When my brother was fifteen, he got his wish-a beautiful two
month old yellow lab. Jimmy gave the family two choices for a name. It was
either Fred or Rebel. We chose Rebel. This sweet-natured, fun-loving dog was
supposed to be my brother's pet, but he belonged to all of us, especially my
father. It was my father who fed him every night and took him for his daily
walks. It was my father that drove him to the vet and picked out a dog house
that was really a large storage shed for Rebel to live in. It even had a
window, columns and a front porch that Rebel could stretch out on to survey his
domain, a large fenced in yard.
This dog loved to play games, especially with the water
hose. He thought nothing of wrapping that hose around your legs or grabbing the
hose from you and spraying you from head to toe with water. But when he was
tired of playing, he would let you know in no uncertain terms. When he was only
a puppy, he stopped my brother from playing fetch with him by dumping the
tennis ball into his water bowl.
When he was a puppy, I sincerely believed he was more
mountain goat than dog. He literally ate my mother's favorite tulip tree. He
even tried to tunnel his way through the family room door by eating a hole in
that door the size of a large beach ball. Everyone was relieved when he grew
out of the chewing stage.
Rebel would never walk when he could run instead. Whenever
he was allowed inside, that dog would take a running leap and literally slide
into the French doors leading to the breakfast room. After several mishaps, he
learned to slow down a bit and finally made it into the hallway without banging
into the furniture or doors.
Being a lab, he sniffed everything in his path with his
large pink nose. This included my Chanel No. 5. He loved the smell of it! That dog
would smell my wrist and drink in the scent. Unfortunately, he was allergic.
The minute Rebel stopped sniffing, he would start sneezing and rubbing his
itchy back against the fence. After that, I stopped wearing perfume around him.
Summers were difficult for Rebel. He didn't like the heat.
So my father got him a window unit and put it in the storage shed that served
as his spacious dog house. I really believe that's why that dog lived to the
ripe old age of seventeen-he was the only dog in the neighborhood with an air conditioned
dog house. My father said Rebel deserved it. According to my father, that dog
gave him twice as much respect as the rest of the family combined. Knowing
Rebel and his tendency toward doggie-kisses, my father was probably right.
