Good dogs

There are a few essentials one must have in life in order to have fully lived. At least one ride-or-die, call at any time and know they’ll be there friend, at least one vehicle you absolutely loved, and most of all at least one really good dog. I’ve had a handful of good dogs in my life, including our coonhound Merle who is the definition of lay in sun lazy hound, but when I think of good dogs my first thought goes to my Daddy’s dog Hobo.

Hobo was a mutt that wandered by one day, like an old hobo might do, and just never left.

I’ve heard stories about Hobo my entire life. When the dementia my Nana suffered from started winning, there were a few stories that she held onto and stories about Hobo were on the list. As much as I’ve heard of Hobo,

it’s easy to forget that he wasn’t my dog too.

She’d tell about him walking to the bus stop to see Daddy and my uncle off to school and then going back to the bus stop in the afternoon to wait for them. Who ever knew a dog that could tell time?

Her favorite, though, was when she was Room Mother at the elementary school and had to go to the school for something one day, but it happened to be the one day a week it was Papa’s turn to drive the carpool, which meant Nana was going to walk to the school.

Ole Hobo started to follow her as she began to walk down the street and Nana shooed him back to the house. “Go on home Hobo,” she said.Hobo, being a good dog, did as he was told and mosied back to the house.

Nana made it to the school a mile away without incident and took care of whatever chore she needed to but as she walked out of the school, there sat Hobo on the sidewalk outside waiting on her.

I guess Hobo wasn’t a dumby; Nana said to go home, but she didn’t say he had to stay there.