Friday, June 1, 2007


Watson and me. My guess is this photo was
taken in
summer, 1975 or 1976. It's probably the first photo
we had together. He's just a puppy here.

Watson was a funny dog. After the death of our family's beloved basset hound, Jenny, who lived to be 14-1/2, and passed away when I was five, I desperately wanted another canine companion. Watson came from the Huron Valley Humane Society on Cherry Hill Road. He was named after his veterinarian, Dr. Watson, and his name fit him perfectly (think the slightly dense Watson to the razor-witted Sherlock), so we decided not to rename him.

Watson was half basset hound, half cocker spaniel. There seems to be something in a mutt that makes them more indestructible. Watson would run away from home, once even prompting us to take out an ad in the local newspaper (yes, he was found). He also outlived two other dogs we adopted. The first, a pointer named Lindy, after Charles "Lucky" Lindbergh, was not as lucky as her namesake, and was killed by a car. She had been lost for a couple of days, and one morning, after being brought home from a sleepover at a friend's house, my mom and dad broke the news.

Shonto, our Irish setter joined the family in about 1979. He and Watson both came with my family to El Paso, and lived to be nine years old, and passed away after a short bout with cancer.

No, Watson was a survivor. I would make up songs about him. He could shed enough hair to clothe a family. And, surprisingly, those short, stumpy legs could carry him quite quickly.

Watson bridged a huge part of my life. From the time I was seven until I moved out from my parents' home at age 20, he was always there. He was there from my boyhood to my adulthood. And still there for a year after I had moved out.

Watson, like Jenny, lived to be 14 years, passing away a good ol' boy in our backyard here in El Paso, Texas.

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