Like many young families, when I was growing up, we had a dog. A big dog.
A 100-pound, pure bred, beautiful German Shepherd. Prettiest of that breed I’ve ever seen. He would have been the perfect childhood pet, except for one thing.
The dog didn’t like me much.
Oh, he was plenty protective of me, to be sure. When my Dad tackled me and pinned me to the carpet, that dog was right there in between us, protecting me from whatever potential harm might happen.
But when it came down to just me and him, to the dog I was more of a nuisance.
I was in the way, so to speak.
And that takes me to the back seat of the car.
We had a 1964 Pontiac two-door coupe. You know, the ones with a mile-wide bench back seat and front buckets seats. I was an only child, you see, so the dog and I shared that back seat on family outings. Ah yes, the brother I didn’t have.
So where was the dog’s favorite place to sit in that seat? Right smack in the middle, so he could put his head between Mom and Dad in the front seats.
That’s not so bad by itself. But no matter which side I chose to sit on, the dog sat so that his hind parts were pushed up against me, with his prodigious, bushy tail squishing me into whichever corner of the back seat I was in.
I know, long story. But if our dog had a pillow for the back seat of the car, it would have said something like this.
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