Ernie's Brush With Death: 2002

Of all Ernie's adventures, the most serious by far was perhaps more misadventure on the part of a stupid ugly Airedale named Hell. I don't really know if that was his name, but that's what he brought to us one clear morning as Ernie the pup was taking a walk with my sister, Ridey, who is not to be crossed.

At this point in his life Ernie was only a few months old- still a handsome black all around his face- like a pharaoh in coloring and presence. We had previously learned from our vet that we had jumped the gun on his walks and that he was far too young and underdeveloped to be taking such long strolls. That explained the crying and we were very remorseful, (but we also thought it was funny). THE POINT IS, Ernie's walks at this time had been restricted to up and down the street in front of our house. On one such walk on the aforementioned day with the aforementioned formidable sister, Ernie met Hell. The following photograph, though not Hell specifically, shows you the militant stance of the morally corrupt breed.



Hell lived down the street and over a street and had no previous record of demonic and savage behavior. Ernie the pup took a few sniffs (as pups do) and Hell took a few sniffs back (as if he were a normal dog). AND THEN OUT OF NOWHERE HELL TOOK ERNIE'S FACE AND HEAD INTO HIS MOUTH IN A FURY AND BEGAN FEROCIOUSLY AND VIOLENTLY SWINGING HIS HEAD (WITH ERNIE'S HEAD IN HIS MOUTH) FROM SIDE TO SIDE TRYING TO RIP ERNIE TO SHREDS. WELL, Ernie of course was horrified and terrified but nullified by his tiny size and his shock. But as I told you, my sister Ridey is not to be crossed. This was her puppy being eaten and massacred blamelessly, and Ridey is known for an acute sense of sympathy for the underdog. This time it was all too literal to bear. So gallant 17-year-old Ridey kicked the crap out of Hell. She took her athletic and spry legs and kicked him as hard as she could in his stomach and chest. She beat that crime against nature in the head with Ernie's leash. She pummeled the murderous villain until he released. And poor Ernie the pup stood trembling- a beaten toddler with a hole in his nose like a beluga whale, terrified and stunned. Ridey scooped up our pup and ran into our house screaming for help and for justice. And we piled into the car, I with poor pup Ernie in the back, spouting with blood and choking on it (by the way dog blood smells awful- very strange smell- NOT good). He was thankfully treated by our vet, and the horrendous episode ended with three thankful people and a puppy that looked more like an anteater for a few weeks and wasn't so sure of himself anymore. BUT DON'T YOU WORRY, he got his confidence back. More to come.

***Author's note: It cannot go without saying that I, too, was attacked by another savage Airedale by the name of Duffy Perkins at the baby age of three. My mother watched horrified, much like Ridey, BUT WORSE BECAUSE I'M A PERSON, as I, having asked permission to pet Duffy Perkins, was thrown to the ground by a beast six times my size. He went for the neck, as all killers will, and my little white blouse with the Peter Pan collar was ripped to shreds as he, not being able to get to my neck BECAUSE DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I WAS GOING TO LET HIM, went for my chest instead. My three-year-old chest, covered in innocence and baby fat, was now covered in blood and animal savagery. I still remember the slam of my head against the street as he attacked. So let it be known that Airedales are the worst dogs in the world. Luckily, Ernie and I survived their attempts to ruin us.

Ernie's Humble Beginnings

At the plump age of 13 I convinced my parents that every child should have a puppy of their own at some point in their life. Thus the spark of Ernie was created, later to become a consuming and passionate fire that engulfed the hearts of my family, neighborhood and metro Louisville. Now I must mention that Ernie had a predecessor: Stonewall Foster. Stonewall was a true basset.

Born in 1981, he was my parents first child. He was the table we learned to lift ourselves up on as babies and our great protector against the dreaded Sue Johnson who came on Tuesdays and made my four-year-old sister watch soaps in the afternoons. ANYWAY, Stoney bit the dust after 12 years of begging and baying. In the end it was his nose that got him. The inside of a garbage can on Highway 1793 was the last thing he saw. Mom said at least he died happy. I was not consoled.

Between he and Ernie there was an ex-show dog named Pudgie who no one liked but my parents. Pudgie felt likewise. A cardigan welsh corgi, (the breed pictured though not Pudgie exactly). He had duck tape on his ears and fear in his eyes and he didn't last long. He met his fate one morning while running what we affectionately called the Pudgie 500.

He was only five. My mother still can't discuss it.

A few years passed, dogless and empty before I convinced everyone that another basset hound was imperative. Our dogish family had been without a dog for going on two years and that was unacceptable. So my dad made some calls and off we went to see a man about a dog on a puppy farm in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky.


Oh, what did you say? You've never heard of it? I'm scandalized. Because it just so happens that in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky there is a little road called Pumphouse that winds its way up up and up from the highway. And at the end of that seemingly desolate little road is a thing I am sure was taken straight from my wildest dreams-cages and cages of a hundred barking puppies. Black labs and basset hounds- the two best dogs on earth.

Now, to get specifically to the part where Ernie makes his grand entrance. In a little cage of bassets with a mother and father was a little pile of puppies. There were tri-colors and liver and whites. There were big ones and small ones. Fat ones and tall ones.
Sleepy and feisty and hungry and ornery.


And then I saw it- the one I had to have. I picked it up up and up and then held it close and breathed in its baby scent imagining all the things we would do together once this dog was mine. And then my father said "UH UH. That's a girl. We must have a boy. We MUST have a boy." And so as my soul broke into pieces I put my pup down. BUT THAT'S WHEN I SAW HIM. At the bottom of the puppy pile was another who looked JUST like the other. And I let my heart hope hope HOPE that it would have a wienie so I could keep keep KEEP IT. I reached into the puppy pile and pulled the tiniest little runt out from under all the other pups. And YES- a boy pup! And that was that. They took him and bathed him and gave him shots that made him cry. And I watched with my fat little 13-year-old face just dying to get him back. And when he was clean and dewormed like a new baby to its mother they put him in my arms. And I swaddled him in the only towel my mother would let me bring for a dog- a sick Tropicana Twisters one that was old as mold. And I held him like a baby for the next five months of his life swaddled and coddled. And that's how I found the best dog in the world.

Introducing Our Subject, Ernie.

I have the dog of dogs. He is kind and gentle. Clever and stubborn. He smells like all the flowers in the world stewed in honey and bottled water. When he looks into your eyes you feel as if your soul is bare. He has long handsome ears and a flare for the dramatic. He has made various appearances in both film and on the stage. Namely, the Ernie video of 2003 which received rave reviews and continues to be the most beloved independent film 98 percent of Americans have ever seen. His favorite movie is Eloise: Christmas at the Plaza. I would like to walk you through his adventures this spring as they occur. Also, some of his previous undertakings concerning golf carts and old men as well as when he dabbled in the rearing of infant rabbits. Would you like to hear about the water color of his countenance in his family home? I shall tell you. But not today. Stay tuned for more and he will not disappoint.