The Foo Foo Dog
Lexi is my little shih tzu and my very best friend. In my upbringing, Lexi would be called a “foo foo dog.” To understand what she means to me, you need to know that a tomboy like me always laughed at people with foo foo dogs. I never realized how much love they can bring to your life.
I grew up in North Carolina during the fifties and sixties in a family of five kids. Daddy always had hunting dogs that were as good as any professionally trained dogs, but they were not to be considered pets. They had a role in helping him gather wild game for our dinner table. We weren’t actually poor but we did need that extra food, and there was never money for each of us to have a pet.
But there was always another dog around the house, and that was the family pet. These were mostly what people called “sooners”—dogs that would just as soon be one breed as another. That dog’s favorite human was whoever slipped it treats from the table or let it sleep at the foot of the bed. That person was usually me. Rules of the house said no dogs sleeping in the bed, but I was the bravest of the kids when it came to breaking that rule.
Throughout those childhood years, we had a mixed cocker spaniel, German shepherds, small terriers, and basset hounds. We also had what people called “feist” dogs, as in the meanest dog in town—or at least the dog thought it was. Some of these dogs found us after they had been abandoned, and some were given to us by friends or family. Their names were Rex, Tinkerbell, Big Stick, Fancy Pants, Max, and Princess. I’m not sure where all the names came from, but they usually had a lot to do with the dog’s personality.
Tinkerbell was a little feist who loved the attention from all us kids but slept in my bed most of the time. Big Stick was a solid black feist and only about seven inches tall. He would attack anything that he thought was trespassing on his domain, and he even survived fifty stitches to his belly after fighting with a Doberman. He got his name because Daddy said he was a little dog that carried a big stick.
My female basset hound, who I took with me when I moved out, was named Fancy Pants because she looked like she had brown pants on her rear. We tried to breed Fancy since she was registered, but she didn’t really like the full breed bassets. She preferred a Lab who lived next door. Being the escape artist that she was, she visited him during her special time and the result was five puppies ranging in looks from bassets to Labs to a mix of both.
We gave all the puppies away except for one, and his name was Maximillion, Max for short. His head and tail were Lab and his body was all basset. As you can imagine, he was very funny looking and people always asked what kind of dog he was. We always believed Max was mentally challenged because he never left Fancy Pants’s side. She cleaned him like a puppy until the day she died.
Fancy and Max were alive when my husband, Mike, and I moved away from my hometown of Kannapolis, North Carolina, and the dogs went with us. That was the first time I lived outside my hometown, so those dogs’ companionship was important as I adjusted to being away. Being from a big family and always living within a mile of the home I was raised in made adjusting to living thirty miles away difficult for me.
But losing my dogs later on was harder. After losing Fancy Pants and eventually Max, I decided I did not want another dog. I get attached to animals quickly and consider them to be my best friends. I just didn’t want to lose another pet.
The years passed and we had strays come around from time to time, but usually they found their home or just never stayed. And there were cats.
Have you ever known an animal that acted practically human? Norman, our first house cat, was that way. He was a short-haired gray cat with gold-green eyes who was born to a pair of barn cats. Mike spotted him at once in the litter and thought he looked like a cat he could relate to. Mike named the cat Norman. From Norman’s first day at home until his last day at home, he was Mike’s buddy.
Norman helped us through a lot of hard times and never once said a bad word about anyone—except for the cat down the street, that is. When Mike and I started working on the NASCAR circuit and traveling, we were able to leave Norman with family. But when we came home from a two- to six-week trip, Norman would not leave Mike’s side.
Eventually I decided to come off the road and Mike continued to travel. While I was home alone, Norman was my constant companion and gave me a lot of love. He slept on Mike’s side of the bed when Mike was gone and always between us when Mike was home. Norman was with us for fifteen years.
I have never grieved or felt such pain at losing a pet like I did with Norman. When my daughter Shelly told me she had another pet to take his place, I bucked at that because no other pet could ever take Norman’s place.
Shelly’s boyfriend had a year-and-a-half-old shih tzu named Lexi, and when they visited me they always brought the dog along. Even though shih tzus are foo foo dogs, I had been very protective of Norman and would not let them bring the dog in the house while the cat was alive. Lexi was just a little thing who wanted to play, but Norman did not have the patience for her. I resisted the urge to even pet Lexi.
Of course, after Norman’s death Lexi came to visit more often. During a visit one day, I was asked to keep Lexi for a couple weeks while her human was working out of town. I was so heartbroken about losing Norman that I thought nothing could ever take his place in my heart. Boy, was I wrong. That little dog latched onto my heartstrings and started healing my broken heart. It amazed me how much energy and excitement such a little dog had. But she belonged to someone else, so I was afraid to get attached.
Lexi lived in a mobile home with a smoker and got very little sunlight or fresh air. Since she had some skin problems, I took on the task of helping her get her skin sores cleared up. After I took her to the vet for a thorough checkup, I started feeling responsible for her health and well-being. When she had been at my house for a while, she blossomed. Her hair had a healthy shine again. Her owner asked me if I would like to keep her forever. What a thrill!
This little baby of a dog has taken on the responsibility of family pack leader for our household. When she walks, she constantly looks back to make sure I am following just like a good pack follower should. She stays by my side as if she knows I need her love and protection. She does not bark unless teased or encouraged to “talk.” She makes a little whimper of a noise when she wants to go out. She sleeps with me, gets treats on a regular basis, and is my favorite “person” in the world. We play the game of hiding treats in places around the house. I can say, “Go find a treat,” and she runs as fast as she can, spinning on the slippery kitchen tile.
My life and daily schedule revolve around Lexi, and that is just fine with my husband. She has latched onto his heartstrings too. She makes us laugh more than ever.
Who would have believed that a foo foo dog could repair my broken tomboy heart? But Lexi did it.
