The Lonely Goatherd Blog And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats - Matthew 25:32
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Al Barger and MoreThings - getting people's goats since 1998.
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June 21, 2003
Dead puppies aren't much fun I beg the pardon of long suffering readers as I take a moment of personal indulgence.
My puppy just died. This barely weaned puppy had been left in a brushpile to die in March, but was rescued apparently fairly quickly by an angel of mercy who gave him to me. This alone marks him special, being the only time I've ever brought a dog in. We always have dogs on the farm, but they just wander in from wherever and start eating our food. In these parts, that's plenty to keep several dogs around at any given time. We've still got three.
Being a big puppy, probably some kind of golden retriever or labrador, we expected a monster. Also considering that he was THE FACE OF PURE EVIL, we named him "Cujo".
I could tell fairly many cute puppy stories on him, but we'll save it. Our monster puppy weighed around 30 pounds at about five months.
Tuesday he was fine and happy, viciously attacking his master and terrorizing his big brothers, whom he was already bigger than. Wednesday he was, well, sicker than a dog, or perhaps exactly as sick as a dog. He died overnight.
Most likely he managed to poison himself, drank some antifreeze or ate who knows what. The damned fool would eat anything that got in range. He'd wolf down three large eggs, then look up at you and ask what was for breakfast. I bought him a name tag a few days ago. When I got down to put it on him, he immediately ate it. I had to pry his mouth open to get it out of his throat before it went down the hatch. Admittedly, he probably wasn't the smartest dog we've ever had.
Anyway, I couldn't find our half-assed excuse for a shovel, which left me with an old pitchfork to dig with. It broke after about two forkfulls, leaving me to dig a puppy grave with a hoe. Carrying Cujo's cold and very stiff body back to the woods rates as the least fun I've had all week, to put it midly. I wrapped him in my 101 Dalmatians bath towel and put him in the clay. At least I got done before the rain hit.
Oh, well. We loved him when we had him. He had love and care while he was here. The old man is heartbroken, but what are you going to do? I chose to listen to music.
That brings me to Ogden Edsel's classic record "Dead Puppies". In theory, it's a comedy record. It's one of the half dozen most requested songs in the history of the Dr. Demento show. Yet listening to the song when you are actually dealing with a dead puppy might give you a different take on the song.
The crude lyrics ("Mom says puppy's days are through/ she's going to throw him in the stew") combine with the over the top mock-drama of the arrangement (particularly the big organ) to make a classic black comedic gesture.
Yet hearing it now, I can't help but think there lies real pain under the song, made clear by exaggerated comic denial. It comes out in the actual melody at the heart of the record. The highest point of humor is how it can help you transubstantiate pain and misfortune. This song does that nicely. It's an exceptional song, really.
Dead puppies Dead puppies Dead puppies aren't much fun They don't come when you call They don't chase squirrels at all Dead puppies aren't much fun
My puppy died late last fall He's still rotting in the hall Dead puppies aren't much fun
Mom says puppy's days are through She's gonna throw him in the stew Dead puppies aren't much fun
Dead puppies Dead puppies Dead puppies aren't much fun
Dead puppies Dead puppies Dead puppies aren't much fun
Dead puppies Dead puppies ****************
Yet I'm happy as a frickin' clam. This may seem a bit like the trick ending of the Who's plane crash song which suddenly turns into a birthing scene ["Glow Girl"]. The only defense I have here is truth.
Dad came back to tell me about Cujo while I was on the phone. I was talking to my best friend.
My childless 38 year old best friend was explaining that she is unexpectedly pregnant.
Who cares about a damned silly dog?
POSTSCRIPT, FEBRUARY 2004: My godson was born on Friday the 13th, beautiful and healthy and perfect. Life is good. :)
