Dog Forced to Wear Pantyhose

a favorite dog story, plus a few remarks about this newsletter

Note to Readers: I want to especially welcome our recent subscribers, because you’ve helped this “community” reach the 100 subscriber mark! And, lest anyone think (based on the last few posts) that the content of this newsletter is exclusively political, it’s time for a change-up, and so today’s post will be one of my favorite dog stories.

But first, a few remarks about this newsletter. For one thing, it’s on the verge of a name-change, although it’ll most likely still be “Stu’s Something or Other” (Hmmm…maybe that’s not a bad name). Also, Substack keeps telling me I need more graphic design: fonts, banners, backgrounds etc. But that contradicts my vision for this endeavor; rather than looking like an online magazine, I’d like each post to come across as if you were reading an e-mail direct from me. I like to think that I write the same way I talk in person. So don’t look for it to get all dolled up with fancy graphic enhancements.

OK, now on to the dog story, which is as much a little slice of history (and the life I’ve lived) as it is about a dog. But I hope it proves enjoyable to read, and also a welcome change from reading about how our world is going to Hell in a bucket. If you like it, please feel free to pass it along!

Dog Forced to Wear Pantyhose

For me, one of the joys of dog-ownership is the excuse to be outdoors, even in inclement weather. Ever since my Boy Scout days, when we camped in tents or lean-tos in the rain and snow and wind, I’ve enjoyed the challenge of pitting myself against the worst that Mother Nature can dish out.

There’s not much adventure in my life these days, and at my age suiting-up and heading out to the woods with my dog (especially on days when most folks choose to stay indoors) is plenty enough adventure for me. My dog certainly enjoys it, and even in the bitter cold of a blizzard we have a great time, trudging through the snow or huddling together against the wind, pretending to be wolves.

I remember one adventure I had back in 1980, though, that involved taking on Mother Nature’s worst, but it wasn’t a meteorological phenomenon, it was geological, and it was one time when I had to suit-up the dog as well!

1980 was the year that Mt. St. Helens erupted, and I was living in Portland, Oregon with my big black & tan GSD, “Levi” (I loved telling people “He’s called Levi because he pants!”).

For months before the massive May 18th eruption that blew off a big part of the mountain and flattened trees for miles, the volcano had been rumbling and sending up great ash-plumes that could be seen from Portland (about 65 miles south), and we’d suffer “ashfalls”, where flakes of ash, like heavy gray snow, would cover everything.

But the ash wasn’t as benign as snow. It was abrasive stuff; once it covered your car’s windshield, if you turned on your wipers without first hosing it off with water, it could permanently etch your windshield and render it impossible to see through!

People were warned to keep from inhaling the ash, and an alternative to bandannas or dust masks was pantyhose, the same thing that was recommended for wrapping a car’s air cleaner to keep volcanic ash out of the carburetor and engine.

So, any time there was an ashfall, there was a real “run” on pantyhose. And men who couldn’t get a spare pair from their wives or girlfriends were scrambling to buy some. Queen-size, control-top or sandalfoot, we just had to have that pantyhose!

Some people cut it into scarves that covered their nose and mouth, and others pulled a leg over their entire head and face, protecting their eyes as well, but looking as if they were getting ready to rob a bank!

Now, if you’re wondering what in the world this has to do with dogs, well, that pantyhose turned out to be the way to protect dogs as well!

During an ashfall I’d keep my dog indoors as much as possible, but when it was time to go out I’d either pull a cut-off leg of pantyhose over his entire head, with a couple of slits cut for his ears, or I’d take just the foot portion and roll it over his snout, in either case tying it on like a muzzle. I won’t say my dog liked it, but he learned to put up with it. I tried to explain to him that it was for his own good.

During one especially heavy ashfall, we drove my trusty ‘76 Ford E-250 from Portland to Seattle, stopping numerous times to change the pantyhose on the air cleaner, clean the headlights and refill the windshield washer, which was in almost constant use. My passengers (a couple of friends and a couple of hitchhikers) joked that the washer/wiper switch on next year’s models would have a “volcanic ash” setting!

The drive was as harrowing as in any blizzard. In one town where we stopped, the National Guard had been mobilized, and they warned us that the highway was officially closed and that to proceed would be at our own risk. We were too caught up in the adventure to heed their warning and, in the spirit (epitomized by the iconic R. Crumb cartoons) of the Hippie Era that was just winding down, we just kept on truckin’!

The ashfall ended about an hour south of Seattle, and we arrived unscathed, but with my red van now gray with a thick coating of ash. While I was peddling my “Keep Washington Green” T-shirts out of the van at the Fremont Street Fair, it proved quite a novelty, and passersby delighted in using their fingertips to write their names in ash on the sides of the van.

It was only later, when I hosed it off, that I realized that those names had been etched into the paint, and it took several hours with elbow grease and rubbing compound to remove them. All the while, my dog watched me work and smiled, happy that he no longer had to suffer the indignity of being forced to wear pantyhose!

An automotive note: Putting pantyhose over the air cleaner wasn’t the only precaution folks took to keep the ash from damaging their vehicles. We were also advised to change the oil and transmission fluid frequently; every time I did so, the fluids were black and gritty with ash.

But some motorheads theorized that the ash might actually be good for engines. The thought was that, at an engine’s high temperatures, the ash would bake into a glass-like ceramic coating on the cylinder walls. Although I never performed a post-mortem on my van’s engine to see if that had occurred, it did run for close to another 100,000 miles after its ash adventure!

ST