Houston's Pig and Poodle Farm

Somewhere between 12 and 50, the question of "what do you want to do when you grow up" changes to "what're you going to do when you retire?" Coming from the culture I do, my quick answer is usually "as little as I can get away with." But that's just me using the opportunity for a quick one-liner. What I really want to do is to live comfortably enough that if I really did want to have 4 or 5 dogs running around the yard, it wouldn't be anybody's business but my own.

I always had a dog when I was growing up. My first dog of memory was a hound I called Red. Apparently Red and I were puppies together and we sort of bonded the year I was about three. That meant that Red was a wise and devoted friend when I was five and six. We explored the woods behind my grandmother's house with out fear yet with abandon. My grandmother never had need to worry about me because, well first of all, it was the early 50s when nothing bad ever happened to children, and secondly, I was with Red. A man once offered my grandmother $100 for Red. That was a lot of money in the last century. I remember my grandmother telling the man that the dog belonged to the boy and he'd have to ask me. No way was I going to sell my best friend.

The last dog I had before my life went crazy into a different dimension that didn't allow for dogs, was a miniature poodle whom I called Falstaff. It was 1969 and I was living in an old house with about 19 other people. We were an urban commune. We ate a lot of potatoes and did a lot of drugs and were very passionately erotic with each other in many interesting combinations, but then, I digress.

I was the only one in the house with gainful employment. I was working as a waiter at a steak and ale chain restaurant. I would bring home my meager tips and all the left over baked potatoes and whatever steak scraps I could salvage. Okay, so we weren't proud.

One day, as I was about to leave for work, I noticed a matted, frightened, mutt that wasn't a mutt but was actually a poodle. In my stereotypical way, I saw poodle and imagined Old, Rich White women. In my simple mind that equated to money. I was sure there would be a reward. I called the dog to me. He eagerly responded to my attention. He was the most responsive, intuitive dog imaginable. We bonded instantly. There was never a reward, and it cost me over $100 to fluff him and immunize him and cure the ears and eyes. For the next year, we were never apart, save one six-week period about six months into our relationship.

That is part of our story. After six months of being inseparable, one day before going to work at my new job as a bartender on the freeway on the other side of town, Fallstaff did not come when I called him. I spent half an hour looking for him, and although this would be our first time apart, so to speak, I had to trust him so off to work I went.

The next day when he had not returned I went crazy. I walked up and down the streets near us calling for him. Mornings, midafternoon, early evening, late at night. I ran ads in the paper. I became well known at the SPCA. After about a month, I began to let go. Afterall, I hadn't had the dog that long. But damn, that dog was so incredible. You could introduce him to people by name and ask for that person later or at another time, and he would go to the person.

One day at work, I was remembering how special he was to one of the cocktail waitresses, and she got a curious look on her face. She began to ask questions about this poodle I was talking about. At about the fifth question, I stopped her and demanded to know what she knew about my dog. She told me that about six weeks before, a nicely groomed, charming poodle appeared at the restaurant door. The hostess had taken the dog home and claimed it as her own. In a very friendly way, I confronted the hostess with the information I had and said that I'd like to see the dog she had found. She didn't want to, but relented at my insistence. A couple of hours later, I rang her bell. As she opened the door, I said hello. As soon as Falstaff heard my voice, he leaped across the room into my arms making this loud yelping noise that communicated pure joy. Apparently, he had followed me from our neighborhood to the place where I was working on the day he disappeared. He found me across a distance of over five miles and across a major interstate highway system.

The next time we were separated was when I was drafted. I didn't quite show up with a white poodle on a leash, but I was armed with enough reasons for being rejected by the army that brisk morning of November 10, 1971, that I hadn't even bothered to ask anyone to feed Falstaff while I was away. I had a letter from my psychoanalyst explaining my probable homosexuality in very clinical terms. Hell, I read it and wasn't sure what he was saying. I was sure they weren't going to take me because I was in the process of sexual self-discovery and was beginning to like the possibilities. They were not going to take me. I would check the fucking box. Tendencies, no mine were full-blown characteristics.

They took me anyway. That's another story. As my ass was being flown from Houston to Monterey, California for basic training, I was thinking, "FALSTAFF! OH! MY! GOD!" I called a friend and told her my situation. She rescued Falstaff and he retired to a farm in East Texas. I've always imagined that he learned to be as useful around the farm as he had made himself in my life.

So, some day, when I am able to retire, I'd like to operate a poodle rescue, sort of in memory of the world's greatest dog, Falstaff. I figure I'd have a dozen or so poodles, all different sizes, dyed different colors, some with punk haircuts cause they'd have come from the city, and to give them something to do, I'd teach them to heard pot-bellied pigs. Pigs are so smart that only a poodle would be able to herd them effectively. I see it as a natural match. And no more homo-less poodles.

Houston's Pig and Poodle Farm. Yep, something to look forward to in retirement.

Comments

[VikingZen]

Hello Houston!!
And what does Beauregard make of all this?? Get goggles, 'cause the fur is gonna fly...
You know, I have Minxie, but I too had a dog I adored. His name was Pokey, and he was the coolest little bad-tempered Machiavellian Llhasa Apso. When I left Brazil for France, my mother informed me that he waited for me by the door daily- until I went home on vacation. First he was thrilled to see me and then he bit my nose...

[ellen]

You have my bawlin all over myself, Houston. It's been over four years since I lost my chow chow Jinx to liver cancer, and I still can't write about her. Just hurts too much.

Falstaff sounds like a once in a lifetime doggie.

*snuffle*

[Linda]

Wow...you WERE really inspired to talk about dogs, weren't you. I can see it now.

"FALSTAFF'S PIGS AND POODLES"

If my mother in law was in Houston, you'd know her by name with a poodle rescue. She has 3 at home and wants more.

What a lovely story about Falstaff. Hard to believe what lengths they'll go through to find you. I know someone who doesn't believe that dogs, or any other animals have the capacity for love. He's a very lonely guy, as you can imagine. There's just no way I can look into my Loki's eyes and see anything BUT love. Same thing with Falstaff running into your arms. Though, I bet the hostess was none too pleased.

I sure am giving my readers a run for their money this week on the whole dog thing. Hopefully, the drama has ended!

[TIMMY!]

totally get rid of Beauregard and make a poodle & pig farm. well, maybe Beauregard would like the poodles & pigs.

reading about Red brought back a lot of memories of my best friend growing up...very cool

[Brenda]

Ahhhh he sounds like he was the perfect buddy.

[Jaye]

The husband and I were discussing our need to get out of the swamp aka Houston last night and I said I needed some land for a Boston Terrier & Kitty Cat farm.

Tomorrow is the busiest day at animal shelters because the fireworks scare doggies and they run away. I despise fireworks. Zelda, one of our Bostons gets very, very upset. We have doggie valium for her.

[maggie]

Poodle & Pig Ponderosa! Love it!

We name our dogs after country singers since we really can't take the music, and our first collie/shepard mix (beautiful longed haired black dog) Reba was smarter than smart, too. Alas,she is gone, but now we have Dolly, Tammy, and Hank.