Tying Pooch to the porch.

There are stories that we tell - everyone in the family has heard them, but no one has written them down.
I had a dog named Fred. He was a stray I found one night and he "followed" me home. I let him in the house for awhile and then put him out before my parents got home. He greeted them at the door and my dad fell in love with the little guy. He really became dad's dog - always in dad's lap, going for rides with him in the pickup. Dad would even take him to the Billy Burger and buy him an ice cream cone. He would put it on the ground and Fred would lick it up. Fred could sit up longer than any dog I've ever seen since. My mom was a soda jerk. Not really, but I like to say that. She worked in a jewelry store that also had an old fashioned soda fountain. She knew all the goings on in town, as did everyone else who sat at the counter drinking coffee, home-made milkshakes, green river sodas, or any of the other tasty things you could get. Fred had followed mom to work one morning and he got hit by a car on main street. He was a little banged up but healed up nicely. Around the same time there was a fight in the local bar. The man who got the worst of it was named Pooch Vincent. I believe he was hospitalized. Not long after, a lady was at the soda counter and asked my mom "Hey, how's that Pooch that got hurt?" Mom replied, "Oh, he's doing okay, but I have to keep him chained to the porch so he won't leave home." (you know where this is going right?) The lady looked at my mom quizzically (like she was crazy) and said again "How is that Pooch who got beat up in the bar?" My mom started laughing and said "OH, he's fine, I thought you meant my dog!"