In a recent phone conversation with my brother Mike, he asked me about Ally, our new puppy.
“How are things with the pooch?” as he put it. We then had a good dog discussion about what mix of breeds she is, how large she’s expected to grow and the like.
“I like a dog with a little size,” I said. “Not a big fan of the small breeds.”
“Me neither,” he agreed. “I don’t like a dog you have to worry about stepping or sitting on.”
Neither of us mentioned any names, but our conversation brings a certain dog into my mind, at least. (I won’t presume to anything about my younger brother.) He was the third, and final, dog I knew my father to own – a toy poodle by the name of “Hundi.”
Hundi is short for the Yiddish word Hundele, already a diminutive of Hund, related to the English word “hound.” I remember thinking that if they were to add one more diminutive suffix, their dog would disappear altogether.
Now that so many years have passed, I can speak the truth about little Hundi. (My siblings and I were always polite about her when we visited.) He was three pounds of nervous, angry energy – a trembling lap-dog that no one wanted in their lap. I’m not sure if something happened to Hundi to make him so ill-tempered and fearful, but I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Judy and Hanno, please don’t take this the wrong way – I intend no disrespect to you or your memory – but I love my big dog Ally, and I love that she could have eaten your little Hundi in one delicious bite.
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