By CLAY MERCER

Whoever said that money can’t buy happiness never bought a kid a puppy. I know, I know, there’s a whole lot more to taking care of a puppy besides playing with it.

Be a buzz killer if you want to but just let me play with a puppy for the next ten minutes or so.

When I was three years old, I helped my dad’s bird dog, Gal, whelp a litter of pups in a hole she dug underneath the back doorsteps. My parents, apparently unconcerned and engrossed in a television program, met my progress reports with frank indifference.

To be honest, I was astounded. Growing up on the farm gave lots of opportunities to see newborn critters, from chicks and kittens to pigs, calves, and foals.

My uncle Leo had a menagerie which I may never live to equal, but I’m trying, oh, how I’m trying. It was one thing to visit Uncle Leo’s farm and see a new baby donkey or what have you.

It was something else again to be huddled in the dirt while Gal popped out puppy after puppy. After each new arrival, I’d scamper into the house and report, “Gal’s got another one!” ZZZzzzzz.

I’ve been a committed dog man ever since.

We currently have three dogs, two German Shorthaired Pointers and an Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler cross. The Shorthairs have pedigrees that reach from here to the traffic light in Vienna but the Aussie cross maintains a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

Rooster, the Shorthair male, will be four years old in August. He has led an active life. Active to such an extent that he gets cards on his birthday and every major holiday from Dr. LeAnna Carney at the Macon County Veterinary Hospital.

Dr. Carney has declined my offer that if she’ll treat Rooster for free, then every two years I’ll send her and her husband on a cruise. It would definitely be cheaper for me.

Tex, the Aussie cross, came from Gerald Floyd’s place down on Teate Road. He’s the puppy we got to entertain Rooster when Rooster’s teething habits lead him to sample such things as the porch columns, the steps, and the garage.

When Tex arrived at the house he was nothing but a growl and an attitude wrapped up in four pounds of fluff. Connie protested that “Tex” was too big of a name for such a little dog. I assured her that he would grow into it. He did.

My current sweetheart, though, is a little Shorthair female that I got in a trade back. One of Rooster’s littermates went to a good friend of mine. What’s the point of having puppies if you can’t share the happiness, right?

When Cookie had her pups, I was there in my traditional role as midwife, and this little female caught my eye before she hit the ground. While her markings aren’t extremely unusual for a German Shorthair, one particular spot lead us to christen her “Tutu” almost immediately.