A dog named Casey was one of the best friends of my late father, Martin B.
Harrison.
     


Casey was half boxer and half German shepherd, a good, gentle, obedient dog who was smart, but, as my father liked to prove, not that smart. Dad would put a dog treat down on the ground for Casey, who immediately would rush toward it, salivating every step of the way.

"Not kosher," Dad would whisper, and Casey would stop dead in his tracks, the disappointment clearly reflected in his eyes.

After a pause, my father would fib: "It's ham!" And Casey would quickly and unceremoniously gobble it up, thereby proving "a dog knows gornisht from kosher."