World Cup Freddy, the German tourist visiting the U.S. for the World Cup, has gone viral and brought joy to millions of Americans and people around the world with his excitement as he discovers the wonders of our country.
He’s been fêted by celebrities, politicians, and sports stars as he discovers something leftists in our country can’t contemplate: that this is truly a wondrous place, and we are beyond blessed to live here.
But on this Fourth of July, it’s not Freddy who’s upended my household — it’s Fred E.
It’s all courtesy of my evil kids, who I’ve clearly raised badly because they have undermined me and tricked me and pulled off a devious plot. The Wife™ and I have had a plethora of canines through our marriage (six in total), and the last one went to heaven a couple of years ago. Although they all brought us joy and were part of the family, it’s hard to see them go, and let’s be honest, they require a lot of care and responsibility.
With one of our most recent doggos, Blaze, we had to build a special “Blaze shelf” where you could put up food if you were going to leave it for even a moment, because he was a counter-surfer who could and would get anything if left unwatched for more than a millisecond.
We considered ourselves done after he crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Let’s take a break, we agreed. But our kids weren’t down with that. “Get a dog,” they said. One of them had an ulterior motive, it’s true — they had gotten a pooch of their own and wanted her to have someone to play with — but they genuinely also thought a slobbering buddy would bring some life to the house.
Here was the sinister plot: the innocent-sounding: “Can you watch my friend’s doggie for a night or two?” Sure, not exactly a huge deal, we can watch him for a minute.
He was cute. He was calm. He was loving. His name started with an “F,” and I don’t want to dishonor his former owner, but we just didn’t feel like the name suited him. “He looks like a Fred,” one of us said (I can’t remember who). “FREDDY!” someone chimed in. Yup. That was it.
After a few such episodes, they moved in for the kill: “The owner is no longer able to take care of him, so he has to be given away. It’s too bad you guys can’t take him.”
Well played, children, well-played. We hemmed and hawed for several weeks because we once had a bad experience with a shelter dog, and the memory scarred us. But we had to admit: this guy was special, and we couldn’t bear the thought of him being sent to a pound.
So now we have a new dog. Fred E.
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In Honor of Scrappy, the July 4th Wonder Dog
Of course, as it turns out, the furball played us like fiddles. On his visits with us, he displayed an almost Zen-like calmness. He didn’t chase balls, he didn’t zoom around the house, he was just Mr. Super Chill Guy, a Sir Lounge-a-Lot who wouldn’t cause any trouble. We could handle that, right?
Ohhhh, oh ho ho, oh how he lied. Oh, how he tricked us. “Mr. Misdirection” is more like it — turns out, he has a serious stubborn will of his own, and he is also a Wildman, sprinting crazily across the yard and doing insane leaps with the freneticism of the Energizer bunny. It’s a little like having a racehorse in your house. He is nothing like what we thought we agreed to.
And I begrudgingly admit that it’s brought fun and laughter to our abode, even if our adult kids don’t live here full-time anymore. It’s not that it was sad here before — we were quite happy, and don’t make fun of us, but we love our twin sister kitties — but the hound has brought an energy and vibe that’s different.
It’s brought me a life lesson: grief is real, we get older, life changes — but as long as we’re breathing, it goes on, and we must too. I bless that Scrappy the Wonder Dog entered our lives on the Fourth of July all those years ago, and I miss Thunder, Blaze, and Zack, and Bebe and Bailey. But I also appreciate how Fred E. has resurrected their memories and brought new joys to our lives — even if he can sometimes be a pain in the ass.
God Bless Scrappy and friends, God bless America, and God bless man’s best friend on this historic day.
