Feature Tales

A Dog’s Tale
Samson’s Story

My Humble Beginnings

My Dad was a criminal — at least that’s what they told me. It was February 3, 1995 and both my parents had been dropped off at the breeders. The first time my Dad saw my mom, an award-winning-party-colour-show dog, he was smitten. But when he later found out that her owner had selected a more “suitable” stud, he decided to take things into his own paws. One night, when everyone was sleeping, he broke out of his kennel. Two months later, my mom gave birth to a litter of six jet-black puppies. There was quite a frenzy following the birth. Simply put, my mother had no interest in keeping a litter of “black” puppies. So we were shipped off to live with my dad until we were adopted.  

Yes, we were all black; everyone except me. I was unique — the only puppy with white markings on my chest. It was those markings that attracted my adoptive mother in the first place.  She thought I looked like I was wearing a little tuxedo. And that’s what sealed the deal. With financial matters dealt with and papers signed, I found myself cuddled up on her lap on the way to my new home. 

Testing My Limits

As the weeks went by, I grew and I grew and I chewed and I chewed. Being a puppy was fun. But eventually, every upwardly mobile puppy needs to get an education. So with my best interests at heart, my mom enrolled me in an obedience class. Those classes could have been a blast, so many dogs to sniff. But all I heard was "sit", "stay", and “heel". In spite of all the distractions, I passed the class with flying colours.

Yes, I was a dog of high intellect. Still, I did some pretty dumb things. Two particular incidents come to mind. The first occurred shortly after I graduated from obedience class. It was springtime and we were playing ball in the back yard. It wasn’t fenced, so my mom was making a painful effort to teach me to “stay’. I was trying to pay attention, but then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a kid whiz by on his bike. In a flash, I was off and running. As the wheels of the bike spun closer and closer, all I could think of was catching that kid. Little did I know there was a big, old Coca Cola truck rumbling down the street in my direction!  As it screeched to a halt, as miraculous as it may sound, I managed to run under the truck and out the other side. While my mom hugged me and cried, the reality slowly sank in — I was one lucky dog!

The next close call took place when we bought an old house in Crescent Heights. That house had some interesting history. Back in the 70’s, someone actually found a $500 Confederate bill in the ceiling!  It really was a great old house, but there was something about it that we didn’t find out until later. It was riddled with tiny nooks and crannies just big enough for mice to crawl through. And crawl through they did. After gobbling up a whole bag of my dog food, we had a full-blown infestation. Those mice were so cocky, they skipped around the house from cupboard to closet and back again without a care in the world… in broad daylight!

We did everything we could to keep them out, but eventually we had to get the exterminators to plant poison all over the house. Not long after, a pipe in the basement burst.  And with all the banging the plumber did to fix it, a big chunk of poison was dislodged from behind the fridge. Normally, the poison was in “lock boxes”, but the exterminators never imagined that I would ever have an opportunity to get at it. So there it lay, ripe for the taking. It tasted so good, I'd just about gobbled it all up by the time my mom caught me. But when she did, I knew I was in trouble.

In a panic, she grabbed me and stuck her fingers in my mouth forcing me to spit out those last delectable morsels. Then, she promptly marched me out the door and into the car headed for emergency. When we got there, the vet quickly whisked me away and gave me an injection. He then locked me in a cage where I proceeded to vomit. He then put me in another cage, and then another, until I stopped throwing up. I never thought being sick was a good thing, but the vet said I had eaten enough poison to kill nine dogs! In any case, all that throwing up was a success, because they didn’t find any poison in the follow-up blood tests. So in spite of the fact that I am an American Cocker Spaniel, I think it’s fair to say I had the luck of the Irish that day.

Continue here (download PDF)