Gonzo, the Family Comedian: A Story of a Beloved Family Dog

Gonzo was the name that our daughter, Rena, gave to this small red bundle of fur. The puppy was given to her as a Christmas gift from a friend. When this furry bundle was brought home, I had already made up my mind that I wasn't going to get attached to another dog. I loved every dog we had ever had, but couldn't handle the emotion of them dying. So, when I spoke of the little pup to anyone I simply said, "Dog." I really did like him, but I didn't dare let the family know that. When no one else was around I talked to him as kindly as I would to a baby, but still just called him Dog. Everyone else called him Gonzo, and he would come just as he did when I yelled, "Dog."

I still think it must have been confusing to him to have two names. But, didn't we as children have one name that we were called when our parents were happy with us and another when they were mad at us for having done something wrong? It's then that we are called by our entire name, i.e., Bobby Sue Smith. I think that is the only reason we have middle names.

This Gonzo grew on all of us like moss grows on the north side of a tree. Snakes, rats, cats or any other creature that didn't belong in the backyard didn't stand a chance with Gonzo standing guard. He must have killed a couple dozen snakes in his lifetime - which turned out to be twelve years. He'd see one and raise a ruckus that no one could ignore. When we arrived to see what the problem was, he wouldn't touch the animal until it had been seen, then it was history. Only one exception, and that was the wood rats; they didn't get that chance, as when Gonzo saw one it was history right then.

This little red ball of fur grew up to weigh sixty-three pounds of part chow and part shepherd, and when he jumped at you at a full run; you knew you had been hit. As brave as he was around snakes, rats or cats, let it thunder and he turned into a bowl of jelly. It only took one clap and he would hit the back door whimpering and scratching. You let him in, if you didn't want the door tore down. He really didn't like being in doors, except at times like this.

Gonzo very seldom left the backyard, but when there came a call of the wild there was no holding him. The minute he heard the back gate rattle, he was there and through your legs and gone. No use trying to catch him, so we just left the gate open and when his wild streak had run its course, he'd be back, usually in a couple of hours. He would then be content for a few weeks.

During one of the hurricanes this area of Florida is famous for, the kids were all upset with me because I wouldn't let Dog come in the house. The storm was getting worse, so I finally gave in and told them to go out and drag him in. I mean they literally had to drag him in. It always seemed that during hurricanes there would be a house full of people, mostly teenagers who liked to party. This rowdy group had the door open so they could watch the trees bending in the hurricane force winds. Out through the open door ran Gonzo, with a half a dozen screaming teens following after him. They got the wet animal back into the house, closed the door, and got themselves and Dog dried off. That didn't last long, as someone made the terrible mistake of opening the door and Dog was free once again.

Summer seems to be made for children. Having a swimming pool on those hot summer days, our yard was full of children who wanted to cool off in our pool. On one of those days when the kids were all in the pool, I fixed them a picnic and took it out to the patio. Dog figured that since he was a part of the family, these sandwiches were for him, too. As the kids tried to shoo him away from the table, he grabbed our granddaughter's towel that was lying on the lawn and ran off with it. She put down her partly eaten sandwich on the picnic table bench to chase after Gonzo to retrieve her towel. When he finally dropped the towel, he then doubled back and grabbed her sandwich before she could get back to the table. Gonzo gobbled down his lunch and was now ready for a nap under the Sago Palm.

After returning home from working the night shift at a twenty-four hour coffee shop, I ate breakfast, took a bath and headed for bed. I had just dozed off when all of a sudden the bedroom door slammed open, hitting the closet door behind it. Startled, I sat up to see my husband standing in the doorway crying, "Bubba's dead! Bubba's dead!" You see, my husband called all three of our boys Bubba along with Gonzo. I never knew which one he was talking about.

There wasn't any more sleep for me that day. It was my duty to call the family and break the news and ask if they could come over or get a friend to come and help bury him. My husband had just had surgery to remove the front half of his left foot from diabetes, so he couldn't be out there digging. As the day went on, one by one, the family members called to say they couldn't handle the burial. So, here I was, the one who twelve years earlier did not want another pet to have to part with, now left with the duty of burying my old Dog. The only soft soil in the whole yard was under the fig tree under our bedroom window. I cried the entire time I was digging the grave and placing him in it. Hardly a day goes by now, that as I look out my bedroom window that I don't think of him and have a laugh inside thinking of the joy that little bundle of red fur brought to so many people. If there is an animal heaven, he must be there doing a comedy act for all the other animals. Let's hear it for Gonzo!