Good grief, Charlie Brown
I've had a lot of dogs.
Mac was an Australian shepherd I had when I was a teenager. Skipper was a beautiful collie. Tessie was our dachshund for 17 years.
And Richard Tiger was a dog we got for son Tim at the dog pound. He was a wonderful spaniel (Richard, not Tim); I'd rent him from Tim for bird hunting. He charged me fifty cents.
The dog that stands out the most, however, was Charlie Brown. Charlie was a basset hound I got as a gift from my wife.
"They told me that bassets have good noses," she said.
Charlie was supposed to be my hunting companion. But, after one pheasant hunt in which I had to break trail through the beet fields, I gave up on him.
Basset hounds are ungainly, saggy, baggy and undisciplined. They require constant attention. Nobody owns a basset; they own you.
No fence can hold one in. Originally bred to hunt rabbits in Europe, they go off to find a new, more attentive patron once you stop petting them.