Let me tell you about my $1,200 dog…

Let me tell you about my $1,200 dog…

Full disclosure — I’m a “cat person.” So, you’ll be advised to read everything that is to follow through that lens. I’m sure there are plenty of you out there who have heart-warming tales of love and loyalty about your beloved dog.

This is not one of those stories.

In the 26 years that I have been married, my wife and I have had several ill-fated dog-related disasters, or “dog-sasters” if you will. We’ve had dogs that ran away, we’ve had dogs that have been dognapped, and we had one particularly unpleasant Pomeranian that would not stop bolting out the front door every time it was opened. We would have to chase him down with bacon and sweet talk every time, too.

So, one day, I opened the door to take out the trash, he took off for only God knows where, and I just took out the trash and went back inside. We never saw him again.

And so for years, we were a cat house. No, not a “cat-house,” like in Las Vegas. We had a cat. Then we had two cats. Then three cats.

Life was good.

But around the time my daughter turned five, she and her mother began concocting a plan to ruin my happy, dog-free home. It began with simple hints that they wanted a dog. I responded first with dismissive chuckles, then with a solid series of adamant no’s, and then I finally, after they seemed to be zeroing in on a particular litter of pups belonging to one of my wife’s co-workers, flat-out insisted that we were, in fact, not getting a dog. So, after hearing my demands, insistences and wellthought- out argument, we compromised.

And we got a dog…

So there he was. There was a dog in my house.

They named him Rocky. He was, well, he was ugly. There’s not really any other way to put it. He’s just not visually pleasing. He’s put together from a variety pack of dog parts — a Frankendog, if you will.

He has at least three different kinds of dog hair that just sprout from different spots. He’s got a white mohawk like the evil gremlin in “Gremlins.” The longer we have him, the weirder looking he’s gotten.

Also, he chewed. Lord, did he chew. At least a dozen pairs of shoes!

He ate a series of earbuds like they were beef jerky. Oh, and underwear. He’d dig them out of the laundry basket and take them outside.

Every time I’d go to mow the back yard, I’d have to collect the shredded panties and such before mowing.

Plus, he was a digger.

He got out so often, he had a following on the Marion Facebook page. I’d get tagged in messages… “Rocky is on J.E. Clarke!” “Rocky is on the loose again!”

“Saw Rocky over by the school!” I think there was even talk of getting T-shirts made…

Well, we got him fixed and that sort of snuffed out his wanderlust, so that was one less headache. Well, recently, we moved. Not far, just across town. And despite my hopes that he might not, Rocky made the trip with us. Unfortunately, my favorite cat, a big fat ball of fluff named Ninja, did not.

She got spooked on moving day and ran off.

We tried to find her, but no luck.

Anyway, the new house is cool, but Rocky had some sort of incident after about three weeks. We’re still not sure, but my suspicions are that the cat pushed him down the stairs. We didn’t have stairs in the old house, and he loves them. Unfortunately for him, he’s just not very coordinated.

So, we get home from church one Sunday not too long ago, and he doesn’t run up to say hello. Used to be, that meant he had run off, but he’s yet to figure out an escape plan from the new yard. We eventually found him, sitting under a table. He got up then, but refused to put any weight on his back right leg. He’s kind of a weenie, and he’s had hurt legs before, so we weren’t that concerned.

But after three days of refusing to put weight on the leg, I relented and said I would take him to the vet. Somehow, it always falls on me to take the animals to the vet. Well, the vet didn’t take long, feeling around and such, to say, “Well, I’m pretty sure that’s a broken leg.”

My first instinct was to say, “OK, thanks for the diagnosis, Doc! Come on, Old Yeller. Let’s go out behind the woodshed.”

But I didn’t.

He took some x-rays, and wouldn’t you know it? Broke! Speaking of broke, he then began to tell me about my options and their related costs.

“This would be a surgical repair,” he said. So, for $1,200, I could do just that. He would go in fix the break, set it, cast it, and in six to eight weeks, he’d be good as new.

Twelve. Hundred.

Dollars.

Option two would be to amputate. He assured me that dogs do great on three legs. He’d be good as new (minus a leg) in two weeks. That sounded terrible but potentially cheaper. The price? A cool thousand bucks.

“What’s option three?” I asked, already envisioning a ride out to “a farm in the country” for Rocky and me.

Well, you’ve probably figured it out, but option three was the ol’ Big Sleep. All dogs go to Heaven, right? And Rocky, bless him, could get a one-way ticket to Pooch Paradise for $115.

I knew which way I was going. Unfortunately, I couldn’t convince myself to just have him put down and go home to tell my wife and daughter, “Sorry, there was nothing they could do.”

Yep, this one was going to have to go before the committee. My wife took surprisingly little convincing that $1,200 was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on a dog. And really, it was either that or put him down. I wasn’t going to pay $1,000 to have a three-legged dog. We presented the cold, hard facts to my daughter.

Once the tears started, my wife caved instantly. So, it was 2-to-1 now.

But, I did have the final say.

I responded first with sympathetic platitudes, then with a solid series of facts about the financial burden of the surgery, and then I finally presented a thought-out argument. In the end, we compromised.

You’ll be happy to learn everything went fine with the surgery and Rocky is at home recovering.

Ralph Hardin is the Editor of the Evening Times and the Marion Ledger. He lives in Marion with his wife and kids, a cat… and the world’s ugliest $1,200 dog.