Barking up the wrong tree in seeking this man’s best friend

Although it was merely a footnote in a recent column about my long, lost summer, you may have noticed that during that terrible time, my dog died.

The whole ordeal was like a bad country song. You know the likely lyrics: My car died … I almost died … my dog died …

It was a dozen years ago this week that my little companion, Chopper, a West Highland Terrier, arrived as an early Christmas present. I’ll tell you, that little guy had more personality than most of the women I’ve dated.

I had always wanted a Westie, saying I longed for a “white Scottie dog” before realizing Westie was an entirely separate breed.

Whenever I’d have him at the park or walking around the block, kids would invariably gush, “It’s the Little Caesar’s dog.” And I’d have to correct them that Little Caesar’s was pizza, Cesar’s is the dog food.

Speaking of which, that Cesar’s TV commercial haunts me. I’ll be out of the room in the kitchen or bedroom and hear the instrumental music that accompanies video of an airline pilot sitting down and feeding his Westie on the window sill. Not a word is spoken as he sets the dish in front of the dog. It chokes me up every time.

I never had a dog growing up, the prevailing excuse was that my mother was allergic to dog dander. Yet when I went off to college, they replaced me with a miniature Schnauzer.

Prior to getting Chopper, I joked about getting two Westies, a male and female, naming them Dixie and Chopper. That never happened, and now Chopper is gone and so is Dixie Chopper.

All this is coming to mind these days as since I’m on the mend, I’ve contemplated getting another dog.

Prior to Chopper, I always figured a dog would find me since that’s the way it had worked while we lived out in Madison Township for 25 years. People would often dump their dogs and cats out there in the country, especially since we lived one house before Saddle Club Road crossed the old railroad bridge and turned into gravel on the other side.

Over the years we inherited a number of dogs that found their way into our yard. A curly mixed breed adopted us the night the blizzard began, waiting for us at the front door. We also had a purebred Airedale show up as well as a miniature Collie. Eventually we were able to find them homes elsewhere.

But now that I’m in town, I doubt that dog-finds-me theory is going to work out. OK, a family of deer has found me but they only show up in the back of my sideyard occasionally.

I need more interaction than that. So I’ve started watching area animal shelter websites.

Unfortunately about 90 percent of the dogs shown there are larger breeds with lots of Pit Bull mixes. Dogs too big for their own good and certainly too large to be inside dogs living with me.

It’s certainly not that I need the responsibility of caring for a dog, taking him out on his appointed rounds and all that comes with that duty.

It’s the companionship that counts. Having someone or something around to share the events of the day is more satisfying than returning home to an empty house.

So after I came home from the hospital and rehab to a dog-less domain, my daughter spotted what seemed to be the perfect pooch on the Humane Society website.

While not a Westie, it was a Scottie, so virtually the same breed and temperament. He was older than a pup and house broken. His owners were apparently giving him up for relocation reasons, I understand.

At this point, I wasn’t even out of the wheelchair yet, so I wasn’t so sure adding a dog to the equation was a smart move. But my daughter suggested we go see him the next day. Fate intervened, however, and when we checked that website again, there was a picture of a smiling family, holding its new Scottie.

But things have changed around here now. I’m able to walk a little on my own, needing a cane at times, but heading toward independence.

So the thought of adopting another dog has entered the picture again.

And here it is Christmastime, so maybe I owe myself a present.

As if on cue, I went out the back door, heading for my car the other night, cane in hand and careful to dodge all the cracks in the concrete, lest I not only not break my mother’s back but mine as well in the process.

I wasn’t five feet from the car when some big, mangy mutt appeared out of nowhere. Playfully, he jumped up on me, leaving muddy paw prints on my jacket and pants as I cursed his existence.

As Norm once famously said upon his weekly entrance to Cheers, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m wearing Milkbone underwear.”

Maybe not exactly but I was wearing muddy sweatpants.

And like I said, who needs a dog …