Our Elvis was a hound dog. He never wanted to be anything but a hound dog. A very modest, but stubborn mongrel whom we loved. He is gone, but his spirit remains. Along with the funny video that I've embedded here for your enjoyment. Rest in peace, great black dog.
Copyright © 2014
Our dog Elvis was indeed nothing but a hound dog. He loved singing whenever he heard sirens. Our neighbors had a very sensitive alarm system. Houseflies could set it off. They did. Often. Elvis wailed a lot.
He hated loud noises and booms. He lived his whole life in Israel, never knowing that there were quiet places on earth such as Fiji and Surinam.
Our Elvis had a love. Not Priscilla. His love was Camilla. He would escape from the house twice a year to reunite with her. He would be for gone days at a time. We once locked him in a bedroom on the second floor. He jumped off the balcony and escaped. Our very own “Elvis the Pelvis”. Even when his manhood (better, doghood) was compromised by surgery, Elvis still united with Camilla. We just couldn’t teach that old dog new tricks.
Elvis died at my feet a few years ago as I played him a tune on the guitar. A sad, but fitting way to go.
Camilla died last week, at the ripe age (for a dog) of 17. They are now romping around doggy heaven together. Forever.
Elvis needed his freedom. We never managed to completely configure the fence around the yard. He would always find a leap-hole, and off he would go, ears flapping, pretending to ignore our pleas for him to come home.
Elvis liked to wander around the kids’ school. He wandered into class one day. That was against the rules.
We often joked as to whether Elvis was an Ashkenazi (Jews coming primarily from Europe) or Sephardi (Jews coming primarily from the Middle Eastern countries). This is because I am Ashkenazi and my wife is Sephardi.
One Passover, about seven years ago, we decided to put it to the test. We placed two yummy dishes, one with gefilte fish (storebought, definitely Ashikenai food) equidistant to a plate of Sephardi meatballs (home made by Grandma Aliza).
We called Elvis to see which he would eat first.
He smelled the meatball. Then he went over and smelled the fish, then came back to the meatbal, and then again the fish. Finally, he went for the meatball. And then, ever so casually, he sauntered over and gulped down the fish.
That was Elvis. Nothing but a hound dog. But what a hound dog!!
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