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It took me couple of hours but I found the article I was looking for. Thank goodness and God for Google. It is a reprint of an article by Lewis Grizzard about when h is dog, Catfish died. ((Don't know the original blogger, lol.))
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thanksgiving--part one of many.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday in the whole world. So, with less than a week to go before Turkey Day, I thought I'd officially kick off the celebration with one of many holiday-related posts.
One of my earliest non-family-related Thanksgiving memories comes from when I was 13 years old. Already a lover of reading and writing (read: a giant dork), Lewis Grizzard was my favorite columnist. I've posted about him before, way back in the beginning of my blogging journey, and if I could ever figure out how to make links work, I'd send you back to that entry so you could read about his interesting life and enjoy one of his brilliant columns. The short story is that he was a wonderful Southern writer who loved greasy food, Georgia football, and his dog, Catfish.
I was hanging out with my friend Jennifer when we read in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that Catfish had died (Jennifer, like me, was quite fond of Lewis Grizzard). To this day, the following column is one of my favorite pieces of modern writing. It's one of the most simultaneously uplifting and heartbreaking works I've ever encountered, and I remember crying and hugging my friend once I'd finished reading. I only hope that, one day, my writing will have even half the effect on people as Lewis Grizzard's had on me.
* I'm not trying to bum y'all out by posting this column, I promise! Even though it made me sad when I first read it, now it makes me smile--the love of and from a pet is truly one of the great joys of this world. I'm sure Lewis and Catfish have been reunited somewhere, somehow. :-)
Catfish, the black Lab, has up and died
My dog Catfish, the black Lab, died Thanksgiving night.
The vet said his heart gave out.
Down in the country, they would have said, "Lewis's dog up and died." He would have been 12 had he lived until January.
Catfish had a good life. He slept indoors. Mostly he ate what I ate. We shared our last meal Tuesday evening in our living room in front of the television. We had a Wendy's double cheeseburger and some chili.
Catfish was a gift from my friends Barbara and Vince Dooley. Vince, of course, is the athletic director at the University of Georgia. Barbara is a noted speaker and author.
I named him driving back to Atlanta from Athens where I had picked him up at the Dooleys' home. I don't know why I named him what I named him. He was all curled up in a blanket on my back seat. And I looked at him and it just came out. I called him: "Catfish."
I swear he raised up from the blanket and acknowledged. Then he severely fouled the blanket and my back seat.
A powerful set of jaws
He was a most destructive animal the first three years of his life.
He chewed things. He chewed books. He chewed shoes.
"I said to Catfish, 'Heel,' " I used to offer from behind the dais, "and he went to my closet and chewed up my best pair of Guccis."
Catfish chewed television remote control devices. Batteries and all.
He chewed my glasses. Five pairs of them.
One day, when he was still a puppy, he got out of the house without my knowledge. The doorbell rang. It was a young man who said, "I hit your dog with my car, but I think he's OK."
He was. He had a small cut on his head and he was frightened, but he was otherwise unhurt.
"I came around the corner," the young man explained, "and he was in the road chewing on something. I hit my brakes the second I saw him."
"Could you tell what he was chewing on?" I asked.
"I know this sounds crazy," the young man answered, "but I think it was a beer bottle."
Catfish stopped chewing while I still had a house. Barely.
Known far and wide
He was a celebrity, Catfish. I spoke recently in Michigan.
Afterwards a lady came up to me and said, "I was real disappointed with your speech. You didn't mention Catfish."
Catfish used to get his own mail. Just the other day the manufacturer of a new brand of dog food called "Country Gold," with none other than George Jones's picture on the package, sent Catfish a sample of its new product. For the record, he still preferred cheeseburgers and chili.
Catfish was once grand marshal of the Scottsboro, Ala., annual Catfish Festival. He was on television and got to ride in the front seat of a police car with its siren on.
He was a patient, good-natured dog, too. Jordan, who is 5, has been pulling his ears since she was 2. She even tried to ride him at times. He abided with nary a growl.
Oh, that face and those eyes. What he could do to me with that face and those eyes. He would perch himself next to me on the sofa in the living room and look at me.
And love and loyalty would pour out with that look, and as long as I had that, there was very little the human race could do to harm my self- esteem.
Good dogs don't love bad people.
He was smart. He was fun. And he loved to ride in cars. There were times he was all that I had.
And now he has up and died. My own heart, or what is left of it, is breaking.
*****
Mike Luckovich of the Atl.. Journal Consitution did a cartoon showing Lewis meeting Catfish at the Pearly Gates. I have 2 copies.
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