The Garage Sale Dog

             After taking the children to school one morning, I saw a sign for a garage sale.  I was at the time into collecting old records and bells.  I decided to stop on the way back and see if I could find these items.  It was early and not everything was put out yet.  The lady holding the garage sale kept going in and out of the house bringing things out.  I wasn't the only one stopping early.  The theory on this was, stop early and find the best deals.  Or at least, I thought that was the case.

                I felt an apology necessary, “I hope you don’t mind my coming early.”

                “No.  Not at all!  Just look around and see if you find what you want.  If not, simply ask as I may just not have it out yet."

                It proved to be what I thought; a useless stop.  And so it was for others stopping.  They left before me.  But then, I saw a large box under a tree.  I walked over and saw three little black puppies inside.  I reached out and started to rub one.  The lady had everything out now and saw me bent over the box rubbing a puppy.

                “Would you like a puppy?” she asked.

                “No, we have a dog,” I answered.  “But thank you anyway.”

                I had opened myself up for conversation.  Before I left, I took with me a little black male Labrador retriever puppy.  I didn’t need another dog.   But I still was sure this little fellow would be accepted by the children and husband.  And so, it came about as Scotty became a member of the family.  I wonder how many pets a person can own in a life time.  There always seems to be room for another.

                Scotty did not become an inside dog.  Our other dog, Zundel, was not one either.  The big size dogs lived outside.  Since we had just bought our house, we didn’t yet have a fenced in back yard.  Zundel never went beyond the yard.  She was an older dog now and was more settled in her ways.  Scotty wondered away.  He was always back for feeding though.  We kept fresh water out.  And of course, the food was given at the time of his coming for it.

                I couldn’t wait until that fence was put up around the back yard.  I figured Scotty was becoming a nuisance to some of the neighbors.  Besides, both dogs need that fenced yard.  I couldn’t see chaining either dog.  It seemed wrong.  But I guess others might see allowing a dog to run free as wrong too.  We can’t and don’t always make the right decisions.

                An appointment with a fence company was made.  Because of a heavy back load, it would be a week before the fence would go up.  The fence did finally go up, and one dog would call the back yard its home.  Zundel, who went nowhere, was put in the fenced yard.  But where was Scotty?  He failed to come home.

                I wonder to this day whatever happened to Scotty.  I know after his disappearance and the passing of Zundel, we never got another dog. There are so many ways of disappearing.  There is picked up by a dog pound.   There is an attack by other animals.  There’s the abuse by someone.  And so; the list can go on.  Sometimes it is better not to know.  You can hope the best happened.  He was a pretty dog.  He was so healthy.  I am in hopes that his disappearance came from someone who really cared about dogs and took him as their own.  But still, I wonder, as closure to this day has not come.

Two In One

            It was the early seventies.  When a friend’s poodle, Christopher, had died, she couldn’t wait to get another dog.  Many people find replacing an animal hard to do.  But the friend was married to a workaholic.  After work, her husband attended night classes at an area College.  She was lonely as it was the only way to explain it.  The dog had become a companion.  When visiting her before Christopher’s death, he was all she could talk about.  But then there was talk no more of him, but replaced by tears.  And so when she asked me to go with her to a town several miles from where we lived to purchase a dog, I did agree to go.

            She had learned of pure-bred Spitz puppies for sale through the newspaper.  She had called and sat up a time to go see them.  She had intentions of leaving that day with her a Spitz puppy.  It was a different cry from a gray male poodle she had.

            I had a dog and getting another was not in my plans.  I went only as a friend.   But when seeing the puppies, she suggested I get one.  It was hard to resist the long, thick white fur and pointed ears and muzzle.

            “They’re only twenty-five dollars, she said, “You can afford that!”

            I don’t know how she did it, but I was an easy sell.  Not only did she walk away that day with a new puppy, but so did I.  I didn’t need the dog.  What was I thinking?  The only response by my husband was, “We didn’t need another dog.  We already have one.”

            In the next several weeks to follow, I took care of the dog I named Spitz.  It was like two in one.  I had the breed and the name.  I think maybe my naming the dog from his breed was because I knew I should never have gotten him.  The friend on the other hand loved her new dog.  She began to fill the void that Christopher had left with her new male dog, Spencer.  While on the other hand, I never felt close to Spitz.  I did get all shots for him and had every intention of keeping him.  But my love was always shown to my anniversary gift, my dog Zundel.  This was not fair to Spitz.

            One day I made the decision to find a new owner for Spitz.  I too advertised in the paper hoping to find Spitz a new owner.  I did not charge for him.  I merely stated free and had all shots.  The first call came from a newly married young couple.  They were much like we were once upon a time.  Over the telephone the woman was very talkative, happy, and thrilled to take the dog.  Upon meeting the couple, I knew they would give Spitz a good home.  Upon their leaving, my husband said, “You did the right thing.”

            I never regretted giving Spitz to a new owner.  I was certain that he had found a good home.  After all, the price was right.

            As for my friend, she kept her dog.  When she and her husband moved to Chattanooga, I lost contact with her.  But knowing her, she kept good care of Spencer much like she had Christopher.  It has been so many years since I last saw her and her husband.  They never had children.  And to many people, a pet does become one’s baby.  Knowing how she is, she has a deep love for dogs.  I can’t ever imagine her being without one.

What's In a Name?

Zundel at 6 years old with our first born child.

            It’s like naming your baby.  A pet in many cases is your baby.  You come up with that name that will last a life time.  A baby generally gets that most popular name given newborns at the time.  But a pet comes from oneself.  It’s like your own original idea.  The popular names out there may be your Bingo, Fido, and Lassie.  But you’re not looking for one of them.  And so; it was the case with my wedding gift.  We were just married and far from considering having that baby.

            “What can I get you for your first year anniversary?” asked my new husband.

            “But I don’t want anything,” I assured him.  “You’re all I need.”

            But he questioned further and simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.

            “Okay, I’ve always wanted my own puppy.”

            And so it was, we went to the only place we knew that we thought would have what we wanted.  We made a trip to the humane society.  We saw all the puppies and even grown dogs they had to offer.  We had plans of not leaving that day until we adopted one.  A puppy was what we came for and so we focused on them.  The perfect puppy would jump out at us.  And she did.  There was a puppy more active than the rest.  Where the paper came from, I had no idea.  But this one puppy was chewing on a piece of paper.  It was a little black puppy.  I never asked the breed.  She was the one I wanted and that was all that mattered at the time.

            “I want that one.”  I said.  I never dreamed that the chewing on the paper would wind up being a dog who would like to chew on things.  Marriage was a new thing to me.  And being an owner of my own dog was too.  Time would take care of both.

            “What do you want to name her?” asked my husband.  “It’s your dog and the naming is yours too.”

            “It’s Zundel!”  I quickly responded.

            “Where did that name come from?”

            “I had a friend once with that last name.”

            “Well, Zundel it is.”

            And so we left that day with Zundel.  What followed was an inside dog.  We got her spayed as outside she would sometimes go.  When asked what her name was by neighbors and such, I always got a strange reaction.  It may have been a strange name.  But it was my choice.

            One time my husband’s mother came for a visit.  She was from Texas and spent a week with us.  She was trying to make conversation with me often.  I knew from the start mother-in-law did not like me.  This is common sometimes with mother-in-laws.  But before she left and went back to Texas, she would manage to dig the hole a little deeper.

            She let Zundel outside and when wanted her back inside, she yelled for her.

            “Come here, Zundel!”  She apparently couldn’t let it go without turning to me and asking, “Who gave that dog such a dumb name?”

            “I did!”  I replied.

            Things got quiet and my mother-in-law walked out to bring Zundel inside.  The name of our pet is the name we give them.  It may be strange or dumb to others. We don’t have to ask approval.  Although Zundel and mother-in-law are both gone, the memory lingers.  A smile still comes to my face.

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.