also named ‘Slats”
This one was a Belgian Sheepdog mix. Around the same size as the first one, but this one had a different temperament. He loved to run, craved action like a Marvel hero. And smart as the proverbial whip.
The old man showed him just once how to run to the front porch, grab the morning paper, then carry it through the back door into the house. From then on, it was 7 days a week, every morning unless the paper boy threw it somewhere bizarre, like under a car, or high in a bush. Crisp morning paper baptized with dog saliva.
When I got home from school, first task was let him out to leave his ‘lincoln logs’ in the field. As soon as I saw him getting fat legs (ie, squatting), I turned and ran back to the house. Finishing his refreshing poo, he hauled ass like Satan was on his trail, and half the time beat me to the back porch.
He and I spent many hours in the field, fetching sticks and rocks until his tongue cleaved from his jaws. And he often flushed rabbits and pheasants from the tall grass. Best part was no one had tidy up his poo in that huge field. I’ll never forget him lying pm the kitchen floor, happily exhausted and blowing bloody spit bubbles (he’d occasionally get a small cut from a rock).
The dog was the source of the only time the old man ever apologized to me.
We were eating supper and as usual, the dog got some tidbits (ie, The old man let him finish a cob of corn, holding the cob as the dog gnawed like a chipmunk). Then a very large belch was heard. I looked down at the dog, but daddy let go with a torrent of abuse about what an ignorant rude asshole I was to burp at the dinner table, “Dogs don’t burp!! Don’t you know anything?! Why the hell do we send you to school??? Do you learn anything there???”
Vindication came a few days later when he leaned down and slipped the dog a treat and the grateful hound gazed soulfully up at him and laid a huge echoing belch in his face. Then the apology came. I was in shock; my mother later agreed it was the only time he ever apologized to me.
Sad thing was that every time the old man screamed at me or mom (or the black people on TV), the dog took it personally and crawled under my parents’ bed. As he grew, this became a longer process as he struggled to squish his tummy under the frame. Once under, he had plenty of room to sleep under their large headboard. From this point on, any time I got yelled at had the percussive accompaniment of the dog scraping and clawing his way under the bed.
When we got this dog, my father came up with a saying that became his brand: “gahlaydahn!!” This was short for ‘Go Lay Down.” When the dog was begging for food or had itchy pants to take a dump within an hour of just coming in, he’d snarl ‘gahlaydahn’. At night, I’d be in my room and hear ‘gahlaydahn’ over my music–it was 50/50 whether he’d call me to take the dog out or handle it himself. Just like Mel Brooks said about Hitler (‘laughing at him is the best revenge’), I still use ‘gahlaydahn’ today when I need to go to bed or if my wife sounds tired (the word always gets a smile).