Drummond

Drummond came into our family at a rather trying time. 

As a puppy, his ears drooped, so my parents taped them together in order to get them to stand up straight.  They connected the taped ears with a dowel rod.

It looked like we were using him as an antenna.  Being seen by other neighborhood dogs in this getup cannot have benefited young Drummond’s self-esteem.

The tape was left on too long, and instead of having the classic, dignified face of a thoroughbred German Shepherd, Drummond’s ears were trained to point together in a manner not unlike a dunce cap.

When he was about two, the veterinarian discovered cancer in his left eye, so it was removed and the hole sewn shut.  His appearance frightened us a bit when he returned from the hospital, but we soon grew accustomed to his face, as the song goes.  After the operation, Drummond was forever bumping the left side of his nose into walls and doorways.

He was a dear dog, but became the repository of unspoken anguish, constantly blamed for infractions whether he committed them or not.

Someone was tipping over the garbage cans and eating the garbage, and it couldn’t have been the cats, intent as they were on retreating into the forest in a rather feral manner (our ancient cat Toto disappeared for nearly a year, and when she came back, her black shiny coat was faded to a light brown, and she seemed rather exhausted by her adventures.  When I read “A Streetcar Named Desire” I drew a strong connection between Toto and Blanche DuBois).

Drummond was always blamed for attacking the garbage cans.  To punish him, my father would tie the garbage can lid around his neck for a few hours.

Around this time, Drummond began to escape from our house, running down the long gravel driveway, and often he escaped with the garbage can lid tied around his neck.  By this time I’m sure he was numb to the taunts of the other neighborhood dogs.  I’m sure the neighbors wondered what was going on up at the Whittys.

Finally, one night Drummond was at the kennel or somewhere, and the garbage cans were knocked over again.  It turns out we had some very tenacious raccoons.

All this time, poor Drummond was probably mystified, frightened, and ultimately resigned when his single eye beheld my dad approaching with that garbage can lid.

Drummond escaped another time, and was found miles away, running for his life down Ocean Boulevard, the pads of his feet worn to where they bled.

He also had a problem with flatulence.  “Drummond!” we’d cry in disgust.  “P.U.! P.U.! P.U.!”  (Phonetically: “Pew Pew Pew” with a liquid “U”).  We’d then feed him a nice big bowl of grain-based dog food, which his poor digestive tract processed the only way it knew how.  “Drummond!" we'd shout a few hours later.  "P.U.!  P.U.!  P.U.!”

But he was, as I said, dear, when another dog might have become ferocious.  He grew quite fat, and had a sad defeated dog posture.  I would pat his paws as he lay in his favorite place in the hallway, and he’d lick his lips softly and sigh a tired sigh.

Drummond died in 1989 after having a nice long life -- that is, for a “thoroughbred” (read: “inbred”) dog with horrible hip problems.

His timing was unfortunate, though, as he disappeared the day after my grandmother passed away.  Already grief-stricken, we searched and searched for him, and finally we found him in an abandoned doghouse in the woods, and my dad had to get the crowbar and disassemble the doghouse and we had to carry him to the vet where he was put to sleep.

Our cat Toto had to be put to sleep the next day, at age 18.  She was a year older than me.

“Bad things come in threes,” my mother murmured, and it turned out to be true.

Brian’s image rightly places Drummond in heaven, signified by the angel wings and halo hanging above his head.

NOTE:  My family did much better with the next German Shepherd, Duffy, who was an all-around happy boy.