I should probably explain about Pootie. Pootie, who is currently in charge of our house, arrived here stowed away in a ribboned box on Christmas day, 1988. Although he is frequently mistaken for a bear, which doesn't bother him, or a bunny, which does, he is a dog. Technically, a stuffed dog. But if his head is packed with lint, it only means he's gotten the jump on the rest of us.
Pootie is a dog given to firm opinions and well-defined preferences, and from the early days it was clear that many of them aligned closely with Dave's. For instance, he enjoys making a public spectacle of himself, he loves chocolate, and he adores basketball. Dave would consult with Pootie, listen carefully, and say, "Pootie wants to know"--the Poot would nod vigorously--"Pootie wants to know if the
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-45SabA61DVqf1VevRmJR-V3iegkl9C_MoM0rvSwWywQLuXKwjlPf07OAD5G340W3UMDHBBzTtO-ZC9YXGFX2gLJJnhDIj7v2p2_fn5XSoqSWDeFWvcFWo5mGEnGsQaLUBn9TPyIrik0i/s320/ScannedImage.jpg)
Pootie gets to go everywhere with us, including seven consecutive trips on the Cycle Oregon bicycle tour, when he rode up front on the handlebars on his own personal Barkalounger sporting helmet and official t-shirt, courting fame and admiration. ("Oh, look at the cute bear! Oh, look at the little t-shirt! Oh, look at that helmet!" some admiring female would say; then, to me, "you don't have any kids, do you?")
Still, although Pootie is our constant companion, I was actually moved when Dave took him to watch the All-Star game. We were at our cabin, a space sanctified by the absence of television, on a snowy February weekend, when Dave asked if I wanted to pop into the nearest tavern to watch the basketball game. I didn't. I had a book. So Dave took off for a few hours, tucking Pootie into his jacket, and inviting him to recline against the napkin dispenser to observe the goings-on. While he was gone I thought of what a special fellow Dave is. Many, if not all, men wo
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9yvYn2W4OEzY9nVkakq0U_K9ifUVwWmmBlLdccB8lgk3UYtRBjmYU4H5qx35NPnN-GXbqsDCSYhaNVIbtp5dbX81TPJFvb9d4MVa5AnaLwoZarnI1Sz93s1YkbsdrcZrv6h2SN0PEY0M/s320/ScannedImage-2.jpg)
"Pootie," he said significantly, "is a babe magnet."
Being a card-carrying member of the PFC (Pootie Fan Club), I'm spellbound by this particular post. There were even a couple of stories I didn't already know. I can't wait to share them with the rest of the Sweden Norrköping chapter.
ReplyDeleteI'm drinking my coffee this morning out of a Pootie mug. Pootie--you da man!!
ReplyDeleteMost things are funny? Well, you're right, Murr. I'd say your blog is especially funny. I just came across it through Rhonda Carpenter's blog. Count me in as a Pootie fan.
ReplyDeleteThanks, I'll tell Pootie. Pootie is a complete publicity whore. This will make his day. Frankly, sometimes he's a little much to live with.
ReplyDeleteDidn't Pootie come with us to the Red Sox game when you and Dave were visiting us in Boston in about 1991?
ReplyDeleteWhy yes, Pootie did. He was out in left field, as usual.
ReplyDeletei nearly pee'd my pants reading about Pootie. Thanks for the giggles this morning Murr!
ReplyDeleteThis is wonderful. I didn't know there was a card.
ReplyDeleteDidn't Pootie come with us to the Red Sox game when you and Dave were visiting us in Boston in about 1991?
ReplyDelete