Wrong Dog
My dog Winnie had been dead for several months; I’d had to put her down and was still very much in mourning. In fact, the night before this story begins, I’d had a half-hour conversation with my wife Alyce about when we might be ready to get another dog. I’m a real wuss when it comes to my dogs and do not get over the loss of one easily. So now, the day after the conversation with Alyce about a replacement for Winnie, I’m sitting in a golf cart on the tenth tee at Old Sycamore Golf Club in Charlotte, NC. Dave Barbin is on the tee and my friend Charlie McLamb comes up and out of the clear blue says, “How’s your dog?” I tell him that I’d had to put her down, then go into a rather lengthy story (with tears running down my face) about how Alyce and I are trying to work our way through the grief, but that we intend to, when the time is right, get another one.
“Bob, I was talking about your frickin’ hot dog,” Charlie says.
We’d stopped by the clubhouse after nine and Charlie had ordered a tuna sandwich and was unhappy with it and I, of course, at the time of my outpouring, was eating a rather attractive hot dog.
