My family was known for adopting stray dogs and stray people. My mother was a very kind woman and couldn’t turn anyone away. Her three daughters bringing everyone and everything home didn’t help. My oldest sister had the same soft touch as my mother.
My sister was attending college in a nearby state and came home unexpectedly. She and her boyfriend had found a pitiful stray puppy. Of course, she brought him home. At least, she brought him home after she was nearly kicked out of college for keeping him in the dorm.
The puppy was in a pitiable state. He was losing his hair, he had huge sad brown eyes, and long black ears. Ann had named him Paranoid because he was afraid of everything. She was taking a course in psychology at the time and the name stuck.
Paranoid wasn’t in the house long until Mama was feeding him canned Alpo from a cup and he was sitting in her lap. Our Boston Terriers had always been spoiled rotten and this pitiful, cringing pup had landed in paradise. His sad, cringing demeanor made us want to help him all the more.
I must admit my daddy only tolerated Paranoid. Daddy put on a show of gruffness even with our Boston Terriers. This sad excuse for a canine didn’t impress him at all. However, Daddy also knew that with Mama and three dog-loving daughters, he was stuck.
When Monday came around, Mama took Paranoid to the vet. Our vet had treated our terriers over the years—handsome and healthy dogs—he just shook his head. “The kindest thing you could do for this puppy, Ma’am, is to put him to sleep. He’s got mange at the very least.”
“If I put him to sleep, I’ll have to put my oldest daughter to sleep, too! What can we do for him?” Mama responded.
Well, it turned out that Paranoid’s mange was treatable. My other sister and I bathed him every other day with special shampoo. He hated baths. We didn’t enjoy bathing him much either. He was a mixture of beagle and who knows what else, so he wasn’t tiny. If he grew into his feet, he would be a fair-sized dog.
Paranoid thrived with good food and attention. He still lived up to his name and was very timid. As he grew he looked better, but he was, as my daddy described, “a Heinz 57.” His coat was brown and black. He still had the sad brown eyes and long black ears. His chest was white and his paws were spotted. Plus, he had a long heavy black tail.
In his puppy stage, Par (pronounced pear), managed to chew up a Bible, a dictionary and my daddy’s dress shoes. Fortunately, we had back up books. Daddy kept his new dress shoes in his car.
Paranoid was quickly house-broken. He squatted to urinate on the floor when Mama was on the phone. She threw the phone-book at him and accidentally hit him. Par never had an accident in the house again.
He was a quick student and knew that Daddy’s teasing him when we were eating meant a treat. If he “talked back” to Daddy, as in barked on cue, he was given a treat. Daddy never admitted he liked Paranoid, but that wasn’t expected.
Par liked to ride in the back seat of the car when Mama went to town. He would sit up proudly in the backseat, as he had no idea that he was a mongrel, unlike the Boston Terrier beside him. Daddy called him “the Deacon” for his proud attitude.
He didn’t have the usual bark. He bayed like a hunting dog. Someone visiting once remarked that Paranoid would have made a good raccoon dog. Raccoons are hunted at night and the dog bays when he has the raccoon treed. The fellow didn’t understand Par’s continued timidity. He would have made a terrible hunting dog.
