Editorial: Punkin was the best dog … ever – Davie County Enterprise Record

He was a good dog.
No, he was the best dog. Ever.
Punkin – a 6 pound force of nature and a true diva is every sense of the word- died last week. He was 20, maybe older. His daddy ran off at conception and his mother was a bitch, so nobody is sure of his exact age.
He came into our lives as we were preparing to host a party for my 50th birthday more than 17 years ago. It was a warm October morning, and as I washing turnip greens from the back of my pickup truck, it felt like someone was watching.
I turned around, and standing in the middle of the road was a skinny, shivering little brown dog. As soon as I acknowleged the dog, he ran into the woods across the road.
I went about my businesses, and in about five minutes he was there again, watching me from the road. I went inside and got a piece of bologna to try to lure the dog to me, but he would have none of it. I left the piece of bologna on the road. Sure enough, when I wasn’t watching, he came out and snatched it and disappeared.
I didn’t think any more of him, and the party that night was a blast.
As I went to the back yard a little fuzzy-headed on Sunday for clean-up duties, that little dog ran out of our outbuilding at lightning speed. The chair inside was still rocking, so I knew he had been lounging in our padded rocking chair. I also noticed several piles of puke in the building.
Then I went outside and found that the little dog had jumped onto the outside folding table and had his fill of dredge and dip and mixes for the hushpuppies, pickles and catfish I had fried the night before.
I cleaned it all up. The dog was nowhere around.
On Monday morning as I was getting ready to leave for work, I forgot something and went back into the house. When I came back, that same little dog had jumped into my car. He would be in the back, and scoot to the front when I tried to catch him. We went back and forth on several attempts. I called my wife for help, and told her to bring a towel, I didn’t know if this creature will bite or not.
We captured the little fellow, and my last words to my wife before leaving for work were: “Whatever you do, don’t take that dog into the house.”
I got home that evening and the first things I noticed were dog water and food bowls, dog treats, dog food, dog toys.
We walked the neighborhood for a week or two with the little fella (Named Punkin because he arrived in the fall) to see if someone was missing a dog. Two people told us they had left food out for him but were unable to catch him. None claimed him.
I understood.
It didn’t matter, because by now, he was ours – or we were his – more on that later. I went from not wanting him in the house to being ready to fight for him in about a week. He was the cutest and kindest dog ever. That was 17 years and two months ago, and the veterinarian said he was at least 2 years old at the time, and could be as old as 3 or 4.
He still looked like a puppy, a Dick Clark-like look he carried beyond age 15.
And he was a mess. A lovable mess.
Punkin suffered from separation anxiety. He didn’t even like it if one of us was outside and the other inside. He would dance around the door, wanting me or my wife to change locations. When my sister kept him for us for a couple of days as we took a little trip, she said that Punkin behaved wonderfully. I learned later that he whined the whole time and went to the door every time he heard a noise. He also tried running away from her more than once. Now that’s a good sister; a liar, but a good sister.
Punkin never came when you called him. Not even once. You could call his name and he might turn his head to look at you before going on with his own business.
He would proudly walk on a leash anywhere but near our house. He was a dog that attracted people of all ages. Everyone wanted to get close to Punkin. He hit every street in Asheville and Greeneville, S.C. He walked miles on trails in Cary, meeting folks along the way. He loved to walk the streets of Mocksville on a leash – until he got to the section were the veterinarian and groomer were located. He would put on the brakes. You would have to drag him or pick him up.
Punkin had an open bowl, meaning dog food was there whenever he wanted. But he preferred trash. Sweep the floor and he would be there with the dust and Punkin hair looking for a piece of popcorn or whatever may have been hiding under the couch. It didn’t matter if there was a fresh filet mignon right there, he preferred the trash scraps.
We kept our trash can in the kitchen with a lid, and would come home and trash would be scattered across the kitchen floor. But the can would still be standing with the lid still on it. Did Punkin do that? Did we have an earthquake? The best I could figure, he would jump up and pull on the tops of the trash bag that was just outside the lid – pull on that bag until the trash spilled out and then let go. We moved the garbage behind a closed door.
Another time, a friend had given us a full-sized, triple chocolate cake. We had eaten one slice each and left the rest on the kitchen table. I came home and immediately noticed that about half of that cake was gone, with crumbs everywhere. It looked like a monster had gotten into it. I turned the corner and saw a pile of the darkest puke I had ever seen. Then another. Then another. Punkin was laying on the couch, not looking so good. He had jumped on the table and had his fill of triple chocolate cake.
To prove his love for chocolate, he once got into a Christmas stocking and ate an entire double Reece’s Cup, wrapping and all. He didn’t feel so good after that episode, either.
Punkin was fast. You couldn’t catch him if he didn’t want to be caught. He loved to chase rabbits, but on the few occasions he caught up with them, he would look around like they had disappeared – when they were right before his eyes.
He would chase bigger dogs from his property. As long as they would run, he would chase. I remember once getting out of the shower and hearing a ruckus outside. A 70-pound or so dog I had never seen before had Punkin cornered under my vehicle. The big dog was going crazy trying to get at Punkin, who was shivering and shaking. I ran outside shoeless and yelled at the big dog, which began running away. Punkin exited from the under the vehicle and took off after that big dog at full speed. Just after reaching the road, that big dog stopped and looked back. Punkin looked up, saw that big dog had stopped and put on the brakes, flipping almost three times before coming to a rest at the end of the grass. I intervened and made the big dog run again, but when he did, Punkin would take off after him again.
A chameleon, Punkin was hard to see, especially in the winter when the ground and him merged into the same color. I walked thousands of miles looking for him on our property; usually finding him at the door looking for me.
Punkin was a love sponge. He would soak up all the love anyone would give him. A chihuahua mix, he would let anyone and everyone pet him. He never snipped at anyone. He never “yapped” as some of those small dogs do.
And yes, he became a diva.
He refused to drink from a dog bowl. It had to be a people glass; we put it on the ottoman because he didn’t like to drink from a glass on the floor, either. He could give you a quick “You disgust me” look. Yes, Punkin got over his street upbringing. He demanded more.
He obtained a distaste for any type of dog food, as well. His favorite food was bacon, and he would eat other meats as long as you made it look like you were going to eat the same thing. He was one of us, he wasn’t going back to being a dog and eating dog food. People food swept from under the couch was more dignifying to him than bowl of fresh Fresh Pet.
On his plate (Yes, he ate from a plate, not a bowl.) as he passed away were some pieces of bologna – a reminder of that first day he came into our lives.
I just hope we did him justice. He chose us, after all.
We did our best, little buddy. Life at the Calahaln Bootanical Gardens will never be the same again.
– Mike Barnhardt

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