Buddy – A Series Of Adventures – Hair Of The Dog Days

“Hey, now!  That’s enough, boy!  My goodness, people will start talking.”  You sink back on the bench at the patio bar, sad that your beer chaser was so small, and I wouldn’t let you reach for anyone else’s beverage.   Yes, I said you can have whatever you want from now on, but there still have to be some rules, especially when you are being “café dog”.   Besides, it’s not good to mix alcohol with your medication.

I will never forget when you first discovered a taste for the fermented.  It was in our own back yard.

We spent most evenings that first summer out on the swing in the backyard from mid-July, right up until the snow hit.  The later in the season it got, the more time you spent out under the crab apple tree.  Then one day, after you’d been in the back of the yard for some time you bounded up to me with your “bull in the china shop” demeanor and belched right in my face.  You belched big.  You belched like a sailor, and it smelled like a… like a….well, like a drunken wino.  You had grass, and stems, and a little pink foam stuck around your mouth.  You wretched another great big giddy dog belch, and one more.  You licked your big dog chops and your eyes sort of crossed.  And then, with tail wagging, grass splattered tongue hanging out and wild eyes, you proceeded to stumble across the deck, gleefully terrorizing the girls and knocking everything over in your path.

Good grief, you were drunk on fermented crab apples.

I learned very quickly there is no easy way to scoop up the ka-zillion little red apples dropping from the tree and getting buried into the grass.  The only thing I could do was find a way to keep you from going back there.  Out came the chicken wire fencing, staked across the whole back side of the yard. You would stand at the fence, looking across to the scores of lovely little red, pungent apples on the ground.  They were going to go to waste without you to snarf them up.  But I was determined to make sure your wild child days were over.

It appeared as though I had succeeded.  But my, what a crafty boy you were!

One evening, I was sitting in the dark on the lawn chair having a glass of wine, nurturing a little bonfire.  My mind was churning with random thoughts around the chaos of our newly broken home, and I was quite sad and distracted. I would take a sip of wine, then balance my wine glass on a relatively flat piece of wood on the ground by my side; lean over to stir the fire, sit back in contemplation for a few minutes, then reach for the glass again.  It became a lonely, mechanical routine of sorts.  Oddly, it didn’t feel like I was slamming my wine down, but I must have been drinking fast, because it sure seemed like my wine was disappearing quick.  When I set the glass down on the wood the next time, it brought me back to present moment, thinking “geeze, I better slow down, how much is still in there?”  and instead of leaning over to stir the fire, I broke out of sequential steps, and reached for my glass instead.

I discovered your head there.

Your head was there, over the wine glass.  Your tongue was gently lapping up my wine in the glass.

“YOU LITTLE SHIT!!!  Sneaking up on me in the dark!  Stealing my wine!  ARGHHHHHHH, out of my glass!    Yuck, yuckie, icky ick!”

It was then I feared you may have a problem.

After that night I had to watch you like a hawk and warn anyone who came to visit and have cocktails, “beware of my boy, he will steal your drink if you leave it unattended.”  More than once you made off with someone’s can of beer.  More than once you slurped up someone’s wine.  But you were always ever so careful to not tip the glass or crush the can.  No evidence.   One time, you managed to drag off a wine bottle with about one glass-worth left in it.  I walked around and around, trying to figure out where the heck I set that bottle.  I should have checked with you first.  I found the bottle, sitting upright, empty, in the living room next to the DVD rack.  That’s not where I left it.  The next day, you were sporting a major headache, sulking around, looking for a little hair of the dog that bit you.

Perhaps the most amazing thing that resulted from your craving for alcohol was your willingness to help me clean up after my wild and crazy hot tub parties.  You would canvass the perimeter of the hot tub and pick up all the empty beer cans and Champaign bottles, leaving one little pile by the back door for me to scoop up and toss to recycle.  There was never one drop of liquid in any of them.  You made sure nothing went to waste.

Oh, what a dog.

Weaning you off the barley pop and grape juice was a difficult process.  It meant me refraining from imbibing as well.  And I guess it’s as it should be.  We learn from our parents, right?  So, many new rules were put into effect the next 8 or so years, like when you could participate in social gatherings, and when it was ‘kennel time’.  And I have always had to watch you when the apples start hitting the ground.  Like right now.  But things are different now.  Baby there are no rules.  You can have whatever you want within reason.  I want you to be as happy as possible the rest of your days.  If that means  grazing in the back yard, or having my beer chaser, you go right ahead and tie one on.

But the way you’re looking right now, I have a feeling you’ll be crying for a little ‘hair of the dog’ days tomorrow.  No worries, Buddy, I got you covered.

Cheers.