49 How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?
W
hen I was in college, long, long ago, in another time
and place, far, far away, I took care of a stray dog I later
named Spot.
Yes, I really named her Spot. She was part beagle and part dal-
matian, and she really had spots on her.
Well, my father would make fun of Spot, calling her a mutt. My
father made fun of most of the things I was interested in, so this
wasn’t unusual behavior for him. Still, it irked me. I loved Spot. I
thought she deserved better respect. So one day I made up a story:
I told my dad that I had gone shopping at the grocery store,
and of course had left Spot outside to wait for me. I then
said that when I came out of the store, an old man was
standing there, staring at Spot.
“Is this your dog?” the man asked.
“Yes,” I replied, wondering what Spot had done while I
was away.
“You have a rare dog,” he said.
“I do?”