My Hometown

My Hometown

Prissy The Dog

My dad has always had a love/hate relationship with dogs, which is the reason that we never had one when I was growing up.

He liked to pet the dogs at picnics, but hated how they lingered at the table waiting for you to drop food.

He liked to say hello to dogs with a wave from afar, but hated when they jumped up on him and slobbered on his clean clothes.

But one in particular, Mrs. Lydia’s dog Prissy, got to my dad more than any other.

In a small town you don’t really have any enemies, though you did have those that you just simply tolerated and got along with in short bursts such as during a quick greeting at church on Sunday.

That was Mrs. Lydia for my father; and when Prissy entered the picture, his last nerve became permanently pinched.

The first thing the “yapper dog” did when it jumped out of Mrs. Lydia’s car on the day that she brought it home, was run right over to our front lawn and pop a squat to do its business.

Dad hollered and chased that dog with a rolled up newspaper; never did catch him, but a normal routine was born.

During the dog’s walks, he would always stop and sniff our lawn; my dad jetted out to the front porch rolled up paper in hand.

Prissy and Mrs. Lydia snarled at him and walked away every time.

But every so often, they would be able to slip on by dad’s watchful eye and would send him fuming into a rage when he would finally see what was left behind on his lawn.

This tug of war went on between them for months; mom always trying to hide her chuckle, my sister and I never resisting laughing out loud at dad’s red face of anger.

Finally, dad pounded a wooden stake into the ground and tacked several plastic bags to it with a note that read, “At least pick up after him!”

To this day, anytime that we drive through a development and see a “Dog Waste Station” set up in a common area, my dad gleefully exclaims, “I am the inventor of that!”

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