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Daddy Dearest By Jane Marie click on the photo to enlarge it Pootie, Pootie, Pootie. Any one who ever met Pootie, never forgot him. Pootie Murphy was his name and he was my husband's Yorkshire Terrier, married to Gracie Fleur, also a Yorkie. My husband had Pootie and Gracie when I met him. He told me how Gracie had "papers,” but that they were going to put Pootie down so he wouldn't muddy the breed since his head shook. Aside from that, he looked perfect. And he was perfect, perfect by the standards of loving pet owners. Pootie did some odd things we couldn't explain and he probably couldn't either if he'd been able to speak human. He would trot and trot and trot some more in circles, under the gramophone, across the tile foyer, under the chair leg, around the couch and back, again and again, until we finally had to make him stop. The bottom of the wooden roll top desk was the perfect height for Pootie to scratch his back. His little legs would stay in one spot and he would move his body so he scratched his spine until it felt so good, he'd start to, "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!” One day Pootie wandered off. We put signs up around the neighborhood and in the grocery store windows telling of his disappearance. Three days later, we received a phone call. Someone had found him. When we drove up to the address given us, there was Pootie, resting comfortably in the wire basket of a motorized wheel chair. A paralyzed artist who painted with his teeth had found him for us! Amazed and most grateful, we collected him. The entire time, Pootie seemed unaffected by the experience. As Pootie grew older, his fur turned more silver. My husband used to dip him in the bluing that old ladies put in their hair to make the white look whiter. Oops. An extra capful in the water and he was known around our place for several months as "Old Blue Poo.” One Saturday morning I heard my husband calling frantically for me. I ran outside to discover he'd fished Pootie out of the swimming pool! At first glance, he'd thought Pootie was a wet newspaper, his gray and brown fur darkened from the water. Running around the edge of the pool, my husband shook him, pleaded with him to come back to us, and blew into his mouth. Sure enough, Pootie responded. After a little rest in the sunshine, corralled with one of those twelve-inch white wire garden fences, he was fine. Another time, while living in a second story apartment, Pootie casually trotted to the edge of the balcony and promptly walked off! I heard his thud on the hard packed dirt below and knew for certain that he was a goner. I was wrong. He got up, shook himself and started trotting again. Little Pootie hadn't a mean bone in his body except when he saw the neighbor's big German Shepard, Buford, in our yard. Then he'd run out and attacked the animal, which was ten times his size. He'd hang on the big dog's ear for a few seconds until he slipped off because his teeth were becoming fewer and fewer. Fortunately, Buford was not aggressive and tolerated Pootie's irrational behavior. Old age took all of Pootie's teeth and softened his snout. His "ham tongue” began hanging out all the time. He would come in from outdoors with sand and sticks stuck to it, so we'd have to wash it off for him. We tried to keep Pootie going for as long as we could. We fed him baby food. We even cut tail holes in infant disposable diapers for him. Pootie could only be described as a character, but he was our character and a most memorable one at that!
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