This article is part of Fort Worth Magazine's July Pets Issue. We had a lot of fun writing from the angle of a few of our furry friends.
Oh, the intoxicating realm of scents. It truly merits one of those OMGs because it truly is a gift from God. This symphony of smells shapes my perception of the world, as well as, ahem, others. I could literally muse all day about the wonders of the olfactory universe and the joy derived from the exploration of the many aromatic treasures that abound.
OK, what was I talking about?
Ah, I hadn’t even started. I apologize for that. Been a ruff day. (Hahahaha. Get it?) Plus, I’m very easily distracted. My human has more than once said something to me about ADHD. He has said it so often that I’m now vaguely familiar with this. It’s a neurodevelopment disorder that affects children, adults, and, I guess, dogs.
I’ve been through the checklist of symptoms, ad infinitum, all part of some lecture(s) by my human:
Difficulty sustaining attention and easily becoming distracted: Yes.
Trouble organizing tasks and activities: Oh, boy.
Forgetfulness and frequent losing of items: Listen, you try burying everything in the backyard and remembering where you left it.
Difficulty following instructions or completing tasks: Check. I can sit on command just fine. A little Milk-Bone is helpful inspiration.
Avoidance of tasks that require sustained mental effort: Insert one of those shrugging emojis here.
Restlessness and constant fidgeting: Yeah, and?
Difficulty staying seated or being still: Guard duty 24 hours a day requires mobility.
Excessive talking and interrupting others: You call it begging. I call it standing at attention. Soldiers are trained to do that.
Impatience and difficulty waiting for turns: It’s not like I was ever enrolled in cotillion.
Acting without considering consequences: Heh, heh. Ahem.
Blah, blah, blah. I am who I am.
This is my first effort as a canine columnist. My name is actually Luke. Squirrel, if you know what’s best for you, you’ll hit the road pronto.
I’m what they call a “rescue.” That is a little annoying considering I’m more than just some generic label. In fact, as my mother used to tell me, I’m distinguished by my genealogy. The doctor man — shivers — says I’m a Labrador retriever-chow “mix.” He and his prodding, inquisitive fingers supposedly know everything. For Pete’s sake, there has got to be a better way to check for a fever in the 21st century!
I look like a black Labrador retriever with, as I’ve been told, “the temperament to match.”
Not sure what exactly all that means. Yes, I love people, and I’m “good with children.” Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that. Yes, I’m also a retriever who doesn’t like water. I couldn’t care less if you “read” that I’m perfect for the water with my water-resistant double coat and webbed paws. I ain’t getting in.
Yes, I’m the only retriever who doesn’t retrieve. I’ll run down a thrown tennis ball as if I were a cheetah on a warthog. So, what if I don’t bring it back to you? That was my great-great-grandpaw who retrieved the birds and fish. I’m my own man.
It’s quite funny, actually, to see the reaction. I run like hell after the tennis ball, pick it up, and then drop it 30 yards from him. He comes and picks it up every time. Repeat.
Oh, and did I mention squirrels? The bane of my existence. Ho-ho-ho. I keep those public nuisances on their toes. You should see those little devils scoot up trees when I’m in pursuit! I’m not exactly well-read on the Bible, but I’m fairly certain it was a squirrel talking that lady into the forbidden fruit.
But I digress.
My story is complicated.
After leaving my litter, I wound up wandering the streets for a bit. You ever see that bumper sticker “Not all who wander are lost?” Well, I’m here to tell you, I was one lost, sick puppy. I won’t bore you with the details, but some son-of-a-bitch used me as target practice. I’ve got pellets still in my rump.
Anyway, I broke away and wandered down into the Fort Worth Stockyards. Nice, good people down there. Fed and watered me but had no idea what to do with me. Well, out of the White Elephant Saloon came my human. Did he ever stink.
“Hey, look, it’s Luke Short,” he says about me. Turns out, I was sitting on the Luke Short star outside the White Elephant. They have that Texas Trail of Fame down there, you know. Luke Short is the guy who plugged the dirty marshal back in the day. Anyway, at that moment, I became Luke. My human put me in his car and took me to the doctor man.
Life has been a bed of roses since.
Oh, well, looky here. It’s the postman. You better watch yourself, postman. Barking up the wrong tree, fella.
