Further "Tails" of Schultz

     When we got home that afternoon, I dutifully promised to feed, water, walk and clean up after Schultz.  His first supper consisted of Purina Dog Chow, which he inhaled in less than 10 seconds and then promptly threw up.  And then re-ate before we could stop him.  Sweet.   Thus began a life-time of education in the ways of the canine set.  
 

     At bedtime, I wanted Schultz to sleep in my room, but my mother would have nothing of the kind.

     "He's a dog.  He will sleep in the basement.  End of story."

     The next morning, I ran downstairs very early to check on Schultz.  To my horror were three piles of dog poop spread across the floor, which of course I had to clean up.  Now a word to the wise, which we  definitely were not.  A dog who has spent his whole life in kennels learns to poop on concrete.  Our basement floor was concrete.  Where would such a dog poop?  I'm sure you know the answer, but for some reason it took our family at least a year to figure that one out.  My mother finally allowed Schultz to sleep in the kitchen, in a wooden bed my dad had made for him.   From then on he slept upstairs and never pooped in the house again.
 

     I really can't say enough good things about our dog Schultz.  He was patient and gentle with us kids.  He let me dress him up in my mother's maternity blouses, rode in our red wagon, and even pulled us on our roller skates.  My dad caught us doing this one day, with the leach attached to  Schultz's collar, and promptly told us that was not allowed since it could choke him.  Dad then proceeded to make a harness out of canvas straps for Schultz and when winter rolled around, Schultz pulled us in our sled and on our ice skates at the nearby frozen pond.  When spring came again, he pulled us in the wagon and on our roller skates.

     At this point, I should probably give you a little background info.  I was born in 1951 in Minneapolis, while my dad was still in college and my mother worked as an RN at Abbott Hospital.  When my dad got a job at Eastman Kodak, we moved to Rochester, NY when I was about 2 and 1/2 years old.  We lived in apartments until I was four, when we moved into our own brand-new house in Greece, NY, a suburb of Rochester.  Our housing development in Greece, about a mile from Lake Ontario, was once a dairy/apple farm.  Farmer Fleming still had his large brick house, complete with widow's walk, on a number of acres where he continued to have dairy cows grazing.  I must, at this point say a few words about electric fences.  The cows grazed right up to the edge of our back yard.  The only thing between them and us was an electric fence.  The fence provided hours of entertainment for us kids.  We discovered that if you were wearing sneakers, you would not get a shock when you touched the fence.  But if you were wearing the ubiquitous buckle shoe (which for the uninitiated, has a leather sole), you would be zapped!  I don't know many unsuspecting friends were were drawn to this sadistic game of trickery.  But I am sure that we all learned that electric fences should be avoided at all costs, especially in Manolo Blahniks!