Dogs.
Most people love them, others don’t. Some are just indifferent. Me? I am in the “love them” column.
Over the years, I have owned several dogs. Well, nobody really “owns” a dog. Even if you have paid a large sum of money to acquire the animal, the ownership is, in most cases, of the dog’s owning your heart. That has certainly been the case for me since I was about a year or so old.
My first encounter with these wonderful creatures was of my father’s bird dog Sport, and my sister’s Pekinese Chico. Even though I was too young to understand completely at the time, the sudden death of my dad’s hunting partner had an affect on me almost as much as it did him. Sport had tolerated the toddler that had invaded his domain with some degree of uncertainty. But he never once voiced a complaint when I would try to ride him like a horse or pet him “love taps” that were probably more akin to wrestling chops to his back. He preferred days sniffing out, pointing to, and flushing up the Bob White Quail that, in those days, were prevalent in the area where I was raised. He had helped provide the traditional Christmas morning breakfast for our family and friends for quite a few years before my arrival.
But seeing him lying in the cardboard box on a bed of old blankets my dad had fashioned on our front porch after finding him ill from the effects of some toxic substance that years later I discovered was intentionally offered by some not so friendly neighbors, left me with a sad feeling. This feeling was reinforced when I saw my dad choking back tears as his companion’s life slowly drift away. I had before and after always seen the strength and staunchness of my father. During this brief moment in time, I saw tenderness seeping from his tough outer Marine shell. I suppose much of it spilt into my DNA.
Now with Chico as our only house pet, I was oblivious to the fact that my sister was now having to share her constant companion with me. Chico had joined our family well before I was born. So this co-ownership was met with at least a bit of resistance by both the canine and my sibling. They had bonded well before my birth and were reluctant to let me in on their fun. But while my sister was forgiving of my interference, Chico seemed to merely tolerate me not wanting to share his human and the right to show him affection. But with encouragement he would allow me to pet him and even play a bit while continuing to view me as a second class human.
Chico got his world back when our neighbor announced to my parents the birth of a litter of Border Collie puppies, one of which needed a home. As soon as they were old enough to wean from their mother, the neighbor came to our door with a golden colored bundle of fur that I promptly christened “Andy” in honor of my favorite TV show. Hours of showering the pup with attention followed by several nights listening to his cries and whimpers which gave my parents cause to reflect and possibly regret the decision to allow me this pet. But soon their sleepy eyes brightened at the sight of the bond they saw forming between their son and his new companion.
Now being the youngest resident of our little community by several years meant that this bond grew strong and very quickly. Andy and I were best friends spending hours in our yard wrestling, playing, and having a great time. Even when I was privileged to join some of the older kids in activities, Andy was there to enjoy watching the fun and, as I realized years later, keeping watch for any dangers that might come our way. As I reflected in my adulthood, I began to understand that had anyone ever attempted to cause me harm (other than the playful and friendly rough-housing in which most kids are inclined to engage) Andy would most likely transformed into full rabid wolf mode to defend me or even my buddies.
Andy was joined as an outside dog by a stray Border Collie that had showed up at our store. With some reluctance, my father’s tender heart exposed itself again welcoming Blackie to our home. Well, sort of. Blackie must have suffered some sort of trauma in his young life. He was somewhat of a loner, relishing most of his time under the foundation of the store building rather than joining Andy just a few yards away at our house. Yes, they got along and the two of them could periodically be found at my side. But Blackie tended to share his love of affection with the store patrons and my father. But he certainly would become one of my best buddies whenever my dad would hand me end cuts of bologna or other lunch meats from the cooler to give the hounds a treat.
While most families would be at full capacity at three dogs, another neighbor’s invitation for me to come to his house and see his new litter of puppies proved too enticing to my young self. One of these little guys was jet black except for his feet, his nose, and the tip of his tail. Soon enough “Smokey Tip” joined our clan. Almost immediately Andy began a relationship with his new yard mate. Blackie seemed relieved that his duties had been transferred to another canine. Smokey seemed to know that he now had a big brother to watch over him and teach him the routine and life lessons. And I soon had a nice pair of fishing buddies and compadres to assist me in defending the homestead from invading renegades, desperados, and enemy soldiers.
The two of them were inseparable and allowed the occasional addition of Blackie on our fishing trips, swimming expeditions, and picnics around the family farm. Their excitement rivaled my own when I landed a fish. They relished their own dips in the coolness of the little pool of water in the stream just behind our home that was my swimming hole in the heat of the Arkansas summer. We shared bologna and cheese sandwiches and chips sitting in the shade of our pecan tree. We raced up and down the dirt road that ran in front of the house, me on my Western Flyer banana seat, three speed bicycle with them having to slow their pace for me to catch up. Most times they let me win. Every time, even though they were unable to clap their paws, they seemed to celebrate my victory.
Showering these three with petting, hugs, and laughter was a favorite pastime. They readily returned the love with licks to my face and jumps up to place their paws on my chest or shoulders. The delight in their eyes when I would fall to the ground and become eye level or below them was evident to any witness. Our friendship was immense. Their constant attention to me and their obvious dedication to my well being must have brought much comfort to my parents. Even my human friends loved my dogs.
But as dogs and most pets do, these three grew older much faster than their human and left me much too soon. Blackie survived several encounters with vehicles sustaining non-life-threatening injuries until one day his cries lasted only seconds before his life slipped away. Smokey followed not too long afterwards prompting many tears from my eyes in both cases. Andy grew much older in dog terms outliving his companions well into his and my teens. His frail body began to wither and the spark in his eyes dwindled. He still loved to receive petting and attention from me, but my calls to him slowly went from running, to walking, to just a rise of his head in response to his master’s voice.
Finally, my father had seen enough. That tough farmer/Marine heart again gave way to tenderness. He wanted Andy to live, but not like this. He knew, despite the bond we all had for him, it was best to let him go. So on a day when he, my mother, and I were to make a trip to Little Rock for the day, he pleaded with a neighbor to make sure when we returned Andy would be gone. The next day, I cried again as the third of my childhood companions and best friends was buried by his two adopted siblings under the shade of a Willow tree in our backyard.
Goodbye my friends.
By this time, my attentions had drifted from games with my pets to pursuing game with them. While Andy, Blackie, and Smokey were fine playmates, they certainly lacked the canine breeding of a hunting dog. Yes, they would chase rabbits, but their attention to the pursuit was short-lived to say the least. And my Daisy air rifle had been replaced with a single shot shotgun with an introduction to sitting in the woods waiting to bring home supper. Andy was still my closest companion and Smokey was still his, but things have a way of working out.
Now if you are not familiar with rural life, you may not be familiar with the concept of the country store especially in the 20th century and before. My family owned and operated such a store. In comparison, this was the country equivalent to a city department store or a modern day big box store. Almost anything and everything you might need or want was at one time or another available here. Not only groceries, but livestock feed, sewing notions, toys, tires, tobacco, gas, kerosene, and even the tools and materials to fix a flat tire (self-service unless a young “employee” was available to help.) Even western tack was on display and for sale for the cowboys in the area.
Our saddles and tack were from Southern Saddlery Company who periodically sent around a salesman from North Little Rock to the store to check inventory, show new items, and take orders. The older gentleman and my dad had formed a relationship that certainly was not diminished when it was discovered he was an avid hunter like my dad. During one of his visits, the discussion turned to preparations for that fall’s hunting season and my dad may have boasted just a bit about the prospects of a new hunting companion in the form of his young son. The shrewd salesman probably saw opportunity knocking and mentioned the fact that I probably needed a hunting dog and that he might just have one for sale.
A few weeks later, I was in the parking lot when I heard an approaching vehicle. I gazed up the hill in time to see the familiar Oldsmobile cruising in my direction, pulling into the parking lot, and stopping just at the end of the porch of the store. I made my way toward the vehicle as the old man exited, greeted me, and headed toward the rear of the big car. I was always full of anticipation when he would arrive as I would have the first chance to view the new wares he had stored in the trunk and smell the new leather that seemed much fresher than the tack in our barn or even the items in the store.
We continued our friendly banter as he inserted the key into the lock and turned it so as to open the treasure chest. My eyes were already wide with anticipation, but doubled in size as the hood rose and something other than a saddle or bridle sprang from the depths of the compartment. Knocked back on my heels, I observed the black and tan beast hit the ground, nose to the dirt, darting here and there in search of not a critter, but a tree or bush on which to relieve himself. As he hiked his leg by one of the posts that held up the roof of the store porch, my dad exited the front door watching as the animal finished his business and continued sniffing the ground and darting all around the parking lot and the yard under the shade of the pecan tree of my grandmother’s house.
I paid little attention to the conversation between the adults as I tracked down the half Beagle half Black and Tan hound. I approached him under the tree and he raised up putting his paws on my chest while I rubbed his head and handled his long drooping ears. Negotiations continued indoors as I continued making a new friend. Soon we were sitting on the side loading dock with him soaking up the attention I was affording. Tail wagging and tongue lashing, we both looked up when the salesman stepped off the porch, bid me farewell, and climbed into his vehicle. As he drove off the parking lot, I looked up to find my dad stepping out the side door onto the dock. He promptly asked if I liked the hound and when I affirmed, he asked what I was going to name him. I pondered a bit, looking him over, and came to the perfect conclusion. Porky was now officially a part of the family.
Now while we certainly were not destitute, my family was not among the richest in the area. Both my parents worked. Not only did they own and operate the store, but my mother taught school and my father held several occupations including cattle farmer, fire plow operator, and substitute mail carrier. But having disposable income to afford a “high dollar” hunting dog was certainly not in the budget. However, my dad had actually discovered a bargain in Porky which very soon became apparent. Unfortunately during his initiation into the world of wild game pursuit, Porky had sustained an injury that drastically reduced his value to most hunters. He had accidentally fallen prey as a pup to a trap set for fur bearing critters such as raccoon or mink. The coil spring trap set by someone just trying to earn some income for their family had broken Porky’s right front leg just above the paw. After it healed it left him with a crooked paw that was rotated slightly outward. It did not look bad, and for the most part it did nothing to impair his walking. He had adapted to it quite well except for the fact that after a bit of running or walking, Porky would lift the paw and have to rest until the pain subsided.
While this affliction was a deterrent to 99 percent of potential buyers, it did nothing to bother me and was actually viewed as an asset by my father. It meant that unlike a non-handicapped dog, Porky would not spend a lot of time chasing deer or rabbits leaving this young hunter waiting perhaps hours for his return and shortening the day’s hunt. And it was apparent that he would be more apt to stay close to home and not subject us to hours or even days in search of him having been lost. So we were among the one percent who were accepting of such an impairment. Besides, Porky was a great hunting dog as I was about to discover.
Over the next few weeks, Porky and I would take scouting and training walks around the farm. His nose to the ground, Porky would dart here and there in search of the scent of a squirrel, rabbit, or deer. Following behind him, I was more than happy to oblige a rest break whenever he circled back toward me with a raised paw walking on three legs and panting a bit. After a short break, he was back on duty and ready to do some chasing. When he caught a scent, I knew it immediately and soon learned to identify his prey by the way he barked. Short, single barks indicated a squirrel until he figured out which tree the bushy tail was using to escape him. Then Porky would bark continuously in bursts of four or five barks as he looked up and circled the base of the Hickory or similar hardwood. He seemed to understand that hunting season was still a couple of months away as he was OK with me calling him off shortly after reaching the tree and spying the furry little rodent he had treed.
While squirrels were his specialty, Porky was very adept at the pursuit, even if short-lived, of rabbits and deer. It was apparent almost immediately which one he had sniffed out. Longer bursts of barks were a clear indication that a cottontail had been scented. Even longer and almost continuous barking meant a whitetail was probably just in front of him. I learned this quickly when he jump one not far from me and I spotted the buck exiting his hiding place with Porky in hot pursuit. After just a couple of minutes, the barking stopped and soon here came Porky, tail wagging, tongue hanging, and on three legs returning to his master. He was just happy to do his job and he did it well.
The next visit by the saddle salesman brought another surprise. This time when the trunk popped up, I watched another hound jump out and search for the doggie restroom. Unbeknownst to me, the salesman had contacted my dad with another prospective hunting companion. This was a purebred Beagle, mostly white with black and red patches along his back and red ears that almost touched the ground when he stood upright. This one was not trained in the world of squirrel hunting, but was good at chasing deer and an excellent rabbit hound. My dad looked him over and paid cash for him with a guarantee of customer satisfaction or his money back.
Enter Rocket.
Again my bargain hunting dad had obtained a fine dog for a great price. And as with Porky, there was a reason for such a discount. While Rocket was one of the best rabbit dogs I have ever been around, the 99 percent rule certainly applied to him. I discovered this that same day as I took Porky and his new associate out into the field behind our house. The little stream that ran on two sides of the property was lined with trees and bushes where cottontails were known to reside. Porky had been honing his skills on his own there and now was showing Rocket around his new home and training base. Soon enough, the pair picked up the fresh scent of rabbit and it was then I discovered Rocket’s issue. My ears picked up a sound that was in the same family of fingernails scratched across a chalkboard. The high-pitched “AAAARRRRRGGGGGKKKKK” sound resonated with enough decibels that I was certain the neighbors would all be coming to their doorsteps to see if an ambulance was coming through or a local elderly woman was in distress. I spotted the long ears and fuzzy tail of the bunny making his way to the safety of some brush with Rocket and Porky just moments behind. I called them and Porky gave up the chase with some reluctance and joined me but his partner continued bellowing and sniffing for well over an hour. As I continued my other chores, I would periodically see the bunny bolt from one brush pile and head to another safe zone with Rocket on his heels. It was as if he was taunting the hound or maybe making sure a young litter was out of danger from the jaws of the persistent animal. Maybe he was just trying to get away from that shrilling bellow. Finally, hunger and thirst prompted an end to the chase and Rocket returned to my side.
If you were a hunter in the Ozarks during this era, you are aware of how different the sport of hunting different game can be. Deer hunts consisted of packs of trained hounds such as Blue Tick or Bloodhounds turned loose at different places where they would search for the scent and give chase for hours and miles in the hope that the deer would pass by a waiting hunter and harvested. The practice was prevalent in years past, but is not as widely utilized today. Rabbit hunting is similar except that the dogs, usually smaller hound such as Beagles remain in close proximity to their owners and the chase may only last minutes as the Cottontails or Swamp Rabbits are easily spotted and taken by the hunter. Then there are bird dogs and retrievers who specialize in indicating the whereabouts of Bobwhite Quail or brave frigid waters to bring dead ducks to their masters. Then there are the treeing dogs like Porky.
The fall following my obtaining new friends had me focused on two things – school and hunting – with a little bit of fishing mixed in. While my priorities might have conflicted with that of my parents, I realized my education was important. But it was not nearly as much fun as walking in the fields and woods of our and neighboring farms. But each weekday morning, I would finish my breakfast and take the dogs theirs along with replenishing their water supply for the day. Then after my chores were completed, I would ready myself for the ride to school and a day in the classroom daydreaming of hunts with my new buddies.
After school, I could often get in an hour or so of outdoor adventure much to the delight of the boys. But Saturday mornings began similarly with the exception of loading up the dogs in the truck and heading to tend to the cattle followed by a walk in the woods or fields hunting game. Porky soon learned that if he was the lone dog I loaded up for the ride, the focus was to be on squirrels. Rocket might have been a bit jealous and sad, but I think he really liked the days he was left alone at home. Porky was also happy with the choice since he seemed to relish chasing bushy tails. But together they were a formidable team for rabbits and deer.
My introduction to hunting was at an early age taking my Daisy BB gun around the backyard area with instructions that undesirable varmints and birds were fair game. Robins, Jays, Bluebirds, Cardinals and the like were to be left alone. Also rabbits and squirrels close to the house were safe. But various destructive birds and especially rodents were considered viable targets to help hone my skills. Then one year for Christmas I was gifted a very prized possession – a Springfield bolt action single shot .410 gauge shotgun. After some initial training and orientation, my dad took me to a spot on the southwest corner of the farm on a hillside behind the watershed lake that had been built by the Corps of Engineers for flood control a few years prior. We entered the woods, found a downed tree to sit on, and waited for our supper to make an appearance. Soon an unsuspecting gray squirrel appeared making his way down to the water for a drink before heading up a tree for a snack. With help and encouragement from my dad, I spotted the rodent sitting in the fork of the tree and took careful aim, released the safety, and squeezed the trigger. That night my proud father and I shared a meal my proud mother prepared of fried squirrel, potatoes, biscuits, and gravy. I’m pretty sure it was the best meal ever!
But now squirrel hunting would become more interesting with the addition of Porky. We spent many hours trapsing through the woods and bringing home meals of fried squirrel or squirrel and dumplings. Porky was rewarded with the waste of our take and leftovers from the meals. Rocket was rewarded the same whether he was part of the hunt or not. They never turned down the offerings.
Porky was the master of squirrel treeing. The sound of his initial bark that he had picked up the scent of his prey always made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. And he very rarely “lied.” That is, when he was at the base of a tree barking, it was a sure bet that the squirrel was still there as his keen eye would stay on the varmint and if he tried jumping to another one close by, Porky would keep sight of him and go to the base of that tree. Of course humans are not quite as keen and at times it is difficult to spot the little creature among the branches. One trick is if you have a partner one of you can stand a small distance from the tree while the other one stands on the opposite side and shake a bush or make some other noise. This causes the rodent to scurry to the side away from the noise and this movement will catch the eye of the hunting partner. My father and I used this technique often with great results.
On one trip, the concept of lying was put to the test. Porky was quick to hit the trail almost immediately after we entered the woods and moments later he was at the base of a large Hickory tree barking and circling with his eyes scanning the branches. After my dad and I arrived, we set up on opposite sides and soon had our first squirrel in the game pouch of my hunting vest. Porky remained under the tree barking which indicated another bushy tail remained among the limbs. Sure enough, my dad raised his 16 gauge and we had a second squirrel. Porky remained at his station, barking and looking up. We found it rare that three of these creatures would be in one tree, but we kept looking and were about to give up when I spied the third one circling the trunk. A blast from my newly acquired 20 gauge added him to the pouch.
We began walking away from the Hickory, but Porky refused to leave the tree. My dad began to doubt Porky but I felt my old buddy was on to something. I had never doubted him before and only on the rarest of times had I not finally discovered a squirrel in the tree my dog was circling. So with some reservation, my dad took up position and shook a nearby sapling. Neither of us spotted any movement, so I tried making some noise. Nothing. We continued to trade this action and my dad finally indicated it was time to move on. I made one more shake of the bush I stood next to when I heard a “Well I’ll be…” followed by seeing his shotgun raising to his cheek and heard a blast followed by the thud of a small body hitting the ground. Porky sprang to action taking the rodent in his mouth and bringing it to me to deposit number four in my vest.
Four squirrels in one tree was rare to say the least, so we began to walk away from the Hickory with me whistling and calling the hound to follow. My encouragement went unanswered as Porky remained at the base of the Hickory barking and looking skyward. Doubt began to creep inside me, and my dad prompted me to move on which I did. But the hound was insistent even after we had moved outside a line of sight. My dad ordered me to go back and physically restrain the obviously “lying” animal to get him on the trail of another bushy tail. I walked back and attached a leash to his collar and walked Porky, who was straining against my efforts, some distance away. As soon as I felt we were far enough away, I released the dog saddened that he had failed us in this way. My disappointment deepened as I watched him not put his nose to the ground, but rather bolt back to the Hickory tree we had just left. My dad decided to join me to gather the dog back and I feared he might discipline Porky for his actions. As I approached the tree and the hound at its base, I bent down to grab his collar. Just then I heard another shotgun blast and the thought that my dad was shooting at the dog flashed through my mind. But almost instantly I also heard branches being rustled followed by the familiar thump just behind me. As I placed the bushy tail into my vest and lovingly rubbed my faithful little hunter, my father and I just smiled at each other in reverence to what we had just witnessed. And with this one in our inventory, Porky put his nose to the ground and began his hunt for the next victim.
Five squirrels in one tree. Porky was amazing.
Word spread around our community about the two small hounds and their prowess. Some were allowed to take either Porky on squirrel hunts or the pair in pursuit of rabbits on days I was in the classroom. If it was the weekend, I was often afforded the opportunity to have others join me on a hunt when my father was busy with the store or had to perform his duties as the substitute mail carrier. One particular Saturday, a local walked into the store and asked my dad if he could borrow the hounds for a day’s rabbit hunt. My father agreed with the condition that I join him since my chores were done and he had to stay in the store. I quickly grabbed my shotgun and vest then gathered my two hounds loading them into the back of Robyn’s pickup.
Our destination was a property owned by a family friend who had given Robyn permission to hunt there. Doc was a dentist in Little Rock who owned 2,000 acres of land with a large reservoir he had constructed himself with help from his farmhands. Around the lake and especially behind the earthen dam was prime rabbit hunting grounds. From the county road we entered the gate to the property on the upper end of the watershed to take the road constructed around the west side of the lake leading to the dam where we would park and begin our hunt. As the dogs rested in the bed of the pickup, we headed down the shale covered road toward our destination. However, we cut the trip a bit short when we caught sight of a cottontail crossing the road about halfway and decided to start the hunt there. Robyn pulled over to the side of the path just short of where the rabbit had crossed and I exited the vehicle and unloaded the hounds as Robyn was loading his shotgun.
The hounds bolted from the truck eagerly sniffing the ground as I voiced encouragements to them which was most likely not necessary as these boys were already knowledgeable of the fact they were to be in hunting mode and were eager to ply their trade. Within seconds the air was pierced with the sound of Rocket’s indication bellowing which prompted my hunting partner to cringe then laugh and let me know that he had heard about the Beagle’s shrilling bark, but hearing it in person for the first time was still a shock.
Soon Porky was on the trail and we quickly spotted our target scurrying among the trees on the side of the mountain that bordered the west side of the lake. Unable to get off a shot, we watched as the pair of hounds followed exactly where the bunny had been just seconds before, barking, sniffing, and running along the path of the scent the creature had left behind. The barking continued and we hard them as they rapidly climbed up the side of the plateau continuing the chase toward the top. Minutes went by as the two of us scanned the woods and the road watching for any sign of the rabbit whose nature was to double back and return to the area in hopes of finding shelter and escaping the following mutts. This was pure rabbit hunting at its best as when the long eared lagomorph would come within range and sight, we would be able to harvest him.
As the pair were heard reaching the peak, Robyn expressed his thought that they had encountered a deer and this was probably no longer a rabbit chase. I said nothing and continued scanning the area when as suddenly as it had began the barking and bellowing of the pair ceased. Robyn indicated his belief that this was proof of his statement and we should call the dogs and head on to the dam. I remained silent and kept surveying the woods. Robyn ejected the shell from the chamber of his 20 gauge as I remained in place. He began to call the dogs as he could tell I was not going to do so. I politely asked him to wait and he obliged unsure it was proper.
Moments later, I spotted Porky making his way down the hillside moving back and forth among the trees and bushes searching for a fresh trail. Then a broad grin began to form on my face and I declared that my hunting partner should look up. A look of disbelief and shock came over my companion as we watched Rocket making his way to our spot with a cottontail held in his jaws. The canine promptly stopped at my feet, his tail wagging and his eyes indicating pride in his accomplishment. I took the animal from his grip and gave him a big head rub and ear stroking as Porky approached with a “I helped!” look that prompted more head rubbing and ear stroking.
In my mind I had the best hunting dogs in the world. To many of our neighbors they were just as special. Several of the folks in the little town hunted with the pair over the years they lived in our yard. It was a sad day for me and for several others when one of them was laid to rest in the same area as Andy, Blackie, and Smokey. Then the second of these fine hunting dogs succumbed to the end of his life as well. Buried side by side close to the trees and bushes where they had often honed their skills, I shed tears for them, but wonder if they somehow are in an afterlife chasing cottontails and treeing squirrels. I sure hope so. They dearly loved it.
Being raised on a cattle farm has its ups and downs. It is certainly hard work most of the time but gratifying in so many ways. Part of the job is the gathering of the herd into a corral in order to perform certain tasks such as vaccinating, worming, weaning calves from their mother’s side, or sending some to the local livestock market for sale. Of course the first order of business for this duty is to drive the cattle into the pen where these tasks can be undertaken. My job was to assist my father and at times another person hired to help find the herd then coax them to the waiting pen. I was never lucky enough to have some sort of ATV to make the work a bit easier, but at times I was able to do this on horseback. However, the vast majority of the time I had to do this on foot chasing cows who were quite reluctant to obey my commands and took me through brush and timber sometimes wandering in all directions trying to escape and making the trek to the pen turn into a journey of miles in all sorts of weather. Blistering heat, bitter cold. rain, sleet, snow – no matter. It had to be done.
Some relief to my duty came to our home when I was in my middle teens. One of our neighbors who had just a very small herd of cattle approached my father with an offer to sell him a young Blue Heeler he had obtained as a pup and trained in the art of herding cattle. Another bargain was in the works when my dad came home from watching the canine drive a few steers into the neighbor’s barn with the young black, gray, and red little pooch in the back of the truck.
Welcome to your new home, Felver.
OK, I know. I must address this unusual name. Jim, his former owner, was trying to come up with a name for his puppy when someone suggested that the animal somewhat favored a local attorney named Felver. It was a bit laughable, but the name stuck and seemed to fit him well. And Felver, the dog, certainly did not mind in the least.
Once again my dad had utilized the one percent rule to obtain a working animal at a discount. It seems that in his youth, Felver had been working on his skillset by chasing one of the horses his master owned. In defense from this bothersome pest, the horse kicked his hind leg striking Felver in his right eye leaving him sightless on that side. This did not seem to deter him from giving chase, but did diminish his abilities a bit and greatly depreciate his monetary value. But his friendliness and devotion to his work proved to be a value to our operation.
The next time we were set to work the cattle, I set foot behind the herd with Felver at my side. As the herd began moving, I mouthed commands and Felver responded, driving the herd racing from one side to the other periodically barking at the bovine and nipping at the heels of those trying to escape. In less than half the time it usually took and with much less stress and strain on my part, the herd was gathered in the pen and we began the task of vaccinations and worm medicine. But before I joined in the work, I mooched Felver into the bed of our pickup parked in the shade and filled one bowl with water and another with dog food then gave the pup a bit of loving and encouraging words while he drank and ate before he settled in for a well deserved rest while we worked the cattle.
Felver began to fit in to his new home quite rapidly. While I was in school, he could be found in my dad’s pickup riding in the back while my dad fed and counted the herd ready to spring into action if needed. Otherwise, he stayed close to the house lying in the shade when warm or nestled in his warm doghouse during cold weather. While his passion was for chasing bovine, he loved riding in the truck. When I was 17, my dad helped me buy a blue GMC four-wheel-drive pickup with the caveat that if needed in inclement weather, he would use it on his mail route or for other needs around the farm and store. This was fine with me as it was not that often that it was needed and I was the primary operator. And other than the commute to school, I was always joined by Felver either in the back (which he seemed to favor most of the time) or by my side in the cab. He even joined Porky and me on squirrel hunting adventures and became quite adept at the sport himself, although not quite as good as the Black and Tan Beagle.
It became customary that the opening the door of my pickup was soon followed by the sound of Felver leaping over the tailgate and into the bed in anticipation of a ride. I had to pry him from his perch if I was making the commute to school or on Saturday night making the drive to the nearby city of Morrilton to join my friends in friendly banter, cruising the streets, and chasing the game I and most young men that age had come to run after – girls. Not that the accompaniment of the fine animal would not aid in capturing the attention of females, but the prospect of a canine “third wheel” if one were to join me in a spin around town was not appealing. His look of abandonment did cause a bit of emotion on my part, but the teenage boy would soon take over.
Not that Felver never got to ride to “town” with me. Occasionally I was tasked with running errands such as buying cattle feed or picking up inventory for the store from local wholesale operations as well as items for me or my family that we did not stock in our little emporium. Felver loved these trips with me or sometimes my dad and especially when I allowed him to ride up front with his master. Sitting by my side for most of the trip looking at the scenery with his good eye, he sometimes made his way over to the passenger seat where I had left the window cracked just enough for him to stand with his front paws on the door and stick his nose out just enough to take in the new scents encountered along the way. Once in town, I would park and command him to stay leaving him standing guard over the GMC while I went about my own business. Upon my return, I was always greeted with by a wagging tail and if I could speak dog, probably would hear about passersby who awed at him or cats he had chased away suspecting they were intending harm to our ride.
While the hunting dogs were confined at night, Felver was a free roaming canine. Unless with my father or me, Felver never strayed far from our house. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and look out my bedroom window and see him sleeping there to be as close to me as possible. If not for my parents’ disdain of dogs in the house, he most likely would have been an even closer sleeping companion either by my bed on the floor or snuggled next to me. This would have been my privilege for such a faithful friend. But I felt quite safe knowing that he was close by and in all likelihood keeping a close watch for any suspected impending danger.
While Felver rarely left the yard, he would on occasion slip over into a neighboring plot and hone his skills on the neighbor’s horses. This was no bother to their owner who at times even called upon the Heeler to help get the beasts to the barn for treatment or sometimes I think for just the fun of watching him work. Of course other neighbors were not so welcoming to the canine’s practices and I’m quite sure a load of bird shot or two were directed in his vicinity for this act. I witnessed Felver a few times performing this and would have to call him back home and scold him for his antics. This would deter the act for a while but his memory would wane or the temptation would override his thoughts and once again I was forced into disciplining him and apologizing for his actions. Mostly, the actions were viewed as him just doing what he was bred and trained to do.
But one fateful day, I approached my pickup, opened the door, and prepared to climb in. However, I noticed something strange. I did not hear the familiar sound of a dog leaping into the back. I froze and backed away scanning he yard. I whistled and called as a bad feeling began well up in me. After a few calls, I spied my buddy coming around the corner of the house. But he was not in a full gallop as he normally was when called. I watched as he sauntered in my direction weaving as he struggled to walk. My heart fell and I picked my faithful sidekick up and placed him on the seat of my truck. I rushed inside to call our veterinary office to let them know I was on my way with my Heeler. The 15 mile drive was excruciatingly long as I tried to watch the road while comforting the pup as he lay by my side. He began to gag and throw up, but still clung to my side and tried to look at his master’s gaze.
I sped into the vet’s parking lot and parked noticing Dr. Brown was attending to a cow in a stock trailer parked nearby. He spotted me and began making his way toward my truck as I carried Felver to the rear and laid him on the tailgate. It seemed like it took the doc hours to reach the dog, but I know it was seconds. I stroked Felver’s head and talked to him as Dr. Brown looked him over and listened to his internal sounds through his stethoscope. Almost instantly the diagnosis left the vet’s lips, entered my ears, and broke my heart. Felver had ingested a toxic substance that from the odor of his breath and the looks of what he had vomited was surly antifreeze. Moments later after Dr. Brown performed some procedures to help him, Felver took his last breath with me still stroking his head and pointy ears. The doc informed me that he had just drank too much of the fluid and there was just nothing he could do. So I carefully cradled my trusty sidekick in my arms, placed him at my side in the truck, and tearfully made the journey home. Soon Felver joined the others under the shade of the trees of our backyard.
It was in the grief of losing yet another canine that I made the decision to never have another one under my directive. The loss of Andy, Blackie, Smokey, Porky, Rocket, and now Felver had wreaked havoc on my young heart. There were six very close companions buried in my backyard. I felt I could not and certainly did not want to have my heart broken a seventh time. Besides I was in college and my time and dedication was thought to be better spent otherwise. Having a dog would just be a burden.
After graduating college, I briefly worked and lived in Hot Springs trying to find and begin a career. My neighbors had a Doberman Pincer named Skynard who I adored, but had no interest in having one of my own. After the job in Hot Springs did not work out, I moved back in with my parents and soon found employment at a local manufacturing plant in Morrilton. By day I helped out on the farm, even giving in to the new Blue Heeler my dad had acquired who would ride with me to the farm. But I resisted the temptation to become attached to the pup. Besides, I was too busy working sometimes 60 or more hours a week at my employment while working on the farm and trying to have a social life. I was 24, living with my parents, and exhausted much of the time. I had no business adding a dog to the mix.
After some time, I had saved up a bit of money when my best friend informed me he was getting divorced. This was sad news to me for sure and I wanted to be a good friend to him. After a few weeks, I sensed his depression growing and realize he had rarely left his duplex apartment since the split except to join his father in their carpentry work in the nearby city of Conway. I began to hatch a plan and called him one Friday afternoon to see if he had plans for dinner. Since he did not, I informed him I would be by to pick him up with our favorite pizza from a local beer joint and restaurant. Around six, I pulled into his driveway and he exited to find waiting a hot Italian sausage pizza and six-pack of beverages in the seat between us. He opened a beer, took a slice of pizza, and asked where we were going. I told him he would soon find out and I drove to the highway leading out of town crossing the Arkansas River. He knew where we were headed.
A few years prior and before his engagement and marriage, we had somewhat stumbled upon a small complex of duplex apartments in a secluded bit of woods not far from the river. We had commented that it would be cool to live there since it was not in town but close enough to our jobs to be an acceptable commute. One of the units had become available and I informed my friend that he needed to move from the place he had shared with his now estranged wife and we could live where we had a few years back suggested we share. The next day he called the landlord who we both knew well and then he called me with the details on rent, deposit, and the fact that he had discovered that one of his high school classmates and my friend as well lived in the adjoining unit. Soon the three of us began hanging out, cooking, eating, and partying together. During the week, work kept our social life somewhat at bay. But the weekends found us playing wingman to each other at local establishments. Since no pets were allowed in our home per the lease, dogs drifted away from my thoughts.
Of course, a single young man in his twenties does have certain things on his mind. And I succumbed to the desires on occasion. I found myself in relationships that lasted for a few hours, a few weeks, even a few months. But one relationship stuck. I had to inform my comrades that I would no longer be part of the pack. I was getting married. A woman I worked with and I had become involved in a relationship that culminated in a proposal of marriage. Not only did I gain a wife, but she had two daughters that were to become my step-children. We found ourselves in a small cramped little apartment much to the concern of my parents. They approached me with the offer of some acreage on the farm just south of the house where I grew up. It was too good of an offer to pass up and soon a local carpenter began to build a home for my little family.
Not long after moving in, my new wife indicated the girls had been offered a puppy. Reluctantly, I agreed as we had plenty of room for a pet as long as it was outside. So in a day or so, they brought home a little ginger, black, and white mixed breed they named Snickerdoodle. The pup was of no special talent other than some companionship for the girls. I remained quite aloof to this little mutt not wanting to suffer the pains I had endured in my first twenty odd years.
After a job change or two by me and one by my wife, she came home one day saying that one of her coworkers had a dog that he was needing to find a home. She explained that he had acquired a Black Labrador Retriever and began training him, but needed to give him up as he was moving to an apartment which did not allow pets. He was somewhat trained and free. I was hesitant, but gave in to the pleadings of the three females of the house. His name was BJ.
Now I am unaware of the reason for his first master’s naming the dog, but being a fan of Hank Williams, Jr., I decided to stretch out the name to Bocephus Junior or Bo for short. Bo was big and bold as they come. His obedience was not perfect, but what he lacked in skill he made up in friendliness. He was trained to retrieve and his goal was for retrieving ducks downed in the winter season. However, I was not much of a duck hunter. So Bo had to settle for tennis balls and toys thrown by us which he happily went after with his big lanky frame and brought back to us. His main fault in this was his reluctance to give up his prize until he was finally forced to abandon it. But his eyes would quickly light up when he realized this meant another opportunity to chase after the object and bring it back again. Between my step-daughters and me and sometime my wife, Bo enjoyed this game almost daily. He was happy to be part of our clan.
His value to me increased soon afterward when I stepped out into our yard and noticed him with his nose buried in the ground a few yards away. He was intense in his quest as I noticed dust flying out both sides of his jaws and then pawing and digging at the ground. I called to him and asked what he was doing. Of course Bo did not understand my question, but looked up at me, perked his ears a bit, then returned to duties at ground level. I took a few steps toward him when he suddenly reared his head and something flew up just a few feet above his nose, then fell to the ground with the hound’s nose almost instantly back down. Again and again the dog tossed this object of his attention in the air. I struggled to see what it was and moved closer. Suddenly he made good contact, held the object in his mouth, shook it a few times and dropped it staring for a moment as he placed one of his huge paws on it to hold it in place. As I got close, I identified his new toy. He had sniffed out, dug up, tortured, and killed one of the moles that had been damaging our lawn. Rubbing his head and telling him what a good boy he was, Bo seemed to smile and puff up just a bit as if he had finally touched my heart.
Not long after the infamous mole massacre and other rodent eradication, I spotted Bo in the backyard in some weeds pawing and poking with his nose at something hidden from view. Fearing he had encountered a venomous snake common to the area, I grabbed a nearby hoe and headed toward him hoping he had not suffered a strike from the serpent. As I approached with some caution, I realized the unpleasant odor in the air was a clear sign that this was not a snake. Luckily it was not a skunk either. I recognized the stench that of an armadillo. These invasive animals had reached the Ozarks several years prior and were unwelcome as they tear up ground damaging fields and lawns searching for grubs and insects on which to feed. Not only did we have a companion, playmate, guard dog, and rodent exterminator, Bo was a keen armadillo dog! The only problem was that every kill of these creatures meant the dog was gifted with the same odor that could last for days if not weeks. So my commendation for a job well done would soon be followed by the painstaking task of bathing Bo and then myself. He did not mind the bath so much as Labs are bred to love the water. But the job was not without its issues. After we were both clean and relatively odor free, we would sit on the back deck enjoying each other’s company and even share some of my beer with the fine canine.
Bo spent years with us, but I never knew his fate. One day he just was not there. He was free roaming, so there are numerous possibilities. I suppose I will never know. Unlike the others, he is not buried in my parent’s backyard. I may have shed a few tears for him, but not as I did with the others. But even now, some 30 years later, I still have the fondness for him and miss our times playing fetch.
But life goes on. I was offered a position in another city forcing me to move a couple hundred miles from my hometown. The girls had grown up and moved away. I needed the change and felt compelled to advance my career with this new position. My wife and I loaded up our belongings and moved to Texarkana, Arkansas just on the Texas border. Living in an apartment and my taking up the game of golf left me with no need of a pet. While getting ready for a trip home for Christmas one year, my father had suffered a stroke just before we were to make the drive. We got to my childhood home where my sister and mother were waiting to take me to see my dad in the hospital. Christmas Day was always a great time with many friends and family gathering at our house to eat and visit. This time the faces were the same, but the mood was somber. My older cousins were there as usual who were like brothers to me and my sister and like sons to my father. They felt very much the same way. After spending much of Christmas Day at the hospital where my dad lay unconscious and suffering, my wife and I made our way back to the motel room we had obtained for the holiday. Two of my cousins were in the same motel which was somewhat comforting.
The next day was much the same. My father grew weaker and the prognosis not good. We returned to the room that night and my wife suggested we take a ride around town to look at Christmas lights hoping to take my mind off things for a bit. We drove around and commented on some of the displays and it cheered me up just a bit. But as we returned to the motel, I noticed my cousin’s truck was not in the parking lot. I knew in my heart what this meant. I entered our room and picked up the phone and dialed my sister’s number. When it was my brother-in-law who answered, I knew. My father had passed away just about an hour earlier. John and Jerry, my cousins, were out looking for us to give me the dreaded news. The man who had taught me to hunt, raise cattle, drive a tractor, and work for everything I had was gone. Maybe he was finally with his old bird dog, Sport. I hope so.
Then a few years later, I found a better position in Jonesboro, Arkansas. Not long after that move I found myself single again. I had a nice home, a good job, and several good friends. I was part of a nice church with good folks that I really liked. Even though divorced, life was pretty good for me. But no dogs were part of my life other than those of some friends and a couple of ladies I had dated. That was all I needed.
Then I met Cindy.
After a couple of dates, I realized our backgrounds were quite similar. She had grown up in a community just a tiny bit larger than my own hometown. She was raised on a cattle farm and we have shared many stories about the escapades associated with life with cows. She lived in Mammoth Spring and worked as a nurse at a local hospital. It was a great asset to me in that I enjoyed driving there on occasion to fish in the Spring River. Those trips became more frequent as we developed our relationship and I sometimes made the trip even when she was working a Saturday to fish and then take her out for dinner or even cook dinner for her and her daughter. As a bonus, she had two Yorkshire Terriers who began to attach themselves to me on my visits. They were littermates, brother and sister the result of her other Yorkie who was supposedly infertile, but happened to become amorous with a neighbor’s Yorkie and low and behold – a miracle! Their mother had since passed away, but Cindy had kept the two pups who were her babies.
Here we go again with AJ and Zig.
Cindy’s daughter Amanda was only about six or seven when these two entered their household. She had come up with the names which Cindy accepted with a laugh. No reason for the names was ever offered, but they sure seemed to fit the pair. AJ was the female and her momma’s little princess. Her aloofness toward me was at first fine as I was not yet a permanent fixture. But her brother, Zig seemed to relish the idea of another male being around to balance out all the females, including the family cat. Zig and I bonded probably a bit faster than Cindy and I did. But it was soon apparent that we were all destined to be a family. AJ might not have approved, but Zig and my soon to be step-daughter Amanda were happy with the idea.
But the relationship almost was ruined one day after a fishing trip. Cindy had taken a shift at another hospital working in the ER for some extra money. I planned on fishing that Sunday then coming to her house where I would bring Amanda home, keep the dogs occupied, and fix dinner for her after she got off work. As I pulled into the driveway, the Yorkies recognized my truck and started running toward it to greet me. I applied the brakes, but it had rained making the dirt driveway a bit slick. As I struggled to stop the vehicle, I heard a yelp. I jumped out and found Zig under the truck having been struck by the front wheel. He was alive, but hurt. I immediately called Cindy on her cell and told her the story. She said for me to bring him to the hospital where she was so she could see him. As it so happened, the ER doctor that day had become an MD only after a career as a vet. He had an MD and a DVM.
I carefully took the little pup and placed him in a box I just happened to have in the truck. The trip to the hospital gave me time to reflect on the times with Cindy and the prospect that she would end the relationship in the parking lot. I parked and entered the ER and Cindy was called to the waiting room. We walked out to the truck where she looked over the Yorkie who was shaking but alert. She informed me about the doctor who soon came walking out of the ER to examine Zig. After a minute or so, he announced that he seemed OK, but would like to see an x-ray. So I closed up the box and carried it into the waiting room where a few folks sat either waiting to be seen or waiting for those already being tended to. I walked straight through clutching the box and hoping Zig would remain silent. Soon an x-ray tech escorted me and my box into a room where she laid the suffering patient on a table and took a couple of images. I placed the little dog back in the box and made my way back through the waiting room and to the truck. Moments later as I tried to comfort Zig, Cindy exited the building and gave me the news. Zig had a cracked pelvis, but otherwise was fine. He said he needed to be confined where he could rest most of the time with only potty breaks for a couple of weeks. Otherwise, he saw no need to do anything but let him rest and give him some pain meds he prescribed.
Zig and I became best friends and he suffered very little effects from the accident. Cindy may have doubted me for a bit, but we are still together 20 years later.
It was not long before I was loading all their possessions into a U-Haul truck and heading to my home in Jonesboro with Cindy, Amanda, AJ, Zig, and the cat following behind. Amanda was enrolled in the school there and Cindy found work at one of the local hospitals as an ER nurse. I continued my work at one of the local manufacturing operations travelling to various locations of the company in Arkansas, Tennessee, Oklahoma, and a few others from time to time. I took off time that fall to travel to Jamaica with Cindy where we said our vows on the beach. We enjoyed a relaxing week there, but she was ready to return home to see her little princess – and Amanda.
Change was about to come again when I was part of a downsizing of the company I had made the move to Jonesboro to pursue. Out of work, I began to search for a position of the same kind. This time Zig, AJ, Cindy, and Amanda would follow me to Springfield, Missouri where another adventure awaited.
We first settled in the bedroom community of Nixa, Mo renting a newer home in a subdivision on the south side of town. Life was pretty normal for the three of us and our pets. I was settling into my new career path, Cindy was working at a new hospital, and Amanda was fitting in at the local school. I made trips to Lake Taneycomo to fish, Cindy spent time in her craft room, and Amanda spent her time riding her horse we had purchased for her. AJ and Zig spent their leisure hours on the couch or snuggled by their preferred humans – AJ by her momma, Zig tightly clinging to me. Life was pretty good for our little family.
Things were fine until the day we discovered Amanda’s horse had to be put out to pasture due to an injury to his leg. So, the decision was made to take him to the family farm in Viola, Arkansas the next weekend to spend the rest of his days just hanging out with the cows that were on the place.
We got up that Sunday morning ready for the trip home after breakfast at the local café in town. Like many small-town cafes, the food was good and the folks friendly. We enjoyed a fine fare of pancakes, biscuits, gravy, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns – you know, your typical good old country style breakfast food. Having caught up on all the local gossip, our bellies full, and fixed with caffeine, we got up from the table to begin the journey home. Amanda and Cindy headed out the door to the parking lot while I headed to the cash register to pay our bill.
Once the transaction was completed, I stepped out onto the concrete porch of the café where the cook sat smoking a cigarette and chuckling as she looked across the parking lot. From our vantage point, I could soon see what she found so interesting. There in the middle of the mostly empty gravel lot were my wife and my stepdaughter kneeling down on either side of what I can only describe as a pair of ears and a tongue. Instantly, I knew in the back of my mind we were probably going home with a new dog.
“She’s been roaming around here for a couple of weeks going from door to door” the lady said as she took another drag of her smoke. “I guess either somebody dropped her or lost her.” She was a stray. Nobody claimed her. Nobody wanted her. She had survived the past couple of weeks on scraps of food she could scrounge from the trash or from some soft heart who might pitch leftovers to her after a meal at the café. She was thin and rough looking, but she was relishing the attention from the two girls hovering over her as if it had been ages since anyone had done so.
Now, I admit that I really did not want another pet. Two Yorkies and two cats were more than enough for one household in my opinion. But deep down there was something about this one. Maybe it was those long Basset Hound ears. Maybe it was those big brown eyes. Maybe it was the way she wagged her tail and panted while getting all that loving. But I swear to you somehow she looked straight at me and said, “Please take me home with you.” So, with very little pleading from Cindy and Amanda, we loaded the pup into the livestock trailer I had rented to bring the horse and headed for Nixa.
No sooner had the wheels of the trailer made a full rotation when we heard a deep hound voice coming from the back. The acoustics of the metal chamber resonated in such a way that surely the folks who were within a half mile of our path must have thought some sort of emergency vehicle was making its way through the community. And for the next 100 miles, this continued pausing no more than five seconds at a time. I surmise this pause was only to swallow and wet her vocal cords in an effort to prepare for the next round of barking. “BARK… BARK… BARK… BARK!” And it never ceased until we got home and got her out. She must have drunk a gallon of water.
The conversation on the trip home covered two subjects. First, of course, was how a dog could continuously bark so much, so loud, and so long. Second was what to name our new family member. The two Yorkies were named AJ and Zig, so we figured it best to name this one using the middle of the alphabet – “M.” So, we bounced a few names around like Myrtle, Mona, Mitzi, and the like. I finally settled on a name I thought befitting such a Basset Hound – Mollie. It just seemed right. But, in true democratic fashion, I was outvoted two to one in favor of the name that in all retrospect fit the hound perfectly – Maggie.
Being a stray, we knew we needed to take her to the vet and have her checked out as soon as possible. So, I made the appointment and took her our preferred vet clinic to see Dr. Linn. The first order of business was to get her weight. At 35 pounds, she was surely in need of some nutrition. And this was after having been fed well for a day at our house. But a thorough exam revealed no other real concerns health wise. Dr. Linn estimated she was about a year old and was convinced she was full blood Basset Hound which was another confusing factor as to why someone would have given her up and left her as a stray. She had no chip for identification, which was quickly remedied, and seemed to be a fine specimen. So, with a clean bill of health, I loaded Maggie back up in my truck and we headed home. Her new forever home.
Did I mention that she barked the whole way there and back?
It took no time for Maggie to get accustomed to life in Nixa and the Beeson home. She quickly found where the dog food was and her spot on the couch and in our bed. She would jump up in the bed, make her way to Cindy’s side, groan as she lay horizontally across the foot of the mattress, and groan even more when Momma would get her to move enough to let her get her feet in the bed. One Basset “sigh” later, Maggie would be asleep and dreaming of chasing rabbits. Her long body seemed to stretch across the entire width of the king size mattress at the foot which was a continuing complaint from her momma except on cold nights when Maggie’s pre-heating was an asset rather than a bother. And strangely enough, it was even better in that Maggie considered 9:00 PM to be her bedtime. Promptly at that hour, like clockwork, she would make her way to the bedroom, climb in the bed, and take her position at the foot on Momma’s side.
At times Maggie would decide the temperature of the room was a bit low and would make her way to the head of the bed between Momma and Daddy, nudge the covers, crawl under them until nothing but the tip of her tail was visible. It was interesting to us to lie in wait for a few minutes as we knew she was not able to breath well under there and would be getting too hot. Sure enough, in the matter of minutes, the comforter and sheets would begin to rise, the sound of panting would begin, and out would come Maggie her tongue hanging lower than her ears and frantically catching her breath. Finally, she would replenish her oxygen and shake her head, those ears and jaws flapping so hard it sounded like a helicopter about to take off. Then she would resume her position and off to sleep again.
Life was pretty normal for a three dog, two cat home for the next few weeks. Maggie was fitting in with the crew and getting into the routine. Morning treat, go outside, short nap, another treat, another nap, go outside, another nap, wake up and greet everyone, go outside, another nap, another treat, go to bed.
And every once in a while, get in the truck, go riding, and bark the whole time.
Without fail, the wee hours of the morning found one of us awakened by one of the dogs needing to go outside. If one went, we all went. Me first followed by my opening the back door and waiting as they “did their business” and returned to the back door to be let in and back to sleep. Maggie was always the last one to come in. As a matter of fact, she took this opportunity to make a full patrol of the yard covering the entire perimeter just shy of the electronic pet fence we had to keep them from roaming the neighborhood. And, of course, any scent she picked up of squirrel, rabbit, mouse, or I began to think even just the Yorkies, she would begin to bellow out a cry and bark as if trailing and on the hunt. I would call her, chase her, and do what I could to try and get her to come back in. But it would finally take either getting her on a leash and dragging her in or waiting her out to come back on her own which might take hours. I was beginning to regret my decision to allow this animal in our house.
Then one night I was awakened by Maggie who seemed overly anxious to get outside and literally ran to the back door and down the steps, the Yorkies behind her at a much slower pace. She took off around the house and I made my way to the bathroom, still groggy and wishing I was curled up in the bed asleep. When I came out of the bathroom, I suddenly realized the barking I heard from our newest family member was a bit strange. It was not the typical “patrol” bark. It wasn’t a happy bark. It wasn’t a bark of distress. It was just a strange bark, and it was coming from the front of the house, which was unusual itself.
I made my way to the front door and out to the driveway where my truck sat parked. Maggie and the Yorkies were at the back end of the pickup. Maggie was barking vigorously at something. I envisioned some sort of varmint such as a possum, raccoon, armadillo, or such. I walked out to get her knowing this hard-headed dog would have to be dragged in from her prey. I looked under the truck and could see no animals or pests. I got almost to her and asked, “Maggie! What in the world are you barking at!?”
Just as I reached out to grab her collar, I looked up and saw a figure standing beside the passenger door of my vehicle. Quickly thinking, I said, “I don’t see anything, Maggie. Come on!” and started back in the house leaving the hound still barking and the Yorkies came in with me. I dialed 9-1-1 and grabbed my handgun. The dispatcher stayed on the phone, telling the responding officers that I had a weapon in my pocket, would be on the street, and I would have my hands visible. I came back out and Maggie and her victim were gone. I could still hear her, but now she was in the back yard. One police cruiser pulled up, and I held my hands out as he pulled up. We talked a bit and the two searched the area but found nobody.
As for me, I had found a new hero – Maggie.
It was also then that Maggie go her new nickname from me. I had begun calling AJ and Zig my “Little Girl” and “Little Boy” for some time. Now, because of her heroic act, Maggie was “DADDY’S BIG GIRL!”
Now anyone who knows anything about dogs would know that Basset Hounds and Yorkies don’t really mix well. This was true at our house. AJ and Zig were quiet, cute, cuddly and mature dogs who had no interest in any physical activity other than running to the dinner bowl or jumping on the couch to take a nap. Maggie on the other hand was loud, boisterous, and bigger than life with an outgoing personality. She loved everyone and relished being petted and admired. She liked being outside and watching the traffic go by or kids playing. She savored the chance to bark at a dog being walked or the UPS truck driving by.
It was this difference that prompted Cindy to look for another Basset Hound to bring in as a companion for Maggie much as AJ and Zig were for each other. She found this in the form of an AKA registered Basset in Buffalo, MO who was sterile and the breeders did not want her because of this, so they were willing to give her up for a small fee to cover some vet bills. We travelled to Buffalo to meet and fall in love almost immediately with “Petunia” who had the sweetest look on her face. This time, I got my choice for the name of the Basset Hound.
I had my “Mollie.”
But, if ever two dogs of the same breed were opposite, Maggie and Mollie were the poster children. Mollie was quiet and perfectly content just to be next to you and look up with those big Basset eyes and say, “Love me… Just love me.” The plans for Maggie to have a playmate fell through. The two of them tolerated each other, but never were the pair of buddies we had hoped they would become. Instead, they avoided each other. I have a picture of them lying on the couch at opposite ends, their heads on the arms in a pose that reminds one of a couple that has been in a heated argument. They never were a true pair of hounds.
That is except for one thing. Each and every day; two, three, four or more times a day, for no reason we could ever figure out, spontaneously, usually started by Mollie, the two would gradually start from a quiet little bark or grumble gradually growing and growing until it filled the air with an all out howling in true hound fashion that would last for 30 to 60 seconds and rival the best aria of Enrico Caruso and Luciano Pavarotti. I’m sure it could be heard by most of our neighbors. While it was probably annoying to them and it was embarrassing a few times while on important phone calls, it was always music to our ears. The two Basset Hounds were beautiful. Their music made them even more beautiful to us.
All four of them were beautiful though, and handy at times, too. Case in point – when you accidentally drop food on the floor, most folks have to take the time to stop what they are doing and clean it up, wasting precious time and resources. But not at our house. In fact, food rarely ever reached the floor. There were usually four waiting canines staring up at their humans, waiting, drooling, and anxious for even the slightest smidgen of organic matter to come their way. They were masters at catching treats mid air. Nothing escaped their reach. Their momma had taught them to share, so there was never a fight. The only contest was an unofficial challenge between Mollie and Maggie to see who could drool the longest string of drool down both sides of their mouths while waiting for any leftovers from our plate. Maggie seemed to always be the clear winner with a whopping eight or so inches of drool that extended almost below her ears. And, of course, to make up for the lack of clean up needed otherwise, the two would inevitably shake their heads sending a shower of Basset drool flying in all directions landing on the floor, on furniture, and in our laps. Now came the clean up, but it was worth it for the good laugh we got out of it.
Moving to Springfield a couple of years later brought a few changes to our household. But we still had the four dogs who managed to fit in quite well. They had a much bigger back yard that was fenced in. Maggie could lay out on the back patio (and later the deck) and watch for the many squirrels that lived in the area, chasing after them if she chose. She could sit by the front door which we kept open with the glass storm door where she could see out front if she wished while we were home. We even installed a bubble window in the privacy fence so she could look from the back yard at any passing dogs being walked. And while she didn’t like swimming, she did enjoy the occasional drink from the pool and always loved being eye-to-eye with you at poolside. She and the rest of the crew seemed to really like the new home. And we did too.
One day not long after moving in, one of us opened the front door and Maggie seized the opportunity to bolt out the door to freedom. Fearing she might wind up on a busier street and become a victim of a vehicle since she was not used to being out like this, we called and chased her. But she was free! She roamed the neighborhood with us following her in our vehicle. We would catch up to her, she would stop, we would get out to try and get her, and she would start running away again. This went on for about an hour when she finally gave in and returned home. Angry, but relieved, we knew this was something we would have to deal with again for sure. And we did on numerous occasions. I think she did it to taunt us.
This became evident when one day I decided to leave her to her freedom. I had followed her, called her, tempted her with treats, and done everything to get her to come home, but she ignored me. She was last seen across the street in our neighbors’ yard lying under an oak tree, staring up at the squirrels playing among the branches. I decided she was safe and probably not going to go away, so I came back in to join a conference call for work. As I sat in my recliner listening to the speaker about the subject of the call, I heard the front door open and the familiar sound of paws and panting. I looks around and from the entryway Maggie entered the living room, jumped up on the couch and made a couple of moans before covering her eyes for an afternoon nap. After my call was finished, I went to the front door anxious to see if by some means Maggie had discovered a method of opening it. Maybe she had grown opposable thumbs. Or… I noticed the neighbor’s two young boys playing football in the front yard. I asked them if they had brought Maggie in. Sure enough, she had come right to them and they brought her without resistance to the front door. And, of course, numerous times thereafter, I could call, chase, yell, entice, or use whatever means I could think of without success only to hear the front door open and close later and Maggie come waling in with a “Hey… I’m back” look on her face. She could be so frustrating.
Maggie was a “house dog” for the most part. But she did love to be outside. She especially loved riding in a vehicle and seemed to enjoy riding in my truck most of all. You could see the excitement mounting whenever you would get a leash as this was a sign to her that she was going on a road trip. She would begin to bark and jump around. When I put the leash on her she would drag me to the truck, jump in, find her way to the passenger seat, and take her spot ready for the ride. But, as she had always done from the first time we got her, she would bark the whole time the truck was moving. I’ve never figured out why. But she loved it. She liked having the window down if we were not moving. She would stick her head out when stopped at a traffic light. Sometimes people would look over and see her and let out an “Awwww!” I think she loved the attention. But then everybody loved Maggie.
Soon after moving in the house, we needed some work done and Cindy had found a reliable handyman capable of doing most of the things we might need. Steve knew basic electrical, plumbing, construction, and other maintenance work. He worked hard and was reliable. And after the first job or two, we knew if Steve did it, it was going to be done right.
We also discovered quickly that Maggie had a new friend. If I was home and someone came to the door, the dogs would immediately jump up and begin to bark. If it was Steve, Maggie’s bark immediately changed to one of excitement. It was almost comical that we knew by her bark that Maggie’s buddy Steve was here. No matter what he was doing, no matter where he was working, Maggie was right there with him “helping” with his handy work. More than a few times I would go to check on his progress and find him talking to her. He would be turning a wrench or hammering a nail while she sat or lay beside him. He would be talking to her like he was asking her opinion on his work. She never left his side. He was a dog person. He had several dogs of his own. But Maggie was his buddy. His pal. And Maggie had a special attachment to Steve. She loved Steve and Steve loved Maggie about as much as we did.
But everyone who came into contact with her loved Maggie. My mother was not a dog person at all. Not that she hated them, she just did not have any affection for them. But a trip to my hometown with Maggie and the Yorkies seemed to change her feelings about the canine species. She laughed and smiled at some of Maggie’s antics and even allowed her to come inside the house, a privilege not afforded many animals. And she commented on how pretty she was. And she kept talking about her ears.
Those ears.
Truly a Basset Hound, Maggie had the longest ears of any hound I believe I’ve ever seen. They draped well below her jaw almost dragging the ground even when she held her head high due to her short, Basset legs. Anytime she encountered a new person, you could expect to hear an “awwww” followed by a comment like “Look at those ears!” And Maggie seemed to know her greatest asset was an attention getter and she knew how to use them. She would hold her head up and those ears would fall back against her shoulders. Then she would stand with her mouth closed and chin up to reveal the look of a seventy’s model. Yes, Maggie was beautiful.
But probably the most interesting thing about her ears was her uncanny ability to use them to cover her eyes when sleeping to keep the light out. We discovered this early on when she was napping one day. The light was in her eyes and suddenly she moved her head around and nuzzled her nose and pawed at her ear until it was in the right position and fell asleep. It was the funniest thing we had ever seen. But that was Maggie. She had the strangest ways to make us laugh so much and so often.
At night the pair would join us along with the two smaller ones in the bed to watch a bit of TV before Maggie would cover her eyes, moan, and fall asleep. Mollie would sigh, lay her head on my leg and do the same. Zig would growl and take up his spot right by my head. And AJ would be right there with her momma surveying all her royal kingdom from the perch of the Beauty Rest pillow. Off we all would go for a night’s rest. Life in the Beeson home.
Life changes. Life goes on.
Zig and AJ were growing old my little boy went blind still able to know his daddy’s scent and clinging close to me, Cindy, or his sister most of the time. But one night he went outside in the wee hours of the morning to potty and apparently fell in the pool and could not get out and drowned. Cindy discovered him the next morning and I had the task of recovering remains from the water. It was a heart breaking experience that to this day haunts us. It’s still difficult to even enjoy our pool and wonder if there was something we could have done to prevent it from happening.
I cried for my little boy.
Not long afterwards, we found ourselves presented with an offer hard to resist. Cindy’s other daughter still lived in Mammoth Spring with her husband and two daughters. Our ganddaughters had a puppy of mixed breed who had presented a litter of puppies. They had given the rest of the litter away but had one male left. During a Sunday visit with them, we were informed that the ultimate demise of this last pup was imminent as they could not keep him and nobody had come forth to take him in. We discussed this on the return trip and Cindy made the call that the pup could join our family after we returned from a week’s vacation out of town. They agreed and soon we had another canine in the household.
Hello Preston.
If you are familiar with the TV show “Mountain Men,” you may be familiar with Eustice Conway and his one time sidekick and friend, Preston Roberts who tragically passed away during the term between seasons. As a fan of him and to honor him in a small way, we decided to name the new addition with his moniker. Along with this, I chose to give him the nickname of my “Little Buddy” which certainly is befitting. He has been just that since his arrival greeting me with utter excitement whether I’ve been absent for weeks or just returning from the mailbox at the end of our driveway. He’s one of the first to tell me good morning and lavishes any and all attention.
He is smart having learned to sit, shake hands, and enjoy a game of fetch at times. He longs for my attention and has a difficult time when my lap is occupied. But I do try to give him as much as possible. He is my buddy in so many ways and seems to know that despite being the center of attention all the time, the two of us have a connection that just a glance or a word brings joy in the form of a rapidly wagging tail.
Our four dog home was once again settling into routine.
Mollie obtained the designation of “Sweet Puppy” because of her temperament. She, unlike her sister, would spend the majority of time in quiet reflection or basking in the glory of belly rubs. Once you began to pet her, she would drop to a prone position, roll her fat body over, and wait for this treatment. Maggie liked belly rubs as well, but Mollie relished them and would probably lay there for hours if her human would continue the process. Then she would look up at you with those sweet eyes and make it extremely apparent that she was content. She was just happy for someone to love her and we certainly filled that call with complete adoration of this sweet girl.
While Mollie was certainly of the lazy persuasion, she did surprise us on occasion. Once, Cindy and I were relaxing in our living room when we heard the familiar sound of the pet door followed by the clamor of paws on the wooden floor. This was not unusual in the least until we did a double-take when we saw Mollie racing from the bedroom, down the hallway, through the living room, and into the kitchen. As soon as she got there, she turned and ran back through the living room and into the bedroom. Cindy and I stared at the sight then at each other before we burst out in laughter at what we had just witnessed. Mollie climbed up the steps to the bed where she collapsed catching her breath and nodding off for a much needed afternoon nap.
The only other excitement Mollie ever expressed was discovered a bit by accident. We had purchased a box of Moist and Meaty in hopes that this would be easier for the older dogs to eat since their teeth were beginning to deteriorate and the hard kibble in their bowls difficult to chew. When Cindy found this not to be a good nutritional choice for them, we had nearly a full box to get rid of some way. So we decided to feed a packet to Maggie and Mollie as a treat in the afternoons. The morning treats were clearly welcome to the group, but this early evening delight quickly brought out a vote of favoritism from our Sweet Puppy. Mollie, although quite rotund and not in the best of physical condition would begin bouncing on her front paws at the sight and sound of the cellophane wrapper being torn open. Her pleasure was obvious as she devoured the manna seeming to come from Heaven in her eyes. It became one of my favorite moments of the day watching this little dance from the otherwise docile pet.
But having dogs is a plethora of emotions. I woke up early one morning to the sound of the automatic pet door opening in our bedroom. From the familiar sound of her gait, I knew it was Mollie going out for her morning necessities. Minutes later, I heard the door open again signaling her return. But something was not quite right. After a few moments, I was concerned enough to climb out of bed earlier than my regular time to find out what I feared might be wrong. I walked around the bed to find Mollie lying on the bedroom floor unable to move or respond. Her eyes were open and moving, but she would not lift her head when I called her name. I struggled to lift her up, but my body couldn’t do it. Cindy and I got her to the living room, but it was still too much for the two of us. She decided to get our neighbor to come and help, so I stayed there with Mollie trying to comfort her as we scrambled to get her to the emergency vet. But it was too late. My “Sweet Puppy” died in my arms before Cindy returned.
I couldn’t help it. I cried again for yet another best friend.
While Zig was my shadow, AJ was very much her momma’s little princess. Cindy made no secret of her being special, delicate, and her baby. I referred to her as my little girl, but AJ only gave me bits of attention. She had more than plenty from her momma and she was fine with that. But since the death of her brother, and being 17 years old, AJ gradually declined in health. At one time she could jump on the bed from the floor without any problem. Now, she struggled to climb up the steps we had for them to use. She slept a lot, had lost her hearing, and her eyesight was failing. Finally, after a heart-wrenching process, Cindy made the decision and asked if I would take her. I agreed. While it was going to be painful for me, I knew that it would tear the heart out of the woman I so dearly love to watch this little princess’s life end. So, I took our delicate little girl in to the vet’s office, held her, stroked her, and told her how much her momma and I loved her as she slipped away.
The loss of Mollie had left the house so silent for a while until we got a new Basset Hound pup. We drove to Batesville, Arkansas to pick up a pair of big long ears attached to a little body. We laughed as he walked around stepping on those ears and looked at us with those big brown eyes. We fell in love immediately with this “Little Man.”
Welcome to the madness, Murphy.
Murphy’s addition was not readily accepted by the other more mature Bassett. Maggie gave him “the look” whenever he would approach her in an effort to play with her, especially her ears. But before long, Murphy was growing and Maggie became more tolerant of the intruder as long as she was the alpha. At times she even joined in a little roughhousing with the little beast, but quickly let him know she was not to be bothered at the dinner bowl. He impatiently waited, jumping and barking while she gave him that look. Then she would finally walk away and Murphy would fill his belly with the tasty morsels.
Maggie had not howled since Mollie died, but with a bit of coaxing from me, the sound I had so dearly loved was once again filling the air. Even Preston, our mixed breed dog was trying to join in. Maggie had singing partners again. With the absence of my Little Boy Zig, my lap remained empty until my Little Man Murphy took up residence there. No sooner than I get eased into my recliner, a nose and a pair of eyes appear at the foot rest begging permission to jump up and join me. I’m not sure I can ever get comfortable in my chair without Murphy between my legs lying with his head rested on my ankle, but I would someday like to try it out if just for a minute or two. And the day is not complete until I climb into bed just before I hear the sound of Bassett paws making their way up the steps and Murphy climbing over my legs before settling in either against my back or the front half of his body lying across my abdomen. And somehow in all of this he manages to relieve me of any and all covers.
Two Bassett Hounds and a mixed breed was the first time in years and certainly in our marriage when Cindy had not had a Yorkie in her life. So when she discovered a breeder who had a young female who was suddenly barren and no longer of value to the “puppy mill,” we made a drive to a home in the country where we found the sad sight of multiple dogs in pens who were obviously only there for their ability to breed. Inside the house, we saw a little figure shaking and scared to which Cindy quickly paid the owners’ fee to “cover vet bills and shots” before gathering this little girl in her arms and heading back home happy to get away from such a place.
I soon found myself in the shades of Hoke Colburn. I was driving Miss Daisy.
Daisy’s life was soon to be much better, but she did not have the social skills of the rest of the clan. She spent almost all of her time perched on the dog bed in our living room, unable to grasp the fact that she was free to roam around with the rest of the herd. She would not let us pet her and would dart from her resting spot whenever we approached. Her life had been a miserable one with very little human interaction which saddened and infuriated my wife and me at the cruelty of such people.
But she did soon pick up on part of the routine. One day Maggie, Murphy, and Preston decided to partake in some howling practice. Cindy and I began to laugh as Miss Daisy joined in singing soprano for the quartet. The house was alive with beautiful hound dog howling music again. I was smiling again. I loved hearing my big girl and the others sing. Gradually she has decided we were not all bad and, while she still will not join the others in getting morning treats directly from my hand, she has learned that Daddy will save extra treats and lay them by his thigh on the recliner where she takes them, one at a time, and runs to her spot on the couch or bed to enjoy in peace before returning for another. And while she is still unwilling to allow lap time, she will tolerate an occasional “walk by” pat on the head while holding her tongue out in defiance of such invasion of her space.
What a great form of entertainment fills the house.
But then another change for the worse. The next February, the day after Valentine’s Day, a snow storm hit the Midwest including much of the Ozarks of Missouri and Arkansas. I was fortunate in that my commute to work was ten steps from my living room. Cindy was less fortunate but made it to work at the hospital without incident. As my work day progressed the weather caused several of my conference calls to be cancelled, but I had plenty of other work to do. I was engulfed in programming data when my cell phone rang and I saw the caller was my sister’s number. I wondered why she or my mother, who lived with her, was calling in the middle of the week but suspected nothing major. I assumed it was my mother calling to ask about the snow and if Cindy made it to work OK. She always worried about such things.
When my sister’s voice came over the phone line, it was apparent she was bearing bad news. I prepared myself for what I had dreaded but did not expect for a much longer time. So much had happened I hoped I was wrong, but I could tell from the sound of her voice the moment she started to speak that I was not. The news was bad. Our mother had passed away peacefully that morning from an apparent heart attack. And because of the snow and COVID, I couldn’t come down.
I cried again.
After dealing with some of the affairs of Mother’s estate and some job changes, I managed to get back into the swing of things somewhat. And the crew of Maggie, Preston, Murphy, and Daisy was a fine form of entertainment with the two boys playing while Maggie “spanked” them with loud barks and Daisy stared at all of this from her bed as if wondering why they were all making so much noise.
But I began to notice the changes that had taken over my big girl, Maggie. Her once kidney red face had grown white. Her big brown sad eyes had begun to lose a bit of their sparkle and she suffered from some infections in them. She slept a lot more than ever. Her latest attempts at escape had been infrequent and lasted mere minutes before returning to the comfort of the air conditioned house. Of late she started struggling to climb stairs or jump on the couch. She still loved to ride in the truck and the excitement was still there when the leash came out, but I had to lift her back legs to help her in. She was on several medications, much like her daddy. Some for arthritis, some for her kidneys, and some for stomach issues. Like all of us, Maggie wasn’t getting any younger.
Then one day we noticed a lump on her back. It was concerning, but we kept an eye on it for a while. Finally, I took her in, and Dr. Linn examined it and said it should be removed. So, we scheduled her for surgery fearing at age 13 (which by Dr. Linn’s chart was the equivalent of an 82-year-old woman) she might not make it through. But she did and she came home that night with a good report of removal of “good margins” and it did not look cancerous. This was our miracle girl who had fooled us a couple of times before. Once, she spent the weekend in doggie ICU with a kidney infection that we feared was the end when she was still quite young. But she survived. And she survived several other ailments. She had one more miracle for us.
But she had been coughing and gagging for a while and it seemed worse now. She had lost weight being down from a high of around 70 pounds at one time (remember her being 35 pounds when we found her) to 56 pounds before surgery. She was eating and drinking. She was alert and fairly active for her age. But something just was not right. So, I called the vet’s office to see if I could get her in. She needed her stitches taken out from surgery anyway. They said to bring her in and leave her. They would have to work her in between appointments when they could and would call when they saw her. So, I loaded her in the truck, she got in her seat, and we headed for Ozark and the vet’s office. She barked part of the way but could not keep it up for long.
When we checked in, we took her to the scales. She was now down to 51 pounds. My heart fell.
It was Thursday before Labor Day weekend. We planned a weekend camping trip, and I was going to start getting things loaded in the camper so we could take off Friday after work for the campground. I waited for the call so I could go pick up Maggie, anxious to hear from them that she needed antibiotics or maybe another surgery. But deep down I felt a hole forming in my heart.
Cindy got off work at 3:30 and had an appointment for a haircut. I finished work and was working on loading the camper. We texted back and forth and were anxious because the vet office closed at 5:00 and there was no word on Maggie. At 5:30, Cindy texted me and I still had not heard and we figured Maggie would be spending the night there and we would know something Friday morning. About that same time, my cell phone rang, and I looked down and saw it was the vet clinic calling.
Dr. Ketchum was the other vet at the clinic. She had examined Maggie and was concerned with the cough, so she took some X-rays. The news was not good. She had a growth on her lungs that was pressing on her heart. It was causing the cough and making it hard for her to breathe. There were options, but I could tell by the sound of her voice they were limited. I called Cindy and asked her to go to the clinic and look at the x-rays herself and get Maggie. As a nurse, I knew she could read the x-ray much better than I and make a better choice as to what to do. But deep down I already knew. I was just trying to fight it.
When Cindy pulled into the driveway, there Maggie sat in the passenger seat peering out the window. I stopped my work on the camper to greet them and find out the results. Oblivious to her situation, Maggie exited the car wagging her tail and greeted me as she always did and then took a potty break before heading to the front door. Cindy repeated much of what Dr. Ketchum had said and discussed the x-ray in more detail. The choices were very cut and dry. We could either keep her alive but mostly sedated watching her deteriorate until the end which could be two weeks or two months. Or we could let her go now.
I put everything away, locked the camper, went in the house, got online, and cancelled our campsite reservations. While we could take her in on Friday, I insisted on waiting until after the weekend. I wanted one long weekend to say goodbye. I wanted to spoil her even more than she was already. I wanted to love on her, give her belly rubs, pull her ears, hear her howl, watch her sleep. I wanted to soak up as much Maggie as I could in the next five days.
So, Friday, she made the climb to my office. With one knee replacement and one in need of replacement, I struggle going up stairs. Maggie’s age and health had made the task harder for her as well. We took our time, especially today. I took extra peanut butter and crackers and shared them with her. I watched her nap, shared my sandwich at lunch, slowly made the climb back up the stairs for the afternoon, petted her a lot, and ended the Friday with a special treat – one whole pouch of Moist and Meaty just for her all to herself.
Over the weekend I watched as she got a burst of energy and played a bit with Murphy and Preston. She howled a couple of times after my coaxing her and Murphy even though it was short, it was still music to our ears. We petted her, cuddled with her, gave her belly rubs, gave her special food, even fixed her a cheeseburger that she ate all by herself. She seemed very attached to me. Everywhere I went, I would hear the familiar sound of her claws on the floor coming into the room. When I would sit down, Maggie was never far away usually under my feet.
The only time she ignored me was when her “best buddy” Steve came by for a visit. I was in another room, and Maggie did head for the front door as all the dogs do when someone rings the doorbell. Cindy said that Maggie perked up when she saw it was Steve. When I entered the living room, Steve was crouched down stroking Maggie and discussing her situation with Cindy. The two friends spent a good amount of time together saying goodbye. Maggie’s tail was wagging the entire time he was there. His final hug and kiss on the head was out of character for him and very touching. It was truly a tender moment to watch these old friends saying farewell.
I wanted the weekend to last. I wished it could have lasted another twelve years. It didn’t. It seems like it only lasted twelve minutes.
I had said nothing to Cindy, but when I woke up Tuesday morning, I had hoped to find Maggie had died in her sleep at the foot of the bed. I looked down and saw her rib cage rising and falling rather rapidly as it had been doing of late. What I had hoped for did not happen. Later Cindy confided that she had also wished the same. This was going to be very tough for us to go through. Our hearts were breaking into.
But she was still with us, so the morning routine began. Cindy went to the kitchen, opened the garage door, handed out treats to everyone, made her morning cup of coffee, and came to the living room to enjoy it. I followed, doing the same. The second round of treats included Maggie’s favorite part. She had been put on several medications in the past couple of years due to her advanced age. In order to coax her (and others that at times needed meds) into taking the pills, I would take a spoonful of creamy peanut butter and spread it on a slice of bread. Then I would put the pills in the peanut butter, fold it over, pinch off the part with the pills, and give it to Maggie. The rest I would divvy up among the rest of the herd. Maggie loved her peanut butter.
Cindy left for work and I got around and readied myself for the day. My coffee mug and breakfast sandwich in hand, Maggie and I began our journey upstairs. I kept telling her she didn’t have to come, but as always, she would look at me, take a couple of steps, and then have to stop and rest for a bit. I knew this was hard on her and I told her to take her time. I waited on her. I didn’t want to rush her. The climb seemed so much harder on me this morning. My knees hurt. But my heart hurt much more.
I wanted her to be with me not for myself, but because it was what she wanted. Two more steps. A few more tears. A little bit of rest. Finally we made it to the top and Maggie took up her post at the back of my chair and I began my work day. I don’t mind telling you, I was not very productive that day.
I asked Cindy to text me when she got off work. Although we both dreaded going through the process, we knew it best to get it over with. So, if the patient schedule allowed, she would try to get off work early and we could go in earlier to the vet. I dreaded the text. I didn’t want to receive it. Cindy didn’t want to send it. When it came, my heart ached. I finished up my work and Maggie and I made the final decent down the stairs. She would take a couple of steps and have to rest. Then a couple more. It took a while and that was OK. I hoped it took forever.
I sat in my recliner and Maggie came over to sit at my feet. I stroked her and talked to her telling her how much we loved her, telling her how I wished I could take this all away and make it better. It had been a painful decision to make, but it was the right one. There was no cure. There was no getting better. I had not realized until that weekend just how bad she was suffering. Even asleep, she was laboring to breathe. All her energy was going to that task. While she did have some life left in her, it would not be much of one. She had lost ten pounds in less than a month. She was terminally ill and we could not stand the thought of making her suffer any longer. We loved her enough to let her go.
From my chair I could see the reflection of the driveway in the back sliding door and would know when Cindy arrived. When she pulled in, I got up and got the leash. Maggie’s tail began to wag. My tears began to flow. Cindy changed clothes and we all got in the car to head to Ozark. Maggie was in the back seat and peered out the window as she normally did. I rolled down the window when we were stopped at traffic lights or in slow traffic. She always liked that. But this trip, she never barked. Not even once.
While the process is not easy, it is not as bad as one might think. I had been through it before and it had been only a year since witnessing it with AJ. While the sense of dread was still there, and there was no excitement about it, I knew it was best for Maggie. The worst part is waiting. The vet office was busy as usual. We were checked in and they took us to the room specially set up for this procedure. Inside is a couch where we sat trying to get Maggie to sit between us, but she wanted to just sit on the floor at our feet. We spent our final moments talking to her, petting her, and loving on her before Dr. Ketchum finally came in with her assistant. I asked to see the x-rays, not because I didn’t believe them, but just to have a visualization of how bad this was and to give me peace of mind for our decision. I’m not an expert, but it was very clear to me that we were doing the right thing. The huge mass was causing such issues I could not believe she was doing as well as she was.
Now it was time. The tech and Dr. Ketchum lifted Maggie up on the table and began to shave her front leg for the IV injection. I had promised Maggie that I would give her one last belly rub, something she truly enjoyed. I only wish it could have been under better circumstances and that I could have heard that familiar moan she would let out followed by a big sneeze that Cindy said that she read was a sign that dogs were happy. Cindy was holding her head, petting her and telling her how much she loved her. I was rubbing her belly and stroking her back as the needle went in her leg. I had been watching Maggie for the past five days breathing so hard. She constantly appeared to be panting even in her sleep. I watched her in the room before the vet came in. I watched it when we got her on the table.
I watched the needle going in her leg. I saw the blood come out indicating it was in her vein. I saw the solution being injected. My tears flowing uncontrollably, my heart breaking, my voice trembling to say “Momma and Daddy love you Maggie! Steve loves you too!” I suddenly felt the life leaving her. But I also felt something else. I felt her peace. She wasn’t struggling to breathe anymore. She wasn’t in pain anymore. I continued to stroke her back and Cindy was stroking her face, something else Maggie always enjoyed. Then Cindy reached out and took one of those long, beautiful ears and covered her eyes so the light wouldn’t bother her while she slept.
Dr. Ketchum was monitoring her heartbeat and soon looked up and indicated it was done. I looked at my big girl lying there on the table finally resting. She had come a long way from roaming the streets of Viola, Arkansas. She had avoided the likelihood of being shot or hit by a car or reaching some other demise there had it not been for that fateful breakfast that day twelve years earlier.
Around this time, we had been approached about providing a foster home for dogs needing to have a place to stay while waiting for their forever home. We gladly accepted. What was another dog or two on a temporary basis? And soon a number of dogs began entering and exiting our home. Sometimes they were there for a day or two, sometimes it was weeks before someone would decide to take them into their home on a permanent basis. They came in a variety of breeds and backgrounds. They seemed to all enjoy our home. The attachment to them was alleviated somewhat by the knowledge that they had new humans who would open up their home and make it theirs. I still have pictures of most of them taken during their brief period under our roof.
But down to three dogs and only one Bassett Hound gave way when we were asked to help foster one of a batch of dogs the rescue had obtained. They emailed a list of them and asked for any preferences in any particular breed or gender. On the list was a female Bassett Hound given up by her owners because they were unable to potty train her. I’m not sure if her former owners had selected her name or if it was the rescue operation, but this was another Daisy. Without hesitation, we offered to take this girl in with the idea that we would most likely formally adopt her. And we did. But the name did not fit in with our Bassett Hound “M” tradition and there was already a Daisy among our pack.
So here came Mabel.
Now while Mollie may be the sweetest dog I have ever had the pleasure of having under my care, Mabel is a very close second. Her manner is quite calm and rarely troubling with the exception of her propensity to go dumpster diving when she manages to find an unattended trash can in the kitchen where she has managed to slip by the barrier of the pet door designed to keep the thieves out. While her adopted brother, Murphy, is sticking his nose into everything, Mabel is quite content with the occasional belly rub between naps. Like Maggie before her, she loves trips in our cars and like Mollie, rolls over to indicate the need of a nice pleasurable rub of her belly. She is playful and loving as they come, but by far her best feature is just how pretty this girl is prompting the nickname “Pretty Puppy.”
Once again the beautiful chorus of howling Bassett Hounds periodically fill our home. And while Murphy and Mabel may not have the spontaneity or volume of Maggie and Mollie, it is still music to our ears. And Preston and Daisy continue backup singing for the pair. And Murphy and Mabel are at my side every night when I retire for the evening, Murphy at the top and Mabel at my feet. They rest well in the company of their daddy, and he comforts in knowing they are there.
And as if we did not already have a house full of dogs, another foster arrived and stole the heart of my beautiful bride. With a fondness for Yorkies, it was too difficult to pass the opportunity to put in for the adoption of a black and golden Yorkie-Poo who seemed to fit in the first day she arrived. So when Cindy asked if I would be fine with the prospect of another pet, I promptly objected. But as with most things, I gave in to the love of my life and a fifth canine joined in on the fun.
Yeah, Pepper was now part of the family.
This little girl may not quite be her momma’s little princess like AJ was, but she definitely has bonded with Cindy. With Murphy on my lap, Pepper has domain in the lap of Cindy. She avoids me most of the time except when treats are given out. She and Mabel are convinced they are the only ones deserving of these morsels and compete to attempt in the theft of bites from the others. Pepper can become downright aggressive in this endeavor and is a challenge to keep at bay during treat time. This prompted the alias I offered of “Little…” well, I’ll let you guess the rest. Once she has decided there are no more offerings are on the table, she joins her momma in her recliner and surveys from that perch.
Early in our relationship, Cindy informed me of her desire to one day have in our midst a Burmese Mountain dog. She would often talk about having a home on acreage where such an animal could thrive. We have always planned to retire someday to either her hometown or mine where we both owned property that would afford such a fine large animal. However, when she called me from work one day to let me know I should be ready to take a short trip after work, little did I know we were about to embark on part of this plan a bit early. When she arrived home, she directed me to the driver’s seat and told me to head for Mount Vernon, some 30 miles west. Along the way she also let me know we were meeting someone in the parking lot of the local Tractor Supply to pick up the latest member of the family – a Burma-Doodle – half Burmese Mountain dog and half standard Poodle.
And with Beau, there were now six.
Beau was only just a few weeks old and just weaned from his mother, but he already was bigger than all the others except Preston. But it did not take long for this big burly boy to surpass them all and outweigh most any pair of the others. His long curly black and white coat sort of matched that of Pepper’s, which may be fitting as the two of them, all 100 pounds of him and eight pound of her are best buddies. They started forming a bond early, maybe due to being the newest to the clan. It is somewhat comical to watch the pair as her feisty little frame darts back and forth in front of him barking and growling while he calmly pants and wags his tail in delight at her playfulness reaching out with his big paw almost the size of her head and gently and playfully “fighting back” with all the kindness of an innocent child.
I frequently tell this “Big Bubba Boy” that it is a shame he is unable to be a lap dog. But that is no deterrent to his attempts to prove otherwise. He will walk up to either my or Cindy’s unoccupied seat, stand for a moment, and as soon as a hand reaches out to stroke his huge head, his big paws hit our lap and he tries to maneuver his bulky frame into the chair with you. Sometimes successful, he is unable to remain for long as it is difficult for the human cushion to breathe under all that canine. And the pressure of his big paws or knees digging into your thighs can be unbearable. But he is just a big baby who adores the attention of the people who invited him to stay.
Yes, six dogs in one household is a lot. But can you ever have too much love in your home? We certainly have a lot here. I look at them and can not help but smile even when they do something that aggravates me to the point of yelling out a name or two. There may be a lot of them, but they are all special.
Having been blessed with 66 years in this life, I know I have less days on this earth than I have lived. I look at Preston’s face turning a bit white and realize that in dog years he has caught up with me and has the same fate. I dread the day he takes his last breath and at times hope he outlives me. And who knows, he might. But whether the Good Lord blesses me with only a few more hours or another 40 years, He has granted me a life full of love. My family, my friends, and my dogs have given me great pleasure, pain, and education to say the least. But the love of all of them has always been immeasurable.
Dogs.
Most people love them, others don’t. Some are just indifferent. Me? I have always been and will always be in the “love them” column.
They say that rescue pets know they’ve been rescued and appreciate it and love you for it. I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is how much I have loved my dogs and how much joy they have brough to my life. It’s hard to imagine what my life would have been like without them. Not every one of my dogs have been rescues, but as you can see, even when some were bought and paid for, most of them were rescued in some way. Going out and purchasing a dog, other than a fine working animal, just does not cut it with me. Before you consider buying a companion, consider researching the rescue of one that might just win your heart. You will not regret it in the least.
Andy.
Blackie.
Smokey.
Porky.
Rocket.
Felver.
Bo.
AJ.
Zig.
Maggie.
Mollie.
Preston.
Murphy.
Daisy.
Mabel.
Pepper.
Sixteen dogs.
Dogs. They make you laugh, they make you cry. They steal your heart, they rip it apart. They cause you to have pride, they cause you to have regrets. They can be a pain in the neck, then melt your heart. One minute you are yelling at them and the next minute laughing at their antics. They are goofy, lazy, hard working, entertaining, frustrating, kind, compassionate, happy, amusing, appreciative, charming, dutiful, exciting, faithful, forgiving, fun-loving, protective, cantankerous, impulsive, and silly. They are beautiful. They all have a personality. They are loving of their masters. They are called “man’s best friend” and with good reason.
The debate on whether or not animals have a soul and go to Heaven is one that I certainly am in no position to have a definite answer. As one of my former pastors put it, God shouts about some things and whispers about others. In this case, it’s a whisper from His Word. But I tend to look at the pets I’ve had over the decades and think how could God create such creatures, give them to us to enjoy, gift them with such personality, and they not have a soul? If they do, it’s one more reason I want to go to Heaven. I want to see all my dogs again.
I want to tumble to the ground with Andy, Smokey, and Blackie licking my face. I want to hunt squirrels with Porky and rabbits with Rocket, this time maybe without bagging them but all of us just happy with the game. I want to watch Felver chase cows who will laugh with us, I want to play fetch with Bo. I want to hear Zig’s little growl before he leaps into my lap and see AJ’s aloof look as she sits in her momma’s. I want to hear Maggie and Mollie in a loud howling session followed by belly rubs. I want to play fetch with Preston and give him continuous love pats. I want to have Murphy sit between my legs. I want Mabel to sleep at my feet. I want Daisy to finally climb up in my lap without fear and give her lots of treats. I want Pepper to give me a bit of her time when her momma is otherwise occupied. I want Beau to climb up in my lap and stay as long as he likes.
So while it may be God’s will that only family and friends will be waiting in my forever home, He has granted me a tremendous lesson in this life. You see, I believe we are like God to our dogs. No, I am not saying we are equal to Him. I feel the lesson comes from the love we have for our furry friends. He loves us like we love them. And He wants us to love Him like they do us – without fail, without expectations, and with all our hearts. I admit I can never match His love. But I sure have felt the love of all the dogs in my life. I can only hope to love them and Our Father as much.
So until I find out for certain, I will pray that “all dogs go to Heaven” and continue to bask in the love, as well as the heartbreak, of those that look up at me and let me know I am the world to them. I hope you have that in your life as well.
Dogs. What a wonderful gift. Thank you, Father, for each and every one.
THE LESSONS OF JOB 