Growing up we always had dogs. We fed them table scraps and never bought dog feed. They would occasionally eat wheat shorts that we fed the hogs. That was the closest we came to feeding them bought food.
The first dog that I remember was my Uncle Clifton’s boxer named Pat. Pat was a well-trained dog. The Beloit, Illinois Police Department would use her to train rookies. They would place Pat in an abandoned automobile and have the rookies check it out with the goal of retrieving Pat. Pat would make bona fide officers of them and make seasoned officers laugh at the rookies.
Pat was gentle and protective of my sister and me. We rode her like a pony. We were only 3 and 6 years old. That was comforting considering Pat and Uncle Clifton lived with us. Dad and Uncle Clifton worked evening and midnight shifts. Southerners from Alabama living in Illinois with unknown surroundings, Pat was a wonderful guard dog.
My first dog was a mix breed. I never knew what kind, but he looked like a collie/German shepherd mix. I named him Butch. He was not very old when we moved our Yankee dog south. Butch was a faithful companion and lived a long time. Summers were brutal for him. I often wondered if he had some Alaskan Husky blood.
We got him a rebel playmate that was a German deer dog and named him Red. We were always original when naming dogs. Red had weird eyes and was greedy. Red was the culprit that ate the first biscuits my sister made when she 9 or 10 years old. She made from scratch and did not get done. When she threw them from the back porch into the yard, Red quickly gobbled them down. Getting choked, he vomited them up. We continue to josh our sister to this very day that her biscuits were so bad that the dog puked them up. For the record, my sister Diane is a very good cook.
Since I have two brothers, we had several dogs. Since Butch was getting old and Red was gun shy and did not hunt, we got a spotted bird dog and named him Spot. He wasn’t much of a Bird dog, but he was great at pointing. He pointed mostly at food.
One night I was returning home in a pouring rain when I saw a puppy in the highway. The puppy looked like a drowned rat. I picked it up and carried it home to be with Butch, Red, and Spot. I discovered that the puppy was female and was red with traces of white on its tail. It looked like a fox so we named her Foxy. Foxy never ran like the other dogs and never got very large compared to the others. Well, in time we realized that Foxy was a fox.
Father time finally got the best of Butch. I had to “put him down.” At that time, it was the hardest thing that I had ever done. In his last moments I held him close and tight, and we relived some precious moments that we had together. That’s what boys and dogs do.
Through the years I had a dog named Duke. He was a red bone hound that looked like Duke on the show “The Beverly Hillbillies.” I had him when my oldest son, Andy was born. He and Andy were inseparable. The along came Angel. I have vivid memories of the three walking across the field to their maw maw’s house.
Once a pack of dogs attacked Duke and almost killed him. The dogs ripped him open around his testicles. I had him examined and the vet wanted to “put him down.” I couldn’t do it. He said the dog is going to die. I performed surgery on Duke. I had successfully removed hog testicles for years. Duke didn’t like the surgery, but he survived and lived for several more years until I had the heart-to-heart take with him.
Lisa, my wife, bought a half German Shepherd/Great Pyrenees. He looked more German shepherd, and we named him Loki. I taught him to sit, to shake hands, and to high five. Lisa works full time, and, in my retirement, I spent most of the time with Loki. He was smart, protective, and faithful. He was also aggravating, always hungry, and digging holes. Like Butch, Loki could not take the heat, so he dug holes for cooling.
He loved to swim in two ponds near our house, never met a stranger, and slept at our front door. Lisa loved him and would spend time with him when she was home.
It was not unusual for Loki to be missing for a few days. This past summer he was missing longer than normal. I didn’t get to spend last moments with him. I found him and buried him. His loss hurts.
This past weekend, we spent time at my brother’s place in South Alabama. When we arrived, a beautiful bloodhound greeted us to the Hopper Ponderosa. The bloodhound is a big puppy and belongs to my 6-year-old great nephew Clark. Clark named him Chief. They were inseparable. I laughed as Chief dragged Clark across the yard. Later Clark, while riding his bike, dragged Chief who was hanging on to Clark’s shirt. Clark says that Chief is his brother.
I watched Chief smell Clark’s trail to find “his brother.” Once Chief snuggled up the Uncle Bobby and later lay at my feet near a fire. When Chief looked me in the eyes, he had the saddest face, drooping ears, and pitiful eyes. Suddenly, Chief’s brother appeared, and the yard wrestling started over again.
What made the trip wonderful was Saturday night Clark and his older his sister, Ellison were doing the brother-sister thing. Their pawpaw corrected Clark for making Ellison cry. He told Clark to hug, kiss, and tell his sister he was sorry. He was very reluctant, but pawpaw insisted saying hug her like you do Chief. Clark took three steps. First, he sort of hugged her. Second, he hugged her somewhat. Third, he hugged her. Pawpaw with a stern voice said, “I said to hug and kiss her.” I thought about all the times I had to hug, kiss, and tell my sister Diane I was sorry and that I loved her.
Clark with remorse and tears said, “Pawpaw that's weird.” I knew the feeling. Thing was he didn’t mind hugging and kissing “his brother” Chief. That’s little boys and dogs!
Thanks Clark, for the memory.
A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Proverbs 18:24
“She
replied, ‘Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.'” Mark 7:28
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