Actually, nobody calls me Hank. These people always call me Henry. I just want to make a few things clear about myself.
I am a Rhodesian Ridgeback, but I lack the defining feature of my breed because I have no ridge of fur running along my back. My owners (I tend to refer to them as these people) found out that I cost half as much as most Ridgebacks because I have no ridge. So they jumped in their truck and drove south, for an entire day, into northern California to get me. They had no children at the time, so a jaunt like that was no big deal.
My pedigree is interesting to look at. I have a great, great, great, great grandfather named Spoor of the Cheetah. No joke. I also have a great-great-great named Honky Tonk Hero, and another named Ruffian's Reviewer. These last two ancestors disturb me a little, because they appear several times on my mother and my father's side, which proves I am extremely inbred. My mistress claims that explains a lot about me.
Rhodesian Ridgebacks were bred in South Africa by Boer farmers. As the story goes, these Dutch, German and Huguenot people migrated to South Africa in the 16th and 17th centuries and brought their European dogs, but their dogs didn't thrive in the new environment. So, they bred a native dog (with a distinctive ridge along its back) with certain European dogs. The new breed withstood Africa's drastic seasonal climate changes and obnoxious insects, and had enough stamina to run long distances after game. The hunters even used the dogs to chase lions, and hold them at bay.
Despite my impressive pedigree and the grand history of my breed, I am at heart just a family hound. What you need to know about me can, really, be summarized with a few bullet points:
- I love butter.
- My flatulence shouldn't offend you. You would do it, too, if you ate Atta Boy.
- Linoleum and tile are not proper vomiting surfaces. Only carpet will do.
- I adore these people, in a very doggy sort of way.
