PAT HUNT Columnist
I never thought I would get another dog after my beloved hound Oscar died in 2009. He was a basset hound and Labrador mix, short legs and long ears and an incorrigible lover of garbage. He had a smell that no amount of doggie shampoo or spray perfume could make a dent in. I put ammonia-soaked rags in the kitchen trash container, and he would raid it still. He loved runs in the woods better than anything in this world. I wish I had lived close enough for him to go every day.
He was a rescue, left at a rest stop on I-81. I often wondered which of his many faults might have led to his abandonment: His awful smell? His stubbornness? Did he eat the family’s lunch? He became mine when at the shelter he was the one dog that seemed too lazy to even raise his head when I came by his pen. While other dogs barked and clawed at their gates, he merely rolled his eyes up in my direction. I wanted a dog with less energy than I had, and he seemed like a good bet.