When I was a boy my family had a German Shepherd. I accept that based upon some of the other weird stories that have been relayed on this blog over the last eighteen months that I need to point out I am actually referring to a dog. His name was Jacob. Outside of that I'm afraid my memory betrays me and I don't remember much about him at all. In fact the only two things I can remember are
1) He once bit a policeman. Not in a cheeky episode of Noddy kind of way. And certainly not in a Robbie-and-Well-Ard-Get-Caught-Making-Puppies kind of way either. A policeman was next door and leaned over the back fence to pet the dog. The dog told him to piss off.
2) I do recall once walking into the kitchen early one morning and realizing that the warm, squidged meat-paste-in-a-jar substance that I had just stepped in was dog poo. I think the only reason I remember this is because at no other point in my life have the spaces between my toes been so thoroughly sealed in anything before or since.
But that's all I recall. My son - one would hope - wont suffer the same problem of memory that I do. However, judging by an informative show I watched on PBS some time back he may be lodging some firm memories in his own personal Wayback Machine. His memories of his first (and let's pray it's the last) dog could be stored in there forever. Memories formed by moments he was fond of sharing, or disturbing incidences that he can't knock out of his head despite the hard liquor and copious amounts of marijuana that he hopes will do the trick.
I'm sad to say that this might be one of them. He's currently obsessed with trying to step on the dog's tail. Except being biologically ignorant he thinks it's the dog's "winkie". Let's all pray this isn't the first indication of a long-slow slide to him obtaining the scandalous tabloid nickname "The Dog Dick Stamper" in later life.
Oh the shame...