Faster Than Lightening

            We lived on a farm.  With it brought a constant flow of stray cats and dogs.  Whether someone just dropped them off or they came on their own, we were never without a pet.  We thought we really had something the day a male Dalmatian dog came to live with us.

“I wonder whose dog it is?” asked Mother.

            Since my parents ran a little country grocery store, my Mother was sure someone would come asking for their dog.  And she would not be without asking each customer if it was their dog.  It seemed back in the early sixties that everybody knew everybody else in some way.  The best advertisement was word of mouth.

            But it was no matter how good this advertisement was; no one came asking for the dog.  And so the white coat with dark spots became known as Spotty.  He would remain our dog.  He did nothing outstanding.  He ate and slept.  He never went anywhere beyond our yard.  He had found him a home to live out his life.  There was an outstanding trait the dog did have though.  One of his eyes had a large scratch.  Mother always said he probably got too close to a cat.  But that somehow seemed unlikely as Spotty went about his way having nothing to do with our cats.  But Spotty had another outstanding trait to his personality as we would soon learn about.

            We had storms off and on during the summer months.  But one day a very strong and fierce one came up.  The thunder was so loud and the lightening was almost like it entered the house with every flash.  When it was all over, we went to check on our livestock.  In doing so, we noticed Spotty was gone. 

            “Now where did that dog go?” Mother asked.

            And she kept asking that question on up for about two weeks.

            One day a farmer came into the store.  He lived about a mile away.  He had acres and acres of land.  And not always did he get out to checking all his property too often.  An old barn stood right in the middle.  He entered the barn and saw a dog living there.

            Mother, without questioning him too much, replied, “I bet its Spotty.  May we ride over and see?”

            “Sure, go ahead.”

            Upon arriving at the barn, we didn’t even bother going in.  Mother just yelled out, “Come here Spotty.”

            From the barn came running Spotty with wagging tail and all.

            We all laughed when Mother said, “I guess Spotty is scared of thunderstorms.  That may well be what brought him to us in the first place.  He ran and ran faster than that lightening.  He didn’t stop running until he found shelter in that barn,” she laughed.  And I remember even myself laughing.  It was to us comical, yet I can’t help but wonder what goes through the mind of an animal when he comes face to face with fear.

            From that day on when a storm was coming, not only did we plan to take shelter, but we made sure Spotty took shelter as well.  He didn’t have much worth on the farm.  But with any animal, you learn to love them.  There is no value placed on love.  We did love Spotty.

Whitey

          I am a baby boomer.  I’ve been around for many years.  I’ve seen and done that.  As I sit writing and remembering the pets from all those years, it becomes amazing to me that I remember every one of them.  I am one that can’t remember a co-worker’s name.  I am one who can’t remember a classmate’s name from High school and College.  Could it be that I have ran into so many people over a life time that I can’t remember them all?  But animals, I do remember them all.  There is something about a pet that may stand out more.  There was such a pet.  It was a dog. It was one who brings back a sad memory.    

          His name was Whitey.  You guessed it.  He got his name from being entirely white.  He was long haired.  As far as breed, I never knew.  It seemed back in my era of growing up, a dog was a dog.  We didn’t worry about breed.  One day Whitey came to live with us. My parents ran a country grocery store.  He just drifted up one day.  Apparently he was a stray.  He would stay with us only briefly.  We never found his owner and so we kept him.  He liked to play with us kids.  He was constantly around us.  It was obvious that who owned him before, may have had children.  He was so gentle.  He was not too far out of the puppy stage.  He could have had a long life ahead of him.  But our living on the main road became a problem for Whitey.         

          When a car came along the road, Whitey took out running.  He chased that car until the person evidently speeded up faster than Whitey’s legs could carry him.  There was no breaking Whitey from this.  We tried many times to hold him.  But he got free from us.  We never considered chaining him.  That was no life for a dog living in the country.       

          It was around 7 P.M. on a Saturday night.  My parents were inside waiting on customers.  I was on the store porch with two of my brothers.  Whitey was trying to get us to play.  But then something caught his eye.  Along the road came a car and Whitey took out running.  We heard a loud cry from him and we took off running.  He had managed somehow to get in front of the car and the car ran over him.  The driver never even stopped.  Even I could tell Whitey was hurt badly.  He was removed from the road and laid in a comfortable area.  I think Mother saw a vet would be of no use.                 

          “If Whitey is still alive come morning, I’ll take him to the vet,” said Mother.       

          And come morning, Whitey was gone.  He was my first experience with death.  I was mad at Mother for not taking him to the vet that night.  But living on a farm all her life, I think she knew Whitey was not going to make it.                                                    

          I visited Whitey’s gravesite daily.         

          Today, when I see any dog chase a car, I think of Whitey.   I can be driving along our subdivision and a dog run out.  What makes a dog chase a car?  There are a lot of them that do it.   And so it is, not only with a dog, any of God’s creatures that cross the road, I take every possible step to avoid hitting. The memory of that grief so many years ago became a lesson of life. Whitey managed to live a long life after all.  He lives in my memory.

Old Jim

             My husband saw the dog on one of the busiest streets in Nashville.  He was at work and saw the dog from his office window overlooking Broadway.  Others saw him, too, and a discussion began.

            “He’s going to get hit by a car!” They all seemed to be in agreement.  It was a very real possibility.

            My husband spoke up.  “The dog doesn’t seem to have an owner.  Just how he got out there, I don’t know.  But if he’s still dodging in and out of traffic when I get off work, I’ll put him in the car and take him home.”

            The dog, of course, was still there at quitting time.  My husband opened his car door and called to him, “Here puppy! Here puppy!” Without hesitation, the dog came running.  Once he was safely inside the car, my husband drove him to our home. 

            Upon entering our apartment, my husband called to me, “Honey, I have a surprise for you!”

            I was so excited.  “Where is it?” I asked as I began searching his pockets. 

            “It’s not here,” he laughed.  “It’s in the car.  Wait a minute and I’ll get it.”

            He had a great big smile on his face when he returned.  “Here it is!” he said, showing me the dog. 

            “It’s a dog!”  I exclaimed.  I was surprised indeed.  “We can’t keep a dog.  They don’t allow dogs in the apartment.  Besides, it looks like one of those duck-hunting dogs.  We don’t hunt.”  I laughed.  “What’s a hunting dog doing on a main street in Nashville?”

            “I don’t know,” my husband admitted.  “He looks like he’s still young- just barely out of his puppy-hood.  I thought of your mother living alone on a farm.  She could use a good dog like this.  Call her and ask here if she wants him.  We’ll drive up to Springfield and take him to her,” he said with a smile. 

            As I was telling my Mother about the dog over the telephone, I began to sense that she was weakening in her decision. 

            “I haven’t had a dog since our last one passed away,” she said. “I said I would never get another dog, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt.  You say it’s a puppy?”

            “Yes, but he’s almost grown, I think.  He looks a bit like a yellow Labrador retriever.  He’s got the blonde coloring, but it’s lighter in some areas.”

            “Well, bring him here.  I’ll take him.”

            When we arrived at Mother’s, the dog ran out of the car as soon as we opened it for him.  It was as if the dog knew he was home.  He beat us to the front porch where he found himself a place to lay down.”

            Mother stepped outside.  “Where is the puppy you brought me?” She asked. 

            “He’s right over there, lying down,” I pointed.  “I guess he’s home.”

            Mother started laughing.  “That’s the puppy?” she asked incredulously.  “Do you kids know anything about dogs?  That’s no puppy.  Look at the white on his face. You brought me an old dog.”

            “But he’s not that big.”

            “Not all Labradors get big, especially if they’re not purebreds; and this one is obviously not a purebred.”

            “I guess we could take him somewhere else…”

            “No, no.  He’s here now.  I’ll keep him.  He can live out his golden years in comfort.  He’s not going to be much use on the farm, though.  He’ll just be another mouth to feed,” she said, while shaking her head.

            I really felt bad about taking the dog to Mother.  My siblings teased me endlessly, over the next several weeks, for giving Mother that old dog.  They laughed at me and my husband for not knowing the dog was old.  Mother even named him “Old Jim.” I was a little hurt when I found out what she’d named him. 

            “Old Jim” did well to get around in the yard.  For an old dog, he sure dodged cars on that busy downtown Nashville street the day my husband found him.  Now that he had retired to a country home, he barely moved.  Boy, he’d sure had us fooled.  Mother took good care of him, though.  She didn’t seem to regret feeding him, even though his worth on the farm didn’t amount to much.  Perhaps she enjoyed his companionship. 

            On a farm, chores must be done, and Mother had hogs that needed feeding.  On one particular day, Mother took their usual feed in buckets and began pouring it out for them.  She wasn’t paying much attention to things around her. But, as she looked down at her feet, she froze.  A long black snake slithered between her feet, and she screamed.  “Old Jim” heard her scream and came running. 

            Mother told the story many times afterward.  You could tell that she spoke about “Old Jim” as if he were a hero.  “He grabbed that snake and went to shaking him.  He held him tightly around the neck.  The snake never once tried to bite him.  When “Old Jim” stopped shaking it, he dropped it.  I got away from it quickly, but I glanced back to watch and make sure it wasn’t coming after me.  “Old Jim” didn’t take his eyes off of it. When I pulled my emotions together, I cautiously stepped closer to it again and realized that “Old Jim” had killed it.  When I breathed a sigh of relief, “Old Jim” began to wag his tail!  I reached out my hand and rubbed him.  I couldn’t believe the old dog had come running like that!”

            Over time, my siblings continued teasing us over not knowing the dog was old and giving him to Mother.  But “Old Jim” had won over the only heart that mattered.  My husband and I began to feel a little bit of pride over bringing the dog to Mother.  “Old Jim” had been given a home where he was truly appreciated.          

           

Christmas Surprise

This was written by my daughter, Teresa Bartock, a few years ago. She said that I could share it on my blog.

            Growing up, I was a cat lover and didn’t care for dogs at all.  My husband, on the other hand, was a dog lover.  Of course, when we lived in an apartment, I won the battle since we didn’t have a yard of our own.  When we bought our house, I finally gave in and let him get a dog.  His choice was a purebred Siberian Husky, which he named Snyder.  After we got Snyder, my attitude about dogs didn’t really go in the direction my husband had hoped for.  It seemed to me that Snyder would do anything and everything that he could in order to make me mad.  It wasn’t until I met Santana that my attitude began to change. 

In December 2009, I was laid off from my job.  At that time, we had 4 cats and a dog to feed.  With my husband also being laid off earlier in the year, I was unsure what we were going to do.  I did know for sure that I would do whatever I could to take care of our little family and there was no possible way I would ever get rid of my babies.  

  The day after my layoff, my husband and I were heading out to go to the store.  As we walked to the car, I noticed something strange in the backyard.  I started to walk towards it and noticed that it moved.  It was a cute, scared little puppy.  I have a 6 ft chain linked fence around my backyard with a lock on the gate, so the first thing I wondered was how this little dog managed to get in back there.  I knew there was no way this puppy could have climbed the fence and after walking around the yard I didn’t see where he could have dug underneath the fence either.  There was only one thing that we could conclude from this.  Someone had to have put him in our backyard during the night or real early that morning. 

We quickly went into the backyard to see how this puppy would react to us.  He was a little scared, but was a very sweet puppy.  My husband and I spent all morning talking about what we should do.  With unemployment rate at a high, we assumed that whoever put him in our backyard was probably in the same dilemma that we were in.  They probably couldn’t afford to take care of him, but didn’t have the heart to take him to the pound.  We assumed that they saw Snyder running around our backyard on several occasions and thought that we would give this puppy a good home as well. 

We took a leap of faith on the fact that we would soon be employed again.  We decided to keep the puppy, which I decided to name Santana.  After a few short weeks, I noticed a significant change in Snyder’s behavior.  It was as if, all this time, Snyder just needed a little brother to play with.  Snyder is still hyper, but no longer destructive.  And Santana is the lazy puppy.  The two of them are complete opposites, and are totally inseparable.   

Without that leap of faith, I would have never experienced why dogs are called “man’s best friend.”  His previous owner will never know how Santana has changed our family for the better.  This former dog-hater now gladly calls herself a dog lover.  That Christmas we may not have been able to give presents, but we sure received a great one.                 

Curly

1966 - Curly and one of my brothers

            She was one of four puppies pulled from the creek.  The water had been low and the puppies were stranded on a small island in the middle. Back along the creek, my Aunt and her family were about to move into a house.  We were just wasting time before everyone got there, and that’s why we were looking down off of the bridge and saw them.

            “Mother, look, there are puppies down there,” we yelled.  “Can we keep them?”

            “We can’t keep them,” she replied and glanced over the railing.  “We’ll get them out of there, though.  We’ll bring them to safety and find them good homes.”

            My older brother was the first to get down there.  He waded into the waist-deep water and one by one, he brought the puppies to us. 

            “How did they get there?” I asked. 

            “I guess someone didn’t want them,” Mother replied.  “That’s okay.  We’ll take care of them now.”
            My three brothers and I stood, each holding a puppy.  We kept asking, “Can we please keep them?”

            “No.  We can’t keep four dogs,” Mother said firmly.  But just as soon as she said it, her face softened and she seemed to have a change of heart.  “I’ll let you keep just one of them.  You decide among yourselves which one you want to keep.  We’ll find homes for the rest of them.”

            We still had to help our Aunt’s family with moving in and unpacking.  We put the puppies in a room to keep them safely out of our way.  We checked on them constantly, as we were anxious to get them home to play with them.  When the time finally came to leave, we each grabbed a puppy. 

            They were so cute.  They all had long black hair with just a little white under the neck.  They all looked alike, and that made it all the harder for us to choose which one we would keep.  Yet, upon closer inspection, one of them stood out.  It was a little female whose black hair was curly.  We all agreed that she was the one to keep and we named her Curly. 

            We found that giving away the other three wasn’t hard at all.  We lived on a farm and every farm could consider a dog to be a good asset.  So we asked around among the neighbors. I always got tickled when I overheard Mother talking to someone about them.

            “What kind of breed are they?” someone would ask.

            “They are mixed.  Maybe a little Collie or a little bit Sheep dog, or maybe a bit of Retriever.”  My mother wasn’t much read up on dog breeds.  Inevitably, she would end the conversation with.  “The dog is a Sooner.  It would sooner be one kind as another.”

            I guess it truly didn’t matter what kind they were because Mother gave them away rather quickly. 

            So that was how it came to be that we kids got our first Sooner dog.  We already loved that dog.  Even Mother expressed love toward our new family member.  The hard sell came with my Daddy.

            “We don’t need that dog here!” he’d say.  “You need to find it a home, too.”
            We had all kinds of livestock on our farm.  One more animal wasn’t going to make that much of a difference.  I wonder sometimes if Curly knew how Daddy felt.  From the start, Curly didn’t want much to do with us kids.  She wanted our Daddy.  He couldn’t go anywhere that she didn’t follow.  If he drove the truck across our property, she would chase behind him.  He often complained about her attentiveness. 

            “I wish that dog would stop following me,” he grumbled.  “You kids need to chain her up somewhere.”

            We knew that Daddy didn’t mean it.  He would never admit that he actually loved the attention Curly was giving him.  It was just in his nature to complain about it. 

            Every summer, we picked and sold blackberries.  We’d go in one direction and Daddy would go in another.  Mother didn’t like any of us going alone.  There was a danger of snakes around blackberries.  She didn’t worry so much about Daddy, since Curly was with him. Heroism is defined as extreme courage and although Curly never had to show any, we all knew that she would never allow any harm to come to Daddy.

            My Daddy married my Mother with a twenty year difference in age.  When I was born, he was 57 and she was 37.  Curly became our dog just before Daddy reached 70 years old.  I wonder to this day if Curly had picked my Daddy as her master because he needed her the most.  It just wasn’t safe for him to go places alone anymore, and Curly made sure that he didn’t.  If he went to the fields to work, she went along and stayed with him the entire time he was out there.  If Daddy helped some of the neighbors out by working on their farms, Curly was there.  She wasn’t about to let Daddy out of her sight. 

            Sometimes we were jealous, because she was meant to be our dog.  Often someone would ask, “Hey, where’s your Daddy?”

            Our reply was always the same.  “He’s off somewhere with Curly.”

            Daddy is gone now and so is Curly.  However, the fond memories of them still linger with me.  I can still see Daddy coming from the field with Curly bounding ahead of him.  I never once saw Daddy pet or praise her.  He always claimed that he never wanted us to have that dog.  Ironically, we never did have that dog.  She was his best friend.  Maybe when they were alone, he scratched her behind the ears a time or two.  I like to think he did.       

Trapper

           This was written by my daughter, Karen Gillespie, a few years ago. She said that I could share it on my blog.

            Andrew had just finished only months before his last season of playing minor league baseball. He was now eight. But next spring he would turn nine. It meant his moving on to a little league team. He would also move to a new location. The old ball field he played at would no longer be used.

            One Saturday in October Andrew approached me and asked.  “Mom, can we visit the old ball field one last time?”

            Since I had encouraged him all along in playing, I could hardly refuse to take him there.   

            “Sure we can,” I replied.  “Let me tell your father we are going so he’ll watch your sisters.”

            Upon entering the parking lot to the old ball field, I noticed instantly that it was now taken over by tall grass.  But yet the diamond was still intact.  Andrew ran on in front of me and soon he was screaming with excitement as he pretended to hit a ball and run the bases. 

            “It’s a home run!” yelled Andrew at the top of his lungs.  He did this many times until I yelled for him to come on.

            “We need to go home now,” I said.  I thought I would get a little discouraged reaction but instead Andrew ran on ahead of me.

“Mom,” he yelled, “Come here!”

            I rushed towards him as I saw him leaning over a hole.

            “Look Mom.  It’s a dog in the hole.”

            A circled hole from where a utility pole had once occupied did indeed now hold a dog.

            “How are we going to get him out?”

            “We need rope,” I said.

            I drove back home.  I told my husband we’ll be back shortly.  I grabbed some dog food and water in case we got him out.  I knew he would be hungry.

            Soon we were leaning over the hole again.

            “I’ll tie the rope with a loop at the end,” I told Andrew.

            “Is it going to work?” asked Andrew.

            “We’ll find out,” I said.  “We can keep trying until it does.”

            As I leaned over the hole, it was obvious to me the dog had been there awhile.  The smell from the hole was strong.  This dog has a strong will to live.

            After many attempts, the dog finally raised himself high enough to get caught in the loop.  I pulled him out.  I pulled him a distance from the hole and let the rope drop.  The dog, a light brown terrier, wiggled himself free.  Meanwhile, Andrew covered the hole with brush.

            Leaving food and water, we left that field.  And the whole time Andrew kept turned in his seat to watch, until finally silence ended.

            “Do you think we will ever see Trapper again?”

            “Trapper?” I asked.

            “He was trapped and so that’s why I named him Trapper.

            As I smiled, I replied, “I think you just might.”
            We revisited the ball field occasionally thereafter.  We never saw Trapper again.  From being in that hole for a while, we knew we faced a deranged animal that day.  His growl had us keeping our distance.  We had done our part in rescuing him and the rest was then up to him.  With houses set back in the woods across the street, we found comfort in our belief that his instinct for survival had taken over.  Trapper had headed straight home.