For the Love of Doodle...

Doodle came to us in 1986 as a result of a castaway. His mom was dumped on my grandmother's doorstep, and she was pregnant with 1 pup, Doodle. Grandma gave him to me so I'd have company on my many diving trips up and down the state of Florida. Him and I had 14 years of adventures.

The stories he could tell. I was a scuba instructor at the time and he traveled all over Florida on diving trips, although he hated the water.

In 87, my husband and I went to Saudi Arabia, he went with us.

Unbelievable what we had to do to get him into the country, including having James Baker, III, Secretary of State sign paperwork, verifying that he was a guard dog (10 lb guard dog... ) because only guard dogs and hunting dogs are allowed there. (I have the stamped seal from the Saudi Embassy).

From there, we moved to Alaska, where we lived for 9 years before we moved back down south to our hometown in Lake City, Florida, where Doodle was originally born..

In Alaska, he learned to love the snow, and even spent time on a big boat, learning to use a cat box, as he refused to go on deck.

Finally, back home to Florida, where he died from an inoperable tumor.

Over the years I've written many stories about our escapades and as I get time, will post them here.

Thanks/Sharon

Berry Picking Buds

March 11, 1998

Sharon’s Ramblings... “I’m gonna kick your butt!” my husband says to Doodle, my little red rat dog as they come up the stairs from outside. With a slam, the door closes, shaking the whole house.

“Grrrrr,” Doodle grumbles back at him as hops up the stairs, fast as his little legs can carry him.

“What’s wrong,” I ask, surprised at the ruckus and the fact that Doodle is coming in the front door. He is normally only allowed in the back fenced in area. “He followed me out the gate,” my husband says, disgusted like, “and before I could catch him, he spotted some folks walking by with a Rotweiler and ran out and attacked him!”

I now realize that part of the upset here is because my husband is getting over his scare that Doodle would be hurt.

Doodle, however, hearing the tone in his voice, turns on my husband at the top of the stairs and curls back his lip in his, “Don’t mess with me,” snarl.

“You’d better get yourself in the room or I’m going to give you a bath!” my husband says in response. Another grrrrring sound follows as Doodle turns tail and heads back to the bedroom to hide. As he reaches the door, he turns for one more lip-curling grrrrr.

C.H. and Doodle haven’t got along in a very long time. Not since, well, I think since C.H. went overseas for a few months about twelve years ago.

Doodle was just a pup then and since I was sleeping in an empty bed and he was so cute and little, I decided to let him sleep at the foot of my bed. BIG MISTAKE!

Soon as C.H. got back, Doodle was moved to the old blanket on the floor by the bed. He hasn’t liked C.H. since.

Well, that is, unless he’s cooking. For some reason, C.H. is always dropping tidbits on the floor-this Doodle likes. Oh and Doodle particularly likes him when he’s going berry picking.

Doodle goes along to keep him company and even picks a berry or two. Then they’re pals. Any other time, though, you’d think they couldn’t stand each other. Like at bedtime. Every single night, all these years, Doodle still attacks C.H. when he comes to bed.

He’ll lay there by my side of the bed and the minute C.H. opens that door, Doodle’s top lip rolls back and a low menacing growl starts in the back of his throat.

Now, if C.H. goes on to the other side of the bed and gets in, then that’s all that usually happens, but if he’s coming in to kiss me good night because he’s got to go to work, all it takes is him bending over the bed and Doodle is on his toes in nothing flat.

Now, Doodle is twelve years old and only has two teeth, but that does not mean that he can’t hurt, besides, the snarling sound track that goes along with the attack is enough to scare you into hurting yourself.

But, today, as the two sit in the different rooms grumbling at the other, I’m not worried. I know that summer is coming and soon C.H. will start gathering his berry buckets. I also know that when Doodle sees the buckets, he’ll be bouncing around C.H. on his hind legs in excitement. Once again, as the front door opens, and they head out to their favorite pickin’ spot, they’ll be buds again... Sharon

Doodle, My Hero

July 20, 1994

My husband's laughter bounces off my back as we hike up the Gavin Hill path. "I wish you could see this crazy mutt behind you," he says, "Every step you take, he's weaving back and forth, trying to get around you."

He doesn't have to tell me, I can feel Doodle's breathe on my heels as my feet follow the foot wide boardwalk.

You see, Doodle's afraid of birds and every time he hears one, he gets behind me, wanting me to protect him, then when they're gone, he's the brave guard dog again, back out in front, just so long as he doesn't have to step off the boards into the mud to get there.

Pausing, I once again spread my ankles apart so Doodle can get his body through and bounce ahead on the board walk.

With his pointed ears and long red tail, he looks like a little red fox out in the forest on a hunt, but that's until he hears another bird's thrill call, then he's dodging back behind me again, bouncing his front paws on my calves ever now and then wanting to be picked up.

Shaking my head, I say for the thousandth time. "No, Doodle, I'm not going to carry you."

Another bounce tells me, he's not convinced. Suddenly, voices up ahead catch my attention. With a quick swoop, I catch Doodle up in my arms as a group of people come out of the woods with their large dogs.

Hanging onto him tightly, I step aside for them to pass. "Our dogs are real gentle, they won't hurt him," one of the passerby's say.

In answer, I smile and go on my way. How do I tell them that I'm not so much concerned about their dogs attacking Doodle as it is the other way around.

The sounds of birds can send him running for cover, but a dog, no matter what his size turns my little red fox into a lion. With hair standing on end, he'll attack, unmindful of his size or his lack of teeth. Large dogs don't like being attacked by rat size dogs and several times, we've almost lost him because of it.

With the dogs gone, Doodle is running out in front of us again. His beautiful fox-like tail is now wet and dragging from the morning dew. Seeing the mud clinging to his underside, I tell my husband, that I regret giving Doodle a bath the night before because now he's going to need another one when we get home.

There's a slight pause in Doodle's step at the b... word and he cuts his eyes back at me. Doodle hates a bath. Even the whispering of the b--- word can send him into hiding. Eventually, we went from saying it to spelling it, which he also came to recognise and finally saying "You know who, needs a you know what". Just the sound of water running in the tub or the picking up of a towel can send him into the unreachable depths of a closet.

But, for now, he's a happy camper. Bouncing ahead on the boardwalk, he pauses at the slight whistle my husband gives, "Doodle, you want a berry?" Hurrying back, he reaches up for the branc my husband is holding to the ground for him. Afterwards, my husband laughs again as he bounces off on a side trail, but scurries back when a bird shrills its displeasure. "You have a weird dog," he says to me.

"He's your berry pickin' buddy." I point our in return. Doodle's ears perk up at the word berry.

"But, he's your dog, and he's weird, just like his owner, weird," my husband continues.

"You're the one who's weird," I retort as once again I pause and let Doodle though my ankles for him to go bouncing off ahead again...

For The Love of Doodle

May 10, 1997

Sharon's Ramblings.... “Did you get him yet?” my husband asks as he walks in from work and sees my small dog, Doodle sitting in the corner of the livingroom, eyeing me with a woebegon expression.

“No, not yet, but he’s suspecting that it’s coming,” I answer.

Even though I haven’t used the “B” word, he knows what’s coming. All morning he’s been slinking about the house, avoiding me. You see, it’s Sunday, I’m off from work, and I’ve been cleaning house. Doodle has learned that if the house gets cleaned, nine times out of ten, so does he. And Doodle has a thing about baths.

We long ago learned never to use the word around him if we had any hope of getting our hands on him. Eventually we went to spelling it, and later had to resort to saying, “You know who, needs a you know what,” which he hasn’t yet learned to recognize, I hope. But, there’s many other signals that he’s definely learned.

Over the years, this has kind of turned into a game. Doodle will watch with wary eyes as I walk back and forth through the house, cleaning. He’s watching for clues. The first is usually that I’m in the mood to clean in the first place, then the fact that I start clearing all the dishes and stuff off the kitchen sink.

You see, Doodle is so little, I wash him in the kitchen sink, because it’s easier for me, and less frightening for him, being on eye-level, as opposed to being down in a tub of water, with someone bending over him. At least that’s what I think. He doesn’t seem to be impressed by the change. A bath is a bath to him.

The next clue is the towel. I’ve learned to always try to pick him up and carry him with me to get the towel, because if he sees it in my hand, he’s history. For the next few hours, he’ll be hidden up under some bed, or another secluded corner, not to be found. But today, it didn’t get to the point of the towel, all I did was clean off the kitchen sink, and all at once, he’s gone.

“Dooooodle,” I call. “Come here Doodle, I’ve got something for you,” Silence. “Doodle, you want to go out?” I ask. Silence.

My husband laughs, “You don’t really think he’d fall for that one again, do you?” he says. Opening the door, I call again. “Come on Doodle, yah wanna go for a walk?” A little brown nose peeks around the corner of the couch. He’s looking to see if I’ve really got my shoes on. I do, I’m no dummy.

“Come on Doodle, Mama will take you out,” I say. “Gotta go poop?” I add, hoping that this key word will get him. Doodle always has to go, just for an excuse to go outside. Ears perk up. Cautiously, he creeps toward the door, watching for me to make the least little wrong move. Opening it wide, I step out on the porch and he follows.

Patiently I wait while he does his thing. Sniffing around the yard, he picks up the scent of a neighbor’s dog, and follows it, taking his time. “OK, Doodle,” I say, opening the door. “It’s time to go in.” Doodle looks at the door, and then me. I can see he’s trying to figure just how fast he has to move to make it in between my feet, through the door, and under the bed, before I get him.

As I reach down and scoop him up, he realizes he wasn’t quite fast enough this time and determinedly, I head toward the sink. But, as I place him in, he pulls one of his own tricks out of the bag and starts shaking. Trying to calm him down, I turn the water off and stand there rubbing and trying to soothe him. The shaking increases.

“You know, he’s getting awful old, I think to myself. Being this frightened could give him a heart attack...” With a sigh, I pull out the baking soda, and sprinkle it all over him. “Ok, Doodle, this time you win,” I say, as I brush it out, giving him a dry bath. “But next week, you get a real bath!” From the living room, I hear my husband’s light snickering laughter.... Sharon