Shag, the Wonder Dog

            Jerry and I and another couple were sitting by the window in a restaurant called Illusions.  Earlier, we had enjoyed a bottle of wine and had been entertained by the clever magician who went from table to table pulling silk handkerchiefs out of sleeves, and making coins disappear.  By ten o’clock we were the only guests left lingering over coffee, when the lanky, young, bearded chef came out from the kitchen to say hello.  Bouncing behind him was a little white fur ball that instantaneously jumped into Jerry’s lap.

            “Hey.  Hope you enjoyed your dinner. Stanley, get down,” said the chef.

            “It’s ok. It’s ok,” Jerry said, as the puppy licked his face. “What is he?”

            “He’s a sheep dog pup…just 6 months old.”

             And we instantly fell in love.

            “If you ever want to get rid of him give us a call.  We have five kids who would love him.” Jerry said.  

            “Oh no, that won’t happen,” answered the chef.

            A month later we got the call. “I just can’t handle a puppy with my restaurant hours.  He’s yours if you still want him. I want him with a family, who will treat him right.”

            We didn’t hesitate in making a decision and made arrangements to pick the puppy up. Jerry wanted to surprise the children. “I’ll bring him to the front door tonight around six and ring the doorbell. Let one of the kids answer.”

            At the appointed time I heard the bell and waited in the kitchen. Peter, who was eight, ran and opened the door. “Dad, come quick. There’s a shag bag in a box at the door. Can we keep him?”

            Quickly, the rest of the kids were there begging us to let the puppy stay and of course we said yes. That was night Stanley became Shag Bag, the newest member of our family.

            He soon became quite at home enjoying romps in the back yard, chaperoned runs on the Villanova campus next door to us, and sleeping in the mud room at night. He was an expert at finding a spot near our feet whenever he could; especially when I was cooking dinner. Shag fit right into our hectic life of carpools and kids. He road shotgun with me in our big red Suburban when I picked up the kids from school or went to hockey and lacrosse games. Everyone knew Shag.

            We did our best to keep his fluffy coat clean, but after the muddy springs we usually had him shaved in time for the hot summer. Embarrassed by his nakedness, he would hide for a few days until he was used to his new look. As his curls grew in he looked quite regal and a bit pompous, but as winter approached he returned to his sloppy, shaggy old self.

            By the time he was two, Shag could sing happy birthday in a perfectly pitched howl.  Friends would call and make requests for him to serenade someone over the phone on their special occasion. We began calling him Shag the Wonder Dog.

            One Friday evening Shag went missing and we were frantic.  The kids called up and down the neighborhood streets and knocked on doors looking for him. Then our phone rang and I heard a slurred voice ask,” Are you Mister Shag?  I have your dog.”

            “Yes. We do. He’s lost. Where is he?”

            Shag had a name tag on his collar with our phone number.

            “I have him here. I think he’s drunk. You might want to come get him.”

            Jerry and Peter followed the caller’s directions to a dorm on campus and there was Shag, obviously over-served, stretched out in the middle of a TGIF party. Jerry carried him home. Shag slept most of the next day and I called to order an electric fence.

            One fall morning, I was busy organizing the laundry, when Shag barked at the back door to come in. I noticed his left eye was red and swollen.  My mother in law, Eve, was living with us and was sitting in the den sewing. She looked up at Shag and announced, “He has a burr in his eye.” 

            I tried to examine Shag’s eye but only saw watery goo.  “I don’t see anything. I think it looks like an infection,” I said.

            Ev, who could tell a storm was on its way by the way her neck felt, distrusted doctors and antibiotics, could cure most anything with salt water, would put brown paper under your lip to stop a nose bleed, and predicted we would bury ourselves in trash before long, was adamant. “It’s a burr.”

            When Jerry came home that evening he looked at Shag and he decided he would take him to the vet. Ev told him, “He has a burr in his eye”

            The next morning, Dr. Aspbury looked at Shag’s eye and diagnosed an infection. He gave us a fifty-dollar-a-tube antibiotic salve to use three times a day and charged us fifty dollars for the visit.

            “The Dr said it is an infection and that this ointment will fix it,” Jerry told us when he came home with Shag close behind.

             “The dog has a burr in his eye,” Eve said.

            “It’s not a burr, Mom,” Jerry said.  The Dr. said it’s an infection.

            A week went by and the eye got worse.  We went back to the vet for another consultation and a different fifty-dollar salve to try.  “Some antibiotics work better than others,” he told us. “I think the infection is spreading.”

            The following day, my brother stopped by to visit us.  “What’s wrong with Shag’s eye?” he asked.

            “He’s got a burr in it,” Eve replied.

            By now the kids had gotten into the act.  “Gramma, it’s not a burr,” Paul said. And the eye got worse.

            On the next trip to the vet he said, “This is more serious than I thought,” and gave us the name of a specialist ophthalmologist from the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary school who comes to suburbs once a month.

            We were lucky. There had been a cancelation and we got an appointment with Dr. Padden for the following Friday at the animal hospital in Haverford.

            “We will have to sedate him to do a thorough exam,” the doctor said. “You can come back and get him later today.”

            At four o’clock we sat in the waiting room thinking the worst for poor Shag.  “Today’s visit will be four hundred and thirty-two dollars,” said the receptionist. “We do take visa and Master Card.”

            Then Dr. Padden appeared in green scrubs. “I have good news. Your dog Shag had a burr in his eye. We were able to easily remove it.”

            Jerry and I looked at each other. In unison we both said, “Don’t tell Eve.”