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Like turkey and mistletoe and eggnog and fruitcake,
there’s a tradition in the journalism business of wrapping up each
year with a look back at the stories and events that made news. We get to
reprint our favorite photos, revisit our favorite characters, and see how
it all looks through 20/20 hindsight. I’ll let you in on a little secret: We
don’t do this because the year necessarily deserves a second glance;
it’s because reporting actual news in late December is like trying to
read an encyclopedia at a rock concert — it just goes against the
mood. Everybody’s focused on the holidays — running errands,
throwing parties, planning trips to grandma’s house. Nobody is
available to return reporters’ phone calls, answer our questions or
provide documents. The holidays force us to move deadlines earlier.
Consequently, we punt to you our “year in review” edition. Don’t worry; I’m not about to rehash my
columns; that would be painful for all of us. Instead, I’m going to
tell you about the highlight of my year, which has four legs and a furry
tail: Yep, that’s right; I got a dog. Having never owned a canine before, I had absolutely
no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know what kind of dog I wanted or
where to find one. I needed something that wouldn’t destroy my house,
bite my kids, or eat more than 15 pounds of food per week. Other than that,
I was pretty open. I stumbled across a Web site called petfinder.com, an
online catalog of homeless animals being boarded in shelters. I spent more
hours than I’d like to admit perusing doggy mug shots and reading
profiles, usually written in first person (“I love to play
fetch!”), which I suspected was a handy way of dodging less charming
truths (none of the pooches confessed, “I got kicked out of my last
residence for mutilating a pair of $85 running shoes.”) Inevitably, I fell in virtual love with a pup named
Jonah. A coal-colored mix of pug and Boston terrier, Jonah was so ugly, he
was adorable. But the shelter manager asked me a few questions and
determined that I wasn’t the right match for Jonah. He was too young,
I was too inexperienced. The manager told me I should look for an older
dog, and gave me a list of breeds that would suit my kids. I tailored my search to this criteria, and pursued
all sorts of potential companions. Some were adopted before I called; some
just didn’t feel right when I met them. Finally, on a trip to
southern Illinois for a work assignment, I made arrangements to meet an
allegedly adult Scottie named Buddy. Unlike most critters on petfinder.com, Buddy
didn’t have a mug shot. When I met him, I discovered he wasn’t
“adult” and he wasn’t a Scottie. The only document he had
indicated he was a 13-month-old miniature Schnauzer, and I wasn’t
convinced that those claims were true. All I knew for sure was that he
wasn’t happy living in a miniscule crate in a tiny house with about a
dozen other dogs. I had to make a quick decision — it was getting
dark, and I was several hours from Springfield — so I told the
shelter owner I’d take him. She tied two shoelaces together as a
makeshift leash and handed me a rawhide bone to keep the dog occupied on
the trip to his new home. A local vet confirmed that Buddy’s probably
less than two years old. As for his heritage, the vet speculated that he
might have some Shih-Tzu mixed with Cairn terrier. Before long, I realized
how little I cared what breed he might be. The best thing about Buddy is
how wholeheartedly he lives up to his name. For Evan, my youngest son, Buddy’s the creature
who guards him each night from “the Goosebumps dummy” — a
character that seems to haunt his dreams. For Milo, my geeky teenager,
Buddy’s the only interesting item on earth that doesn’t require
double-A batteries or a plug. And when the geeky teenager squabbles with
the 7-year-old, Buddy is the ultimate neutral third party. We’ve only had him a matter of months, but
it’s already hard to imagine life without Buddy. How would we ever
navigate car trips without Buddy perched on the console? How would we avoid
whatever comes at the end of “If you don’t quit dawdling and
put your shoes and coat on and get your book bag, I swear I’m gonna .
. . “ absent Buddy’s brilliant ability to intervene? And most
importantly, how would we find a reason to wander the streets at all hours
of the day and night if Buddy didn’t insist on going outside three
times a day to pee? Buddy has dragged me through heat, rain, wind, mud,
ice, and snow, not to mention swarms of mosquitoes and gnats. Walking
Buddy, I’ve had a chance to notice flower gardens, autumn leaves,
Christmas lights, and the stunning beauty of my son ambling beside me.
Walking Buddy, I’ve gotten to enjoy coherent phone conversations with
various sources, friends, the plumber, and My Mother. I’ve had even
better conversations with Evan; I’ve had some very interesting talks
with myself. I guess you could say my year in review is really
more of a urine review.
Contact Dusty Rhodes at drhodes@illinoistimes.com.
This article appears in Dec 20-26, 2007.
