Starr Style

We had a dog once.  He was an adopted dog.  He was a Jewish dog.  His name was Samuel Hirsch.

When he came to live with us, we changed his name.

Meet Sammy the Sam-a-la Stegemoen

It became clear one hot summer night that a dog in the house might be a good idea.  A thwarted home invasion (thwarted because mom and I screamed bloody murder at the top of our lungs until the would be culprit ran away into the night) clearly put getting a watchdog on the top of the “to do” list.

And who do you call when you want to get something done?  Lori Hirsch, of course!  Mrs. Hirsch was one of my mother’s long time friends and loyal customers.  She would visit my mother’s dressmaking shop each season and place her order for dozens of ensembles.  With a larger-than-life personality and a benevolent heart to match, just say the word and she would drop everything to help anyone.

And it just so happened that she had a litter of puppies ready for new homes.

With a face only a mother could love, into our home came our new watchdog.  A Cock-A-Poo.  Yes, that’s right.  Half Cocker Spaniel and half Poodle, it’s fancy mutt breed name is Cock-A-Poo.

Sammy the Sam-a-la lived for two things.  To be forever and always attached at the hip (well, more like the ankle) to mom.  And, ironically, to escape out the door and run in a mad-dash-away fashion, snout to the ground and tail in the air, not looking where he was going and causing much angst (especially to the one guilty of not latching the door securely or holding it ajar a second too long).

Not long after the bolt, the rescue efforts would begin.  Into the car we would go and drive all over the neighborhood looking for that prodigal son of a dog.  Oftentimes we would return home finding the little stopper-outer sitting on the back door mat, with his head tilted in that heart melting position of cuteness, and his bubble comment declaring, “Where have you been, I’ve been waiting for you forever!”

He was a dog with the proverbial 9-Lives usually reserved for a cat.  The manner in which he mad-dashed-away with reckless abandon surely should have gotten him into a pickle on at least that many occasions.

Most worrisome were the times he escaped in the middle of a raging snowstorm.  On Long Island in the 70′s, the snow fell in a relentless way.  If the Sam-a-la’s dash-away took place during one of these white-outs, all we could do was wait.  As he trekked through the snow, it would attach to his doggie tummy fur and build upon itself until many solid, icy snowballs formed making it almost impossible for him to walk, let alone dash!

So relieved we were when that little abominable snow Sammy would drag himself down the driveway and bark his return, that we would forget that he had caused us such worry.  Then the de-icing would begin.  Mom had to literally crush the ice using warm washcloths while her darling dog son would sit on her foot.

So on and on it went year after year, until Sammy was of the age that mad-dashing was no longer becoming to a dog in his golden years.  But when a dog has Wanderlust, just try to keep him in!  His little dog heart gave out on his last mad-dash on a sunny Southern day in the early 80′s.

Twenty years hence, his beloved Mistress joined him.  I can see him now.  Sitting on mom’s foot.

In memory of Sammy the Sam-a-la, the Mad-Dashing Dog,

Starr