A few years ago I picked up Rex at the dog pound. He’s a small black Dachshund, and my life hasn’t been the same since. If Rex were the Road-Runner, I would be Wile E. Coyote. If Rex were Stan Laurel, I would be Oliver Hardy. I can never win . . . I can never win.

I have a cold. Not a “go to the hospital” type of cold, just your garden variety “camp out on the couch” type of cold. Lots of water, some fizzing cold pills, a squirt of this in the mouth and a homeopathic that under the tongue. And Dr. Rex.

“Rex, quit staring at me. Why are you staring at me? It’s bad enough having a cold without some little black torpedo parked on my chest, staring at me. What? Is it time for my fizzing cold tablets?” Rex wagged his tail. I took the pills and piled the comforter back on me. Rex made the ascent to the top of his infirm master and resumed his post of duty.

“Rex, will you hand me the remote? I’ve had it with this junk they let pass for broadcast quality TV. Rex? Will you get me the remote?” No response from the good doctor.
“Look, get me the remote, or I’ll make you play Hands, Scissors, Paper with me. You know you hate that game, so save yourself some grief and just get me the remote. I’ve seen you drag a cow femur across the back yard, so I know you can drag a remote control eighteen inches to my sickly, frail, withering fingertips!” Either my threat of Hands, Paper, Scissors or a sense of common decency overwhelmed him, and he brought me the remote control.

“Thank you, my good man.” I scanned the stations list with their brief descriptions of each show. “Rex, there is absolutely nothing on TV. Look, Rexy. A cooking show on how to braise medallions of tofu. Sixteen cartoon channels. An infomercial on how to do your own dental work. A PBS special on the History of Dust. Every single news channel is showing the exact same thirty-second sound bites of the same rehashed news stories. Court TV is showing the trial of a man alleged to have played his yodeling CDs too loud. No good movies, no good re-runs. What’s the use of getting sick if you can?t lie on the couch and watch TV during the day without feeling guilty?” Rex did not respond to my tirade; evidently the drone of my discourse had put him to sleep.

“When I was a little boy, Rex . . .” Rex cracked open an eye with a look that said, “Please, dear God in Heaven, don’t let him start in with the “when I was a little boy” stories. “When I was a little boy, we had just three stations, Rex. THREE STATIONS! ABC, CBS, and NBC. And you know what? It was good TV. Mom, Dad, my brother, and I would sit around the ol’ black and white TV, fiddle with the rabbit ears antennae, and watch “Hee Haw,” “Laugh-In,” “The Monkeys,”and yes, I’ll even admit it, Lawrence Welk.

“That was the Golden Age of TV, when there were only commercials every fifteen minutes. You could train your bladder to a regular schedule. Yes, Rex, those were the good old days . . .? Rex put his paws over his ears. “I watched Walter Cronkite tearfully tell the world that our president was dead. I watched the Beatles on Ed Sullivan! I watched the first man walk on the moon, Rex. And now . . . and now . . .” Rex rolled over and made the sign of the cross, obviously praying for God to strike me dead or at least shut me up.

“LOOK REX! A rerun of “Lassie”!” Rex sat up as though I had filled him up with air from a bicycle tire pump. He wagged his tail with a fury. I was the one who was sick, but Rex got to watch his most favorite show. It was the one where Timmy fell down the well and Lassie ran to the sheriff to save him. Ah, the Golden Age of TV.