pulling the chain taught and dance back and forth until I got there to take the weight off his neck. Every time I went out to see him, I tried to wait until he wasn't looking or I ran out so that I didn't have to see him go through that torture again. Because to him it was torture. Not the chain or the jerking, but not being able to get to me. I could tell by the way he greeted me and danced around that what really mattered to him was to see me.

As the years went on, I, of course, being a typical teen, began to pay less and less attention to him. He, in his old age, was still as happy as ever to see me and was always ready to play. He never did fetch too well. He'd basically chase down whatever was thrown and chew it into submission, but it's the thought that counts and he really tried. He would, on the odd occasion, bring back the chewed up pieces seeming to say "Do that again, it was fun." But I started to find things that were more important. Basketball, baseball, football, and god forbid, girls. It got to the point where, when I was told to feed him, I whined and procrastinated until finally ordered to do it. Then, I would go through the motions half-assed, yet he was always there happy to see me. Even when I didn't really care about seeing him, he was always there. And the years went on.

I was a freshman in high school, 14-years old, and just getting home from football practice. I had showered at school and could not stop talking as my dad drove us home. I sat in my usual spot, in front of the TV, and ate dinner as usual. I was almost done when I suddenly realized. Where was Smokey? Usually, upon arriving home from anywhere, he would be there to greet us at the car. Either that, or we'd just be ready to unlock/open the door and he'd come bounding up on the porch hunting for a pat or beating us to death with his wagging tail. It wasn't until I had been home for a while that I realized he hadn't come. I glanced out the window as a car went by to see if I might catch a glimpse of him. Oh, he didn't chase cars aymore, but he would run to the edge of the yard and stare at them in a threatening way. Well, in as threatening a way as a long, stubby-legged dog could. When I didn't see him, I asked my dad, rather non-chalantly, "Where's Smokey?" I wasn't ready for his response.

My dad looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, took a deep breath and said "Ran, Mrs. Fajen came into the store this afternoon and said she saw Smokey walking down the road and he was dragging his backside. I went and got him an put him in the truck and took him to Uncle Larry at the Veterinary clinic to have them check him out. They said that he's had arthritis and that it was really bad. His entire hind end had basically locked up and he couldn't walk anymore and was in severe pain. They told me to crush some aspirin up in a bowl of water and give to him and then to bring him back in a few hours. He wasn't any better." it wasn't until my dad started getting choked up that I noticed he'd been talking in the past tense. "Son, we put Smokey to sleep this afternoon while you were at school." I just sat there for a second, not really believing what I'd heard. "What?" I asked. But it came out more like "Whuuuhhh?" And then the world fell in on me. I started crying like I had never cried before. I cried so hard and was so choked up that my throat cramped and I couldn't breathe. I turned blue and almost passed out. My dad had to leave to go to church, and my mom sat and cried with me. "Smokey's in a better place" she told me. It didn't help any. My best friend for the past 13 years was gone. And I find out about it this way? I asked her what they did with him and after she told me that he was buried in a small cemetary behind the veterinary clinic, I ran up to my room to cry some more.

I didn't realize until he was gone how much I missed him. The next year or so, the band Cinderella had a hit with the song "Don't Know What You Got (Till It's Gone)" and I knew exactly how they felt. I started digging for pictures. There was a photo of me that mom took after I got home from a baseball game. I'm in a tank top with coaches shorts on and I still had my knee-highs and stirrups on with my tennis shoes. My hat turned around backwards and a big goofy smile on my face. I'm sitting on the ground and Smokey is laying next to me. I've got his head in my hands and I'm holding him up towards the camera. I realize now that I was holding him up. He couldn't move. I cried for I don't know how long, but it was dark when I made up my mind. I went into the garage, got a shovel and with a photo of Smokey in one hand, the shovel in the other and tears still flowing, I started walking down the road headed for the Vet. It wasn't about a block or two so it wasn't like I was going to walk forever. Unfortunately, when I got there, I couldn't find anywhere where a fresh grave had been dug. I couldn't find him!

When I got home and was walking up the steps, my mom comes to the door (apparently she'd heard me in the garage putting the shovel away) and was surprised to see it was me. She didn't know I'd even left. I broke down, again, and told her what I was going to do but that I couldn't find him. She led me inside and sat on the couch with me and explained that she'd had lied. "Dad was in a hurry to leave, but didn't want to leave without telling you so he had me came up with the story of him being buried behind the vets." I was starting to get a little mad, but more confused. "Well? Where is he?" My mom put her arm around my shoulder and said, "Call your Uncle Larry. He took Smokey with him." So, after I calmed down and was able to finally talk, I called my Uncle Larry. He was expecting my call and wasn't surprised that I had been crying. He told me that he took Smokey to a friends farm. An old retired man had a large farm near him and he had a bare hill that overlooked a small pond and Smokey ws buried at the top of that hill. "We put him where he can watch the sun rise and set" my Uncle said. And it was true. A few days later, they took me out so I could finally see him and say good-bye. That was my biggest fear, that I would never get to tell him bye, never get to tell him how much I'm going to miss him, how much I miss him already.

And I still do miss him. I'm even crying right now. I'm surprised I can still type. Smokey was the first living creature (besides my parents, but that's different) who really showed me unconditional love. He was always happy to see me and was always ready to play, even when he was too old to move. We didn't ever get another dog after that. It took me quite a few years to get over him. Yeah, years. We had been together from the beginning. You don't just get over things like that. It takes time. By the time I felt I was ready for another canine companion, I was getting ready to go to college and things just wouldn't work out. That's one reason Smokey still hold such a big part in my heart and in my memories. He wasn't a pet, he was a member of the family.

And, nowadays, as I drive home from work and watch the sunset, or look out the window and see the orange rays color the sky, I think of Smokey, sitting atop his bare little hill, looking out over the pond and waiting. Waiting patiently for that one day when we'll be able to play again. Forever. I miss you little buddy, and I can't wait to see you again. Love you.

"Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?"

Icebear

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