During my dad’s career, he wrote many columns about our neighborhood pets. Sometimes he claimed to be annoyed by these animals, but he was actually very fond of all of them. Especially Snooks.
September 1955
I am beset these days by a smiling dog, and it is getting so I almost hate to get up mornings. Not that I loved doing so in the old, dogless days, of course.
The animal’s name is Snooks. He is the property of my friend and neighbor Charles Riland, the furniture man. For six years now, I have resided next door to Charles, his wife Arlene and their little girl Charlene, and better neighbors you couldn’t ask for.
But this dog of theirs seems to prefer to sleep on our back step, rather than in his own yard. Then, when I peer out to see if there is any milk on the porch, he smiles. It is getting on my nerves.
Of course, I wouldn’t have to look out for the milk if I was able to remember the days on which our milkman delivers, but I never can. And I wouldn’t have to look out, either, if I dared to open the refrigerator door and have a look at how much milk we have now. But the trouble with that is our refrigerator door squeaks something awful and is liable to awaken the children at that early hour. If there is anything I don’t want in the mornings it is the company of the children, or anyone else, for that matter. I’m not very sociable in the morning. And being smiled at by that dog does not improve my disposition any.
The reason I must rush the milk in at the earliest possible moment is my wife’s unshakable belief that it will become sour if exposed to sunlight. I have quoted Jim Schwindt to the effect that good milk can stand quite a lot before it turns, but she just shakes her head.
Funny thing, it was my wife who taught that dog to smile. “Smile, Snooks,” she said one day, and to her amazement, he did. We thought it was cute and went around the neighborhood showing him off, even if he wasn’t our dog.
Snooks is not a very self-possessed animal, and this was his first taste of adulation and acclaim. After that, he went around smiling at everything, including posts and the neighborhood cats, who did not reciprocate his seeming friendliness.
His toothy grin put me in mind of the demented character in the play, “Arsenic and Old Lace,” who thought he was Theodore Roosevelt and went charging up the stairs under the impression it was San Juan Hill.
I wondered idly if there was any way to teach the pooch to say “bully.” Anyone, man or animal, with a grin like that should be required to employ that famous expression. But talking seems to be beyond Snook’s powers.
The possibilities of a combination involving my family’s parakeet next occurred to me. It seemed like a smashing idea. With a little work, I figured, Tweety could easily be taught the expression. Then he could perch on the dog’s back, and on signal each would contribute his part, Snooks smiling and the parakeet saying “bully.”
But that was before the canine smirking became part of my breakfast table routine. Since then, I have lost heart for the project. I am now thinking along the lines of acquiring one of those sad-looking St. Bernards as an antidote for all this synthetic cheerfulness.
