Dear Old Dad

Reading this, written by the beautiful, tiara wearing Melisa, reminded me of a childhood memory involving Dear Old Dad.

When I was a kid, we had a dog named Bugs. He was an ugly as sin, medium sized mutt from the SPCA. Aptly named because he looked like the kind of dog that lived under a porch and had, well bugs. Not your average pet by any means. Bugs was exceptionally smart, highly protective of us kids and took his roll as protector very seriously, but never saw himself as a pet or a house dog. He had his own social life and to do list for the day, but always managed to keep tabs on the family.

He actually had his own crowd that he ran around with in a pack of sorts. I kid you not. Every morning, some neighborhood pooches would start to gather and wait across the street from our house. No owners. No leashes, but a definite agenda. Bugs would wait patiently for his moment of opportunity and the second someone opened the door for anything, he would escape. The pack would wait for Bugs and then all take off for the day to run around the neighborhood. Over the years, we figured out of few of their daily stops. A regular favorite was the back door of a local diner, where the cook would feed them some leftover scraps. The last stop of the day for Bugs would be to show up as my Dad was getting out of work and into the car. Then he would follow the car home and be in for the night.

There would often be complaints and mothers up in arms, as the pack found themselves getting into constant trouble for picking on someones pedigree dog (really, they hated a pedigree), chasing someones cat or my favorite, hunting and catching pigeons in front of small children (they really got a kick out this ~ the dogs, not the kids).

Every once in a while Bugs would get picked up by the dog catcher. Probably just so his buds could get away clean. This unnerved Dad. It was $25.00 to spring him. Dad loved Bugs, but didn't believe in putting out money that he didn't have, especially for a dog. A dog that we couldn't keep in the house no matter what amount of effort was made.

Bugs was becoming a regular in the slammer. The people at animal control were never pleasant when bond was being posted for him. Dad would have to drive a 1/2 hour, fight parking and in his mind waste another $25.00, 3 of his least favorite things to do on his day off.

One Saturday, I woke up to Dad emptying the penny bucket onto the kitchen table. I asked what he was doing as he counted it out in piles. "I'm going to spring Bugs, he was caught again". "with pennies?" I had to ask, "yup" was Dad's reply.

It wasn't that Dad didn't have cash to use, he was just aggravated. If he had to drive to the dog pound and deal with less than friendly desk workers and pay the fine, he was going to make sure that it wasn't pleasant for them either. So he counted out $25.00 in pennies (not rolled either), bagged it up and headed to pick up his dog.

He was greeted with the same level of deference and disapproval as ever. He put his bag on the counter and stated "here it is". Mr. 'I hate you and your dogs guts' said he couldn't accept it, "it's pennies". Dad informed him that it was indeed U.S. currency and that he had to accept it". He wasn't taking no for and answer. Counter dude starting counting the money. It took a while and when finished counting, looked to Dad with a nasty smirk "you're 22 cents short". Dad, having known this and having stashed that last 22 cents in his pocket, answered back "count it again". Deflated, Counter Dude said that he would just put the rest in himself.

Dad retrieved Bugs and headed home, maintaining a little spring in his step for the rest of the day.

As an aside, if you haven't *read this* yet, go do it. NukeDad has Flat WeaselMomma on the lamb and she's had to leave the country.