Eventually my dog, Dawg, and I had a big event. He touched me. He touched his nose to my knee and pulled in a big old sniff. Then he backed away to see what I was going to do about it. I didn’t move. I just kept on talking to him. I’m not sure what he was expecting, but that wasn’t it. That sniff was the real beginning of our relationship. Gradually, over a long time, he learned to trust me. Eventually I could even touch him. He learned to love a good scratch behind the ears and on his back. It took months. Dawg had, I came to believe, been badly abused. I was finally able to remove his old, too tight, collar and replace it with a brand new, bright red, properly fitted collar. He never allowed a similar familiarity with anyone else in the family. Not once. He did learn to accept food from my Mom and from Mrs. Robertson, the lady next door, for times when we were gone on multiple day family get-togethers. Dawg was, I think, an ex-farm dog. He got along just fine with cats. Which was a good thing since I had over a dozen at the time. One of my fondest memories of him is looking out the window on a warm Spring day. There was Dawg, sprawled out, head down between his front legs, soaking in the warm sun. Covering him, as it were, with a fine extra warm fur coat were all thirteen of my cats. The youngest kitten was draped over his head like a Davie Crocket coonskin cap. The kitten’s head resting between Dawg’s eyes. Dawg couldn’t have been happier. He was, at that moment, a true two-headed beast. Farm dogs have a justified reputation. Farmers needed fierce, farmstead protective territorial dogs for when they had to be absent for long periods. Dawg’s scarred appearance was well earned by such a lifetime of interactions . He may also have been a participant in illegal local combats in pit arenas. His abilities against others of his species was remarkable considering that he had his lower left canine tooth missing. Not broken off, missing. Still, what he had, he knew how to use effectively. Dawg was free roaming soul. I never attempted to chain him. He still considered it his duty to protect our house, the garage, and the house next door. Mr. Chandler owned the garage, was also our landlord, and appreciated the assistance. Mrs. Robertson was also pleased that Dawg was looking out for her place. When Dawg moved into the neighborhood, break-ins and attempted break-ins simply stopped. The garage, especially, had been a constant target for such skullduggery. I once saw Dawg acting and sounding like an angry chain saw in close proximity to the posterior of a rapidly retreating, well known ner-do-elle. This was remarkable considering the speed with which said posterior was removing itself from the neighborhood. Stories about Dawg began to circulate on the country grapevine gossip express not long after that. I think that perhaps my Dad was responsible for most of them during his Saturday forays at the Chandler Garage informal domino parlor. This weekend gathering of male lights of the community, and where many community decisions were really made, had been an institution for many years. In women’s terms, it was a gossip circle. That was AOK, the women had their circle, too. It was Saturday quilting bees. Both were powerful political influences in our little community. The stories grew after Dawg took on the locally celebrated fighting dog. Neer’s collie was a very nasty and agile fighter. He had been known to kill other dogs. This prize fight I did not see. I only heard brief descriptions later. The Neer family owned and operated the local general store. Neer’s sold everything from hardware, animal feed, block ice, small appliances, kerosine, bulk flour and cornmeal, canned goods, dry goods, several varieties of chewing and smoking tobacco, and sodypop. In the front, facing the street on each side of the entrance, were the spttin’ and whittlin’ benches. These were filled most hours by an assortment of six to eight of the older, retired, or out of work and lookin’ male members of the community. They were time unconcerned and carried their end of the male community gossip responsibility with serious aplomb. Dawg and Neer’s collie met in the street at high noon in front of the store. The s & w Club was agog, agape, and fully attentive, but were also the generators of several variations of the story. Specifics differed, but the outcome was the same. Neer’s collie required an emergency trip to the vet for a large number of stitches after being ripped up one side of the street and and down the other. And there might have been a few pieces gone. Dawg came home with no new cuts in his hide, and with a new dance to his step. By this time, it was common knowledge that Dawg could not be approached by anyone, except me. Not long after the famous fight, the powers “that be” caused it to be proclaimed that a general vaccination of all dogs in the community and countryside was necessary for the purpose of forstaying an expected outbreak of rabies and distemper. The day was appointed and the fee was $2. The place was Neer’s Store. My Dad gave me the $2, and I had the form all filled out. The problem was Dawg. He had never even been on a leash. Dad said that that was my problem, as he had no intention of entering a new career as dog food. The day and time arrived. I got a piece of light cotton rope to use as a lead, and after considerable patience and a lot of talking, convinced Dawg to allow me to attach it to his collar. He even walked with me to the “property line” about half way across the back empty lot to Neer’s. At that arbitrary and invisible line, he stopped. Dawg planted his feet, and sat down. He would not take one more step. He didn’t growl at me. He didn’t snap. He sat like a sphinx, and looked just as immobile. Today, thinking back, I’m sure that Dawg weighed in at about 90 pounds. When he didn’t want to go, it was not going to be an easy task to move him. My efforts to “flesh him out” had been an unqualified success story. His weight and four-footed determination, not to mention the clawed brake pads on his paws, were a lot stronger than my ability to pull him. Even when it chocked him, he was not voluntarily moving past that spot. Not on a lead. A half a block away I could see folks arriving with their dogs, lining up, and then leaving. I grew desperate and was out of ideas. My options seemed slim to none. I was almost ready to give up when inspiration struck. Dawg did not have to walk. I walked over to him, removed the lead, petted him quietly for a bit, leaned down and picked up that big beast. I think Dawg was shocked. He didn’t struggle and resist. I walked him the half block and across the street. I stood in line with my hand on his collar. In my turn I presented myself, the $2, the form, and Dawg to the vet. “I’ve heard of that dog, Son. He’s vicious.” “Not to me he ain’t. Ain’t got a mean bone in his body. ‘Sides, I’ll hold him for you.” The vet only agreed to inoculate Dawg if I’d wrap a bandanna around his muzzle. That was easily accomplished and Dawg got his shots. He didn’t quiver, although he did turn his head and give the vet a silent evil eye. I walked Dawg across the street toward home and that was that.
(c) Copyright 2006: George Wallace recently published a book on religion which lashes out at nearly all of the comfortable ideas about God, the trappings of organized religion, and the priesthood. His pithy comments and suggestions for a return to a God-centered personal religion will interest everyone. This article may be freely reprinted so long as all copyright attributions, and the full content of this resource box are included. www.OhGodIsThatYou.com
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