A severe warning to the reader: this story begins and ends very badly and sadly. If the Scottish proverb is true, this "confession will be good for my soul."
I recently exchanged e-mails with a friend concerning our canine companions. I had asked the rhetorical question, "What is it about dog stories that touch us so deeply?" After considering his reply which involved unconditional love (on the part of the pooch), I was jolted into remembering the incidents of my youth which changed my attitude toward canines: from it's "just a dog" to a genuine appreciation of cherishing the times I shared with "man's best friend."
PART I
My family was living in a duplex in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The house faced an extremely busy thoroughfare, but it was 1952, and the canine residents of the neighborhood were pretty much free to roam the streets since leash laws had not come into vogue. The city legislators were probably busy doing things which were way outside of my 9 year old comprehension of what mayors and councilmen did. (Now that I think about it, I'm still not real sure what our elected officials really do to make a community run more smoothly.)
I had a reminder above my left eye which was the result of an unleashed shepherd mix that nailed me as I tried to push my way past him. Actually, Teddy took exception to my intentionally kneeing him in an effort to enter the grocery store across the street from our house; a pretty good indication of my level of disrespect for our four footed friends. That small scar was of no consequence compared to the wound in my heart which would occur when I returned home from school later that fall. My mother informed me that our beloved Smooth Fox Terrier had been hit crossing the street, and when she had attempted to pull Mickey out of the traffic by his tail as he lay there in the street, someone had actually sped up and run over him again. Devastating... actually bordering on the obscene. Since I did not witness the tragedy, and did not really contribute to his demise (other than not protecting the dog by tying him up in our meager side yard) the whole thing seemed a horrible consequence outside of my control.
I was afforded an opportunity to salve my emotional injury a few months later. It may have been the chance to atone for my subconscious feelings of guilt for not taking better care of Mickey. My dad and our neighbor had taken me on one of their weekend rabbit hunting excursions. I was along to stroll in line with them through the fields, and learn the technique of pausing every twenty steps or so. Any bunnies sitting in the little hiding places would apparently think they had been spotted, and explode from their tiny hollowed out pockets of weeds.
As we walked, several places where rabbits had recently sat could be observed snugly up against the cut corn stalks, with fresh droppings deposited in the small oval shaped nestlike areas. My father was capable of actually seeing the bunnies in their camouflaged lairs, spotting their eyes as we walked... I never mastered this skill, and even though he would call me over to see where they were sitting, I seldom was able to discern the shape of our prey on the ground. I always figured it was because he was blessed with blue eyes, and my brown irises (inherited from my mother) were incapable of similar sharpness. My hunting companions never shot sitting rabbits, so the cottontails were always given a "sporting chance" by prodding them with a boot toe, but since sixteen and twelve gauge shotguns were being carried, the flying lead seldom missed the mark. The harvested rabbits were an almost necessary supplement to the table fare at our households, and we collected several that day.
Remnants of previous snowfalls created a patchwork of icy white and muddy brown as we stomped through the cornfield stubble, and something larger was seen moving in the corn rows. It was a medium sized dog which was on the verge of starvation. He was a terrier-hound mix, mostly white with a black off center saddle marking on his back, and a brown head and ears. He blended in well with the colors of the field, and he seemed hesitant to let us approach him, moving off away from us when we came near. Most obvious about his appearance were his backbone, ribs, and hips protruding from his body: he was in sorry shape. My dad suggested we field dress a couple of the rabbits and toss him some of the vitals, to see if his obvious hunger would overcome his fear of us. It worked.
The dog wolfed down the offerings, but did not growl or show any sign of aggressive behavior... which would have been expected since he was emaciated from not having eaten in several days, maybe a couple of weeks or more. He was still a little skittish about coming too close to us, but he followed us around for the rest of the morning, probably hoping for another gourmet feast. He did get the idea that we were hunting, and when a rabbit jumped from the stubble, he took off after it, not exactly bellowing, but barking with a throaty yelp.
Cottontails, pursued by dogs, have a very predictable habit of making a large circle in the brush, coming back to within a short distance of where they started. My dad knew this, and said we should stay where we were, because if we let the dog go at his pace, the loop would be completed in our vicinity, and one of the two gun carriers would get a shot. We stood still, but the pursuit headed off in a different direction: towards a fence row and a swale far across the cornfield. The openness of the landscape where we stood apparently didn't permit enough cover for the bunny to stay far enough ahead of its pursuer... unless it kept up a sprinter's breakneck speed. By achieving the shelter of the growth along the fence, the dog would be forced to follow the trail by scent instead of sight. The rabbit could slow down to a more leisurely pace, the obstacles in the dog's way also slowing him down.
We could hear the continued howl of the dog, and it became fainter as he entered the swale. My father seemed to be indecisive about heading over to the woodsy depression to see what would happen next. So we walked straight ahead to the end of the cornfield, then back again several rows over to the right, and finally back along the fence row to the termination of the field. Dad and our neighbor harvested several more rabbits during the coverage of the stubble and were approaching their limits, so our hunt was almost over. As we started the last walk through, I noticed we could not hear the dog's barking anymore.
I recall having a sinking feeling that we would not see the pooch again, and my father pointing out firmly that we were losing light and had a long drive home. Besides, it was probably somebody's pet, it may have headed for home, and it wouldn't be right to just take it... its owner could show up looking for his lost hound. None of this really flew with me, and I was starting to believe he wasn't interested in having another mouth to feed at our house, especially one in as bad a shape as this one was.
As we walked the last part of the fence row, we flushed two hen pheasants. No shots were fired, since the brownish birds were not legal game. If the birds had been roosters, their explosion from the weeds would have been met with a fusillade from my hunting companions... pheasant was a real delicacy around our house. And they were very difficult to hunt, especially without a dog. The birds tended to run and run, apparently realizing that taking flight would expose them to the flying pellets sent in their direction. Having a dog, either of the flushing or pointing variety, meant the pheasants would hold in the cover until the hunter could get close enough for a shot. As large as the birds were, you would think they would be easy to hit, but they were not. They looked like B-52's to me, but perhaps the noise of the wings during the launch, accompanied by the cackling the roosters made as they took off, was too much for the shooter to handle. I do know I learned some new words when the pheasants were missed.
And I got to use my expanded vocabulary myself when I was thrashing through the briars and brambles on pheasant hunts. Since I substituted as the dog when we were hunting for ringnecks I would act as a beater or driver, and the shooters would wait at the other end of whatever section looked like it might contain birds. My dad and his hunting buddies would send me through the underbrush, and this method would be very successful... when they could actually hit the emerging pheasants which would take to the air on the far side. My forays were always successful in marking any uncovered skin with scratches and cuts, and bruises on my shins and forearms were usually the result of my bushwhacking through the underbrush. But I wouldn't have missed these hunting trips into the Michigan outdoors, and actually considered the minor wounds as badges of honor.
My dad and our neighbor were busying themselves with unloading and breaking down their shotguns. As I was scraping the mud off my boots on a fence post, I noticed the dog had shown up and was zigzagging in the field way up the fence row. He appeared to be tracking our boot prints on the left side of the field and was heading in my direction. I called out to him, and he stopped, raised his head, and started trotting in a straight line towards me, his tail wagging behind him.
As he was approaching to about 30 yards away, he stopped, put his nose to the ground, and made an immediate right turn towards the fence. He froze with his head up, looking into the brush. He made another move toward the fence, then another lunge, and suddenly a cock pheasant burst into the air, flying directly over my head, and then over the car where the two now gunless hunters stood. Oh, if we had only waited for the dog earlier! Our Sunday dinner table would have been graced with roast pheasant as only my mother could prepare!
I spoke to the pooch, lavishing as much praise upon him as I could, and he responded by slinking over to me, head lowered, and I touched him for the first time, stroking his ears and petting his bony back. I noticed that the tip of his tail was bloodied, probably from whipping it against the underbrush during his unsuccessful pursuit of the rabbit in the swale. He responded to my affection in a very submissive manner, rolling over and permitting me to scratch his belly. As far as I was concerned, the deal was sealed.
My hunting partners were watching from the area of the car where they were loading the game jackets and rabbits into the trunk. My dad had an amused look on his face and I guessed he had resigned himself to the trip home with another passenger in the back seat. The dog followed me towards the car, stopping to relieve himself near the fence. The scat which he deposited was almost all corn and grasses, and it was obvious these indigestible staples (to a dog) were all he that had filled his belly with during his abandonment.
I fell asleep during the ride home, the dog slept on the floor on my hunting jacket on the passenger's side in the back seat. At one point I awoke and my dad jokingly questioned me what I had back there. After I meekly answered "the dog," he asked me what was going to name him. "I dunno," was my answer. He suggested I call him "Spike." Where that offering came from I never knew, but "Spike" it was from that point on. I fell back to sleep and I am sure I dreamed of many successful future seasons with my new hunting companion.
PART II
To my way of thinking, all dogs' life stories end tragically. Even under the best of circumstances, the life expectancy of a canine does not approach that of its human master, so at some point the demise of the dog can be expected... or you as the owner might expire before the dog. This would be true particularly if you're an old codger when you take responsibility of the animal. In which case, hopefully somebody, somewhere (other than the canine) will feel some sense of loss when you're gone. Anyway, I've lost two dogs to accidental poisoning (in one case I suspect a neighbor did it intentionally), one to a car accident (as was the case of Mickey at the beginning of this writing), and had to have 3 put to sleep due to terminal cancerous tumors. I did give four dogs to other people (after a thorough background check), so I don't know how they passed. To me, even one which "dies peacefully in sleep... of old age" is woeful, probably because as my numbers of years add up, life becomes more precious.
Spike's death was by far the most painful, which I'll get to at the end of this ramble. Of course it could be said he should have starved to death in that Michigan cornfield, but he didn't, and his life with my family turned out pretty good. We nursed Spike back to health by simply providing him with a nourishing diet. He was also protected from the cars which whizzed by on the street in front of our house by being chained to his dog house in the side yard when he was left alone. On week days, he joined me and my friends doing what kids do after school. And the weekends in fall and winter were spent hunting, where he more than justified our decision to transport him back to our house that winter day.
Summertime saw Spike balloon to forty plus pounds, but he seemed to know when hunting season was approaching, because the weight seemed to melt off him just prior to our first outing. He was a good rabbit dog, and my dad's prediction of letting him go in pursuit while we waited for the bunny's circuitous return proved accurate. When my 12th birthday came, I was given a single shot 20 gauge shotgun, and although pulling the hammer back took a lot of time, requiring real concentration and all the strength I could muster, I was able to collect many rabbits who would show up leisurely hopping along way out in front of the baying dog.
Spike's tracking style changed quite a bit when he was on a pheasant's scent, and he seemed to be aware we had to be relatively close to him if we were to bag the birds. He would continually check over his shoulder to see if we were within shooting range, and although he was indeed a flush dog, he stiffened up and paused before plunging in to send the pheasant into the air. The exclamation "he's birdy!" was heard countless times in the field, and we could almost leisurely stroll over to where he was sniffing the ground to position ourselves for a shot. And he found downed and wounded pheasants for us... even retrieving them without mauling the bird, delivering them still alive to hand. When I traded my single shot in for a 16 gauge double barrel I started to participate in actually providing pheasant for the Sunday meal... one of the proudest days of my life.
My father was transferred to St Louis in 1956, and the Missouri countryside was absolutely overrun with cottontails. The rabbit hunting season was year round, so Spike was kept sleek, agile, and mobile through the spring and summer months. We moved to a rural location outside of St Charles, and it was no longer necessary to confine him with a chain to his doghouse. He still hung out in the vicinity of our home, staying close to human companionship... a lesson apparently learned from being abandoned before.
The real bonus of being relocated to a more southern state was the bobwhite quail which we had not experienced in Michigan. If Spike could be considered to be good on rabbits... and better on pheasants... he was an outstanding quail dog. The bobwhites moved through the fields in coveys, and attempting to flush them without a dog was almost impossible. Plus, without any forewarning of their presence in the brush, their explosion from cover always created major confusion. Single or double pheasant's flushing was unsettling, but a covey of quail rising all around the unaware hunter was positively unhinging.
So, when Spike got "birdy" in Missouri, everyone in our hunting party was on the ready when he paused, and then moved in with the short lunges forward. The limits for harvest and possession of the birds were pretty liberal, but it was extremely rare for my dad and me to come home with twenty between us, or to have forty in the freezer. This was way before "tree hugging" and strict conservation became the politically correct things to do. We tended to police ourselves from pursuing a flock until we had wiped it out. We generally would have the dog flush a covey, and then maybe continue after the group one more time, collecting a couple of quail (if we were lucky) with each encounter... doubles being extremely rare. That way the core of the flock would remain intact, free to reproduce and ensure future productive hunting trips.
The bobwhite season ran from mid-November through the end of January. Although snowfall was not as prevalent in Missouri as it was in Michigan, we still got our share of below freezing weather. This meant the fields were dotted with icy spots, and those areas were tough on the dog, many times resulting in cuts on his paws. Hunt, hurt, and heal were the bywords of those two and a half months. Spike spent much of his time mid-week licking the pads of his feet, but even though he may not have completely recovered on Saturday mornings, he was up and ready to go as soon as the gun cases were loaded in the car. It was obvious he would rather hunt "hurt," and skip the "heal" part.
Since the quail season was relatively short, we still spent much of the fall and the late winter rabbit hunting. Then in the late spring of 1957, just before my 14th birthday, I mistook Spike for a rabbit in heavy brush... and I shot him dead. The horror of the moment was almost too much to get my thoughts around. My dad said he died happy... doing what he loved. I had only seen my father with tears in his eyes on one occasion: when his mother had passed. But he teared up pretty good while we buried Spike on that hillside. And I was inconsolable. I am still shaken by the event, which is proven by my need to now confess publicly over 50 years later.
So Spike only lived for a year in Missouri. It was an accident, but that really is no excuse. If there is any good that came from all this, it may be that I have been imprinted with the absolute necessity for strict gun safety. And, I am resolved to give back the unconditional love which dogs give to their masters. The biggest drawback has been my hesitation to take another dog into my life. My youngest son, who was a professional athlete, once said when a coach is hired; he is one step closer to being fired. I see a parallel here, in that when you take on the accountability for an animal, you are opening the door to the tragedy of the demise of the beast.
So why would I ever want to own a dog again? While it is true our family has had several over the succeeding years, I never really considered any of them "my" dog. They were always "my Dad's dog," or my "sister's dog," or the "kid's dog." I am sure I was afraid of the responsibility and feared the ultimate end of the relationship. And it was true that all of their passings were tragic.
Well, I have taken custody of a dog again... which I received as an aftermath of one of my kids' divorce. Her name is Lion Princess Skylar O'Bailjake. She is a magnificent four year old Golden Retriever... and the most "needy" puppy I have ever known. Whether I made her that way because I have spoiled her (giving as much unconditional love as I can)... or if God knew I needed her to make up for my past transgression... I will never know. Because I am the aforementioned "old codger," (at least to my children and grandchildren), it may well happen that Sky will outlive me... so the race is on. Please Lord; don't require me to write another similar story.
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