Readers of this column already know that I grew up on that 220-acre farm just north of Monroe now occupied by my brother, Louie, and his wife, Sara. Since leaving that farm and having lived or worked in five continents and 13 foreign countries -- 14 if you count the Pentagon -- it has been for the most part strictly urban living.

Urban life is obviously different from farm life, especially in the days prior to indoor plumbing. It's not that we were poor -- we definitely were not. In addition to the basic 160 acres that was the typical farm in those days, we had an additional 60 acres to the east, bordering Wisconsin 69, adjacent to the current Monroe Town Hall. That 60 was our best piece, somewhat hilly and rocky, but better than the main 160 that was bordered by the old County Farm to the south and west. And we had that 150-foot barn built by my Grandpa Waelti after his emigration from Thune, in Canton Bern. So we were relatively well off.

But like most farmers of that day, it wasn't till post-WWII prosperity that we got indoor plumbing. Since we lived so close to town, I attended grade school at the old North in Monroe instead of the one-room Iliff that was two miles in the other direction. So I had classmates from the "big city," including Kenny Norder, Freddie Studer, Gordy Rutsch, Jimmy Goetz, Lowell Stuessy, Mike Kubly, Kenny Baker, Hans Masshardt, Henry Luenberger and Dick Sarles. Whatta crew! With indoor plumbing, we farm kids were already becoming more like my city pals.

After a stint with Uncle Sam and college, it was urban life for most of my career -- quite a change from rural/small town life. But heck, that change was nothing compared to the change experienced by dogs.

Back on the farm, we had a succession of dogs, each of them named "Shep." I was out of high school before I learned that dogs had any other name than "Shep." OK, so I'm exaggerating, but not much.

Farm dogs in those days had three primary functions -- chasing cows, announcing visitors and disposing of bones and table scraps. The bones and more desirable table scraps also served as sustenance for Ol' Shep. The inferior vegetative stuff went out to the chicken yard. We had never heard of garbage disposals. Ol' Shep and the chickens served that purpose very well. Nothing was wasted.

The only time I remember purchasing dog food was on one occasion when Ol' Shep got too close to the hay mower and suffered a severe cut on his leg. He was lucky not to have lost it. He spent several days in the cool air under the back porch and we fed him some purchased dog food. Shep soon healed and was back to his accustomed delicacies of bones, table scraps, and milk filched from the cat dish during milking time.

Since leaving the farm, embarking on a largely urban existence, and traveling hither and yon on the job, low maintenance was the order of the day. That meant no pets. Then after what passes for "retirement," my wife opined that we ought to have a dog. Like politics, marriage requires compromise -- and also like politics, sometimes seemingly excessively so. We ended up with not one dog, but two, "Buddy" and "Tia."

Sure, when we acquired Buddy and Tia, I knew it wouldn't be quite the same as with Ol' Shep in the farming days of yore. But little did I know.

Sherry tells me one day that she has to go down to the "Beast Buffet."

My head was elsewhere. "The Beef Buffet? Never heard of it."

"No, the Beast Buffet. I have to get some flossies for Buddy and Tia."

I was incredulous. Flossies? For dogs? Ya gotta be kidding. I know there have been some impressive advances in the field of dental hygiene, but this was preposterous!

Sherry patiently explained that these were processed beef tendons. And, yes, indeed, they were good for teeth.

Processed beef tendons, huh! Well, since we in these so-called advanced industrial nations consume more processed food, I suppose it's only natural that dogs will, too.

In fact, I read in the Wall Street Journal one day that some marketing guru was trying to peddle flavored sparkling water for dogs and cats. OK, I'll go along with flossies, but sparkling water for dogs and cats is where this pragmatic Schweitzer draws the line. I doubt that suede shoe artist ever got very far with that half-baked scheme anyway.

So Buddy and Tia get their flossies. I suppose they help keep their teeth clean -- wouldn't want to prevent those Colgate grins. And we make sure they don't get chicken bones. I must admit to having become attached to those two curs, but I hope we aren't making sissies out of them. Ol' Shep never distinguished one kind of bone from another.

The other day, I was wondering how Ol' Shep did it without flossing his teeth. I finally figured it out. When he was chasing cows in from the pasture for milking, he sometimes got a bit impatient with a laggard. So he would grab the tail and let it slide to the brush end, through his teeth, resembling multiple strands of floss dragging through his ivories.

Ol' Shep was ahead of his time -- simply practicing a primitive form of flossing his teeth. No need for purchased flossies. For Ol' Shep, low maintenance was the rule.

-- John J. Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He is former Professor of Applied Economics, University of Minnesota; and Professor Emeritus, New Mexico State University. He can be reached at jjwaelti@tds.net.