Check out the newest edition of Allan’s Alley by Chalkboard Columnist Allan Dash…
As I write this, the blogs of both Kim and Jason contain affectionate reminiscences about the pet dogs of their respective childhoods. Since suspicious carpet stains and chewed shoes have been part of my life for the past 60 years or so, I began squinting back through the mists of time, eventually focusing on the three critters who started it all: Patsy, Mickey and Prince.
Patsy and Mickey were both miniature Boston Terriers, cute little back-and-white, pug-faced creatures who were the proper size for a six or seven-year-old boy. I loved both of them, but neither demonstrated much lasting power. Patsy expired after only eight months, to be followed by Mickey, who hung on for less than two years.
Determined that our next dog should be the picture of health and heartiness, Dad located a local breeder of boxers, who turned out to be an even better salesman than he was a producer of fine animals. As a result, Dad wrote a humungous check, and came home with…