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.