I spent a lot of time this weekend just playing with my dog, throwing rocks, sticks and pine cones for him and helping him to keep the yard clear of squirrels and birds. You see, this dog is absolutely the best dog I have ever owned--he's fearsome, fiercely loyal, protective, and abhors men and motorcycles and especially a combination of the two. And, in spite of the fact that he was presumably steeped in testosterone at an early age and has significant delusions regarding his size, my dog is a mere 12 pound long-haired dachshund. My father would, no doubt, hate him.

There was a family story that, when anyone lacking in sufficient good taste got drunk enough or brave enough to tell, would cause my father to either leave the room or would render him motionless, wincing into the distance, seated, with his legs tightly crossed.

It seems that, when my father was a toddler, his older sister was charged with his care during the day. At the time, it was a perfectly reasonable and responsible child-rearing practice to allow an eight year old girl to babysit her two year old brother. And, like most eight years old girls, my father's big sister really didn't want to be bothered with changing dirty diapers and dealing with boy parts. Her well-reasoned approach to this child care hurdle was obvious--let him play outside, nekkid.

One of the things that kept my young father occupied while he was outside, nekkid, was his big sister's dog, the beloved Patches. Patches was apparently a small dog, rambunctious and playful enough to follow my father's every step. And, like most dogs, he was quite attracted to things that bounced and flopped....like the things that dangle from the groin area of a nekkid, toddler boy.

Apparently one day the temptation became too great to resist and Patches did what dogs do--he bit that which attracted him, that which had been flailing about between my father's short legs. My father screamed in agony and his young sister came running, horrified to find her baby brother with a smear of mud and blood in the very area that she had tried so desperately to avoid.

She knew enough about first aid to know that this open wound needed to be cleaned immediately, but wasn't quite sure what she should use to accomplish this. Her mind tore through her options before she remembered a cleaning solution that her father had just shown her, a miracle fluid that, with just a splash, would surely clean up her little brother sufficiently. That said, she poured a can of turpentine on my father's cut and bleeding penis.

From the experience, my father created two rules for living: he'd never own a small dog and he'd never clean the paint brushes.