The Best Dog We Never Owned

This is the story of the best dog we never owned. A dog named Poop. Of course, his real name wasn’t Poop. That would be ridiculous. More on that later.

Poop didn’t belong to us, but I’m not sure he knew that. I’m not sure we really knew that either. Let me tell you about it.

After the Hillbilly and I retired in 2018, we left California and moved to his hometown in Missouri. We moved into a little house that needed a lot of work, but that’s another story. I grew up living in tract homes with fences, but it’s different in the Ozarks. It’s all just wide open unless there’s a really good reason for a fence. We don’t have a really good reason, so, no fence.

We have some neighbors who live in walking distance but not in our pocket (I’m a tract home girl, remember?), and one of them, Steve, came over and got to know us right away. Neighbor Steve offered to lend us any tools we might need while we waited for our moving truck to arrive (that’s also another story) and we met his dog, Poop.

Poop started off by biting Howard, but that was the low point in our story with Poop. I mean, I was never bitten, so I’m all good, so it was really Howard’s low point. As far as I’m concerned, Poop was always a good boy. Well, there was that one night when it was going to freeze and I pulled all my potted plants up next to the house on the porch and covered them with a blanket. Poop came by and “watered” them (and the blanket) for me.  So.

Anyway, before long Poop was hanging out on our front porch, just napping in the sun or looking out at the world. It seemed that he had decided that our yard was part of his territory to watch over and protect. And, of course, since we didn’t own a dog, I did the only reasonable thing. I bought a ten-pound box of dog treats. It took us a while to get the treat situation just right. I posted this on Facebook:

As you know, I do not own a dog. The neighbor owns a dog who thinks he lives here. So of course I buy dog treats. And now the dog that I don’t own has the nerve to decide that he doesn’t like the red dog treats. He only likes the brown dog treats. The dog that I don’t even own.

Poop would come over every day and look in our sliding glass door and wait for me to bring him a treat and talk baby talk to him. He was there for the baby talk as much as he was for the treat. Once his head was in the door, he didn’t leave until he got both. Occasionally, he ate his treat and then went looking for Howard in the back yard to see if he could get him to come in and get him another one. Sometimes it worked.

Poop came every day, even when we weren’t home. Our doorbell camera always let us know when he was checking in. He’d stand at the door peeking in for a while and then lie down on the porch just in case we got back shortly. This might happen several times a day if we were gone for very long. He was always happy to see us driving back in.

One day Poop didn’t come by in the morning, and I wondered where he was. Pretty soon a gray cat walked across the porch, and a little later a black dog walked up on the porch and looked out at the yard like Poop usually did and then left. I began to think that maybe Poop was sick and was sending substitutes, but eventually Poop showed up and I was able to check “Give Poop a treat” off of my To-Do list.

I mentioned that his name wasn’t really Poop. One day Howard was at the neighbors’ visiting with Steve and Poop when the neighbor’s wife came outside. After a few minutes she looked at Steve and said, “Why does he keep calling the dog Poop? His name is Lazy.” I don’t know about you, but I don’t think these people should be trusted with naming animals at all. Just no. No.

So, Poop, who was not our dog, guarded us in all kinds of weather at all times of year. He guarded us from cows and squirrels and unseen beasts of all sorts, and we repaid him with love and dog treats and baby talk. Poop became Facebook famous as I posted about him, and people would ask about him if I went too long without mentioning him. A friend who lives in Oregon said that she loved Poop even though she didn’t live anywhere near him and had never met him. Her young daughter would occasionally ask her how Poop was doing.

Last summer, Poop, the dog we didn’t own, went to his final rest. He lived almost 20 years, a good, long doggy life. We’ll miss him. He was a good boy.