We got Parky when I was about seven years old. It was a warm, bright Saturday in late spring and the air was electric with anticipation. Puppies, we were going to see puppies!
My Father felt every household should have a dog in it. He had no love at all for cats and could be said to have actively disliked them. When I was older and my dad had passed away, my sis, mom and step-dad brought a kitten home with them one day and were afraid that I wouldn't like it. When I asked Mom why they thought that, she said, "Well, your dad hated cats." To which I replied somewhat testily, "Well. I am not my dad." And there was my sister, practically salivating in joy over this kitten and she, not I, was the one who would toss the neighborhood cats over the fence into our backyard for Parky to chase. I would never be so cruel!
My mother, however, did not feel that she had the stamina and will to raise another pup to adulthood. So that is why, several months earlier, we went to the pound. Bringing Parky home came later. From the pound, we acquired a Basset Hound mix named Corky.
He was a short, floppy-eared and stout dog who was docile and took an instant liking to all of us. And why shouldn't he? Mom and Dad loved dogs a much as my sister (younger than me by three years) and me. She and I had practically been raised by the family dog. I learned to walk by hanging onto Gypsy as she took me all over the house. To this day, I have a special place in my heart reserved for dogs. At any rate, Mom thought he would be perfect. He was already house-broken and polite.
As sweet and docile as Corky was, we soon found out why he was at the pound. He had an undeniable wanderlust. We would come home from an outing to find him gone.
It took us a while to learn how Corky was managing this. After all, he was a stumpy-legged mutt and we had a five foot high block wall around most of the property and a three and a half foot high fence between us and our neighbors. His determination was astonishing.
Dad decided to trick Corky, whom we always left loose in the backyard whenever we would leave for a time. We all got ready as if for an outing. Corky was put out and we all piled into the family car and drove down to the end of the street. Then we walked back, saying not a word, except for my sister who could not seem to be quiet. Mom had to hold her back a bit. That's when we heard and saw Corky's escape.
I was born in Southern California in 1952. The weather being amenable, many houses were built in the bungalow style and had flat roofs. My parents purchased one of these. Most likely that was because Dad was ever practical and conservative and they were less expensive than the pitched-roof houses. So when Dad built a playhouse for my sister and me, he gave it a flat roof also. The playhouse was on the backside of the garage and only about a half a foot from the block wall. The lidded, metal garbage cans were stored directly next to the playhouse.
We were all standing quietly in the driveway when we heard the trash cans clanging together. Then like a shot, Corky appeared atop the playhouse roof which was a little higher than the block wall. Without a thought, he leaped off the roof, right over the wall and took off at a dead run. Our mouths fell open at the feat. Luckily, a dead run with legs so short was not more than my dad could overcome. And at only 5'8", my dad's legs weren't all that long either!
Another one of Dad's beliefs was that dogs should wear harnesses at all times and never collars. So the next step was to chain him, wearing a harness, in the backyard when we left. Dad was so confident that this would work, that we never tested it. We soon leaned that Corky should more appropriately have been named Harry, as in Houdini. Poor Corky was sent back to the pound. Finally, Mom had to concede that perhaps a puppy was the best idea after all.
Some friends from church had a registered Beagle bitch that they were planning on breeding to make a little extra money. To their chagrin, a neighbor's very lusty, unregistered and determined Malamute managed to get the little Beagle with pup. When the puppies were weaned, a notice went up on the church bulletin board, "Free Puppies." And that is why we found ourselves in their backyard on that bright Saturday morning.
Mom and Dad told my sis and me that we could pick the pup we wanted, but that they (read that Dad) would get to name it. We thought that was a grand idea and agreed readily.
There were puppies every where, or so it seemed. They were so cute with their longish fur, floppy ears, tails that tended to curl up over their backs and quick, wet, black-spotted tongues. As an adult, Parky was actually very funny looking. Short in the legs, long in the body, he had a tail that was like a whisk broom and soulful eyes. His fur was long and somewhat straggly and of a color that couldn't seem to make up its mind. But he had the bearing of a Saint. All puppies are cute, no matter the breed or muttliness and probably this is a good thing. You learn to love them with all your heart before they grow up.
My sister was running all over the yard, yelling and laughing. She was stirring up the chaos even more. My thought was that we will never pick a pup this way, so I sat quietly in the grass; just watching the circus and waiting. After a while, one little pup got curious, He detached himself from the group that was mauling my sister who was now belly up in the grass and walked over to me. I stretched out my hand. He smelled it and licked it and crawled up into my lap. He just laid there looking up at me. After a bit, I stood up with him in my arms, walked over to my parents, who were talking with the owners and said, "This one." My sister did not really care which one we got, so long as a pup went home with us. Even though Parky was the family dog, I always considered him mine.
In the car, on the way home, Dad explained to my sis and me that his all-time favorite comedian had a stage name of "Parky Carcass." For that reason alone, our new dog was to be named "Parky."
I had a tendency, as a child, to respond to the question, "So, what's your dog's name?" with, "It's Parky." This looks straight forward in print, but apparently sounded more like "Sparky" when spoken. This led to a great deal of confusion between me and inquiring adults. They would invariably say, "Sparky. What a cute name." To which I would also invariably say, "No. It's Parky." They would reply, "Sparky," and around and around we'd go. Arrgh! This went on for quite some time until I learned to answer the question with a simple, "Parky."
I was at the perfect age and he was the perfect dog; smart, obedient and quick to learn. We soon became the best of friends. He saw me through heartache and adversity. He licked away my tears and was a steadfast companion.
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