I think one of the dogs we had when I was a kid many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many years ago was a Curly-haired Weisenheimer. Wasn't much of a dog, but he saved my life one day at the old swimmin' hole when he saw me goin' up and down instead of laterally. He jumped in and pulled me to shore and applied artificial respiration. I'd just been jumping around because of the fish nibbling on my toes (they were just little piranhas, not worth noticing much at all) and this crazy dog drags me through the mud and gunk, flops me over on my stomach, and starts artificial respiration! I would have kicked him, only I'm much too humane to do something like that and besides, he stood about 10 hands high at the shoulder and had teeth like long knives. Crooked and kinda pointing every which way, but teeth all the same. That was old Shoosh -- short for Gaseous Champion of Flatulence. I'll never forget him. In fact, the house we lived in reeks to this day of old Shoosh. It's kept soaked in "Midnight In Keokuk" parfum de toilet by orders of the Health Department. Yeah, between Shoosh and my two brothers my childhood was...well, my sense of smell disappeared when I was about 10 due to odor overload.