Morton the Wonderdog
From the age of 3½ until the week before I returned home from my freshman year in college, I shared my life with a mutt named Morton. Now Morton was an interesting dog for many reasons, but mostly because she was our dog. That’s right. To begin with, Morton was a girl. Aah - the 70s. From all accounts, Morton was a terrier-beagle mix who liked her Gaines burgers and Liv-A-Snaps a little too much if you know what I mean . She was medium height, white with a brown patch over one eye, two brown ears, and a large brown spot on her back near her tail. She shed like nobody’s business, hated the newspaper boy, and was deathly afraid of fireworks. And even with these detractions, I’m pretty sure she was the world’s best dog. She’d have to be to live with my father. Sure, as a kid, I dressed her up, hated brushing her, generally used her as an all-around playmate when it was convenient for me, and my mother, who wanted nothing to do with that dog when my father brought home the scrappy