I loved animals but I wasn't very lucky with them. I was allergic to cats, I killed all kinds of goldfish with either too much or too little attention, I knocked a bike over on my favorite little kitten, and I couldn't seem to keep a parakeet longer than six months.
I guess mom thought having a bird in a cage would be less maintenance than cats or dogs, because when I begged her to give me a parakeet for Christmas, she capitulated, and I got the most beautiful blue parakeet when I was 13. I named her Carol, after my favorite Christmas story, "The Bird's Christmas Carol." I suppose that wasn't the smartest thing to do. In the book, Carol dies. So did my parakeet. Mom was sweet, and let me get another one, which was also blue, so I named her Carol as well. She flew out the window one day when I forgot to close her cage. Mom relented one more time, but after my third Carol died she convinced me that maybe I should give up on parakeets for awhile. I also decided Carol wasn't a very good name for pets.
Two years later, for Christmas, 1971, Grandma and Grandpa Russell gave me the most adorable little white toy poodle. My uncle was a veterinarian, and he had acquired Sammy from some patient who couldn't take care of him anymore. Uncle Ray gave him to Grandma and Grandpa, but after a few days they realized they were in no position to care of an indoor dog. We weren't either, as far as mom was concerned, but someone needed to take this cute little poodle, and finally mom gave in and let me have him. Thank goodness he was already potty trained and house broken, and named.
Sammy was wonderful! He was a little white ball of fluff, so light there was hardly anything to him. He was also very intelligent and obedient. He came when he was called, stayed when he was supposed to, and slept on the foot of my bed without ever making a bit of trouble. I loved him!
We took Sammy with us up to the cabin when we went for New Year's Eve, and he slept with me on the front seat of the truck since we'd decided to sleep in the camper instead of opening up the cabin. Sammy kept me warm that night, snuggling up with me on the narrow little seat and helping to keep me from falling off.
It wasn't long before Sammy was so much a part of our lives that we hardly even noticed he was there, except when it was time to feed or water him. I suppose that was the reason I didn't notice Sammy was missing late one Wednesday evening, just over a month after he was given to me. Mom and dad had gone out for the evening, and Keith and I were babysitting the other kids. I had done my homework and was in my bedroom reading when the phone rang. Keith answered it.
After talking for a few minutes he came down to the bedroom to find me. "That was the Wintles down at the end of the street," he began cautiously. "They said a car ran into a little white poodle out on Stapley drive, and they wondered if it was our dog."
"It can't be," I exclaimed in alarm. "Sammy's right here!" But he wasn't. I ran through the house, looking for my little ball of fur, but I couldn't find him. All of my brothers and sisters joined in the search, but none of them had any more luck. Eventually I checked the back door, and found it ajar. It must have been left open when mom left, hours earlier, and Sammy slipped out without any of us noticing.
I was devastated, of course. How could my little puppy, whom I had barely gotten to know, be gone? It was so hard! When dad got home he went down the street and checked. It was Sammy who had been run into. Thank goodness he at least hadn't suffered.
My little puppy was buried that evening, but it took a long time to get used to him being gone. For days afterwards I could have sworn I could feel that little warm weight lying down on the foot of my bed, and every time I came into the house I automatically looked around, expecting to see my sweet little puppy.
A few months later a neighbor who had heard about the accident called to tell me they had puppies, born on Christmas morning, and they wondered if I would like to have one. The puppies were Doodles, part dachtson and part poodle, and absolutely adorable. I named my puppy Dandy (you know, Yankee Doodle Dandy). He was black and looked an awful lot like an overgrown rat, but I didn't care. I just hoped I would have better luck with him than my previous pets. As it turned out, Dandy was with our family for years, even after I grew up, got married, and moved away. At last my bad luck with animals seemed to be over. Little did I know it was just transferring over to men.
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