I was quite grown before I learned that Huey Long was a Depression-era politician from Louisiana who was assassinated at a young age. During my formative years, “Huey Long” was an odd-looking dog who had volunteered to become a part of our family. We estimated him to be equal parts beagle, dachshund, basset hound, and shark. The last is because of his tendency to bite and make it count. Now don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t mean. We thought he might have been a trauma victim (although not to the extent suffered by Poor Clarence). He didn’t mind being scratched under the chin or petted—but you were only allowed to touch him with one hand. Put two hands on him and all bets were off.

Part of his reluctance to be handled may have been due to pain. A dachshund’s spine is sometimes too long to be healthy, and one year Huey’s back went out. For weeks his back legs were paralyzed. We made him a bed in one of the sheds, fed and watered him daily, and waited for the end. Then one day he met us at the door, up on all four feet, ready to roll. We obligingly held the shed door open, and he trotted off on some mission or other, apparently none the worse for wear.

One morning after Huey had lived with us for some years, it became necessary to test him and the other dogs for heartworms. My sister Laura had recently become certified as a veterinary technician, and she brought the needed supplies home from work. The first task was to draw some blood, something everybody knew that Huey would not take lying down. I was first alerted to the goings on when I was upstairs getting ready for school, and the most terrible racket broke out downstairs.

Here was the plan: Laura was well aware of Huey’s tendency to bite under these circumstances, so she brought a light, thoroughly permeable blanket to wrap him in; the idea was to put the blanket over his head and hold it there so he couldn’t bite and would be perhaps a little bit less freaked out. My mother and father agreed to hold him by the business end while Laura drew the blood. Mama was afraid poor Huey would suffocate, so she kept trying to remove the blanket while Daddy tried to put it back. I came downstairs just in time to see Huey’s prodigious jaws emerging from the blanket, snapping and snapping, while Huey himself, all fifteen or so pounds of him, roared with rage and dragged both my parents across the kitchen floor. Laura, meanwhile, remained coolly above the fray while drawing the needed vial of blood from his hind leg.

When the dust had settled, Laura overheard this priceless exchange, which I had forgotten about or missed entirely:

Mama: I was so afraid of his dreadful teeth.

Daddy: Well, the blanket was to protect us from his teeth.

Mama: But feeling suffocated is so uncomfortable.

Daddy: I was about to put the blanket over your head.

Thank goodness Huey did not have heartworms, because the treatments would have required weeks of hands-on ministrations.