Note: This is the first of what may become occasional ramblings from a senior member of the DOLOP clan.
I started to title this “My Dog Gypsy” but then realized she was more than just my dog: she was indeed a friend, a Pal. I rather expect my folks (yes, we used the term “folks” in those days in the 1930’s) because they thought I needed a pal due to my introverted nature. And the name “Gypsy” fitted her perfectly. She had that roaming spirit and whenever she found the gate open, out she would would streak across Hamilton Avenue (why our narrow residential street was called an Avenue I don’t know, but Pasadena named all the north-south streets as Avenues and the east-west ones as Streets). Usually she came back on her own with no serious consequences from her escape, except the one time she returned with the lifeless body of a chicken for which I had to pay the owner.
My dad acquired Gypsy as a young pup from an acquaintance in the plastering business–just a well-mixed breed of dog with no papers or pedigree. In spite of her roaming spirt when she found an open gate, when at home she was content to settle down on the living floor beside me to listen to the Lone Ranger, Captain Midnight, and all the other radio programs that entertained children between the hours of 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. Because of the war, we experienced various food shortages, including regular dog food and so Gypsy often wolfed down horse meat, much to our disgust.
My pal Gypsy was with us nearly to the day I went off to college, but she has never been forgotten. A real Pal she was indeed.