Column: The case of the dog, the Cracker Jack and the wedding ring

Published 12:00 am Wednesday, August 20, 2003

The neighbors had this dog. At least, we thought it was a dog.

We couldn’t be sure what it was. It could have been a dog from outer space &045; that is, if there are dogs in outer space.

None of the dog’s teeth matched any other tooth on Earth. He had nothing but bad fur days. I wouldn’t have called him an ugly dog, but almost everyone else did. That didn’t bother the dog a bit. The dog, whose legal name for contract purposes was &uot;Dog,&uot; didn’t have much use for mirrors, so he didn’t realize that he wasn’t the most handsome of hounds.

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Dog made up for not being the best looking mutt around by being fat, too. He came by his weight problem naturally. He was a good eater. People were always giving Dog food. Dog tended to be a little bit on the ornery side at all times except when he was eating. People were always more willing to share a sandwich than be bitten by a mangy mutt, so Dog was always eating. This caused him to be overweight. He was so fat that when he jumped down from the sofa that he wasn’t supposed to be on, it took his body about 7 minutes and 19 seconds to stop jiggling. We borrowed the coach’s stopwatch and timed it.

One day the neighbors were eating Cracker Jack. A crowd had gathered &045; it was a large family. They were big fans of the caramel-coated popcorn and peanut snack. Who isn’t? After all, this is the same Cracker Jack that is immortalized in the song, &uot;Take Me Out to the Ball Game.&uot; The Cracker Jack came in a small box that included a free prize in the bottom of each container. &uot;A Prize in Every Box&uot; advertised the free toy lurking inside. Sailor Jack and his dog, Bingo, also adorned the box. The prizes were of the schmaltzy kind, but were always looked forward to. There were a lot of rings offered as gifts.

Well, this day, they were chowing down on the Cracker Jack. The missus in the family had nearly devoured all of the caramel &045; covered part of the snack and would soon be down to the peanuts at the bottom. She liked Dog. Dog loved her. Dog loved her almost as much as he loved Cracker Jack. The missus was giving Dog a bit of Cracker Jack from time-to-time. Dog inhaled it like it had been years since his last meal.

The missus took her rings off when she ate Cracker Jack. I am not sure why, but she always did. Maybe she didn’t want caramel-coated rings? Maybe her fingers retained sugar?

She put the rings on an old leather hassock. The hassock was a color of yellow that one might expect to see in a bad mustard. The missus used the hassock to feed Dog his Cracker Jack. Dog was an enthusiastic eater of anything vaguely resembling food, but he was especially gung ho when it came to gobbling Cracker Jack.

Nobody was really at fault. Mistakes were made. The missus made the mistake of putting some Cracker Jack near the rings she had placed on the hassock. Dog made the mistake of eating one of the rings. It wasn’t just any ring; it was a wedding ring.

As I said, it really wasn’t anybody’s fault. When the missus realized what had happened, she became a bit upset.

Dog became concerned.

Accusations were made. Feelings were hurt.

A family meeting was called. It was decided that it would be the job of the youngest in the family, Norm, to follow poor old dog around and check his well, er, uh, scat for signs of the ring. It might surprise you to learn that Norm was not exactly excited about this opportunity.

I think Norm might have put it best when he said, &uot;Ma, I don’t want to do this!&uot;

Norm asked for a judge’s ruling.

&uot;Pa, do I have to do this?&uot;

Pa remained silent. He had already decided that he did not want to become involved.

Norm felt that it was inhumane to expect him to trail Dog.

Dog felt that it was inhumane to be trailed by Norm who was paying way too much interest to Dog’s toilet habits.

The missus would have none of Norm’s excuses.

&uot;You follow that mutt around until he poops out my ring,&uot; said the missus, polishing off the last of the Cracker Jack. &uot;And stop your complaining. This is a chance of a lifetime.&uot;

(Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear Wednesdays and Sundays in the Tribune.)