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SPOT EVERY BOY SHOULD HAVE A DOG It would be impossible for me to give an accurate account of my childhood days without including the vivid memories of my best friend, loyal playmate and constant companion Spot. Spot was a purebred rat terrier given to me at an early age. The first dog that I can remember was a white and brown young collie. This was in my pre-school days, and as I remember, it was in the fall of the year. With my brother and sisters away at school I spent many hours playing outside with this half-grown eager puppy. One of those days, it must have been on a Saturday-as the kids were home from school, I was outside playing alone with this pup. A soft white snow was falling. It had covered the ground with a nice white blanket. We were having a great time running and rolling in this new fallen snow. He was more than eager to join me in this game of tag. About this time, I noticed a car coming swiftly down our country road. This pup had a bad habit of chasing cars. As I had him in my arms, I decided not to let him chase this car. However as the car got nearer, I did let him go. I do not know if it was because of the snow or the fact that I had held him back and he was running faster than usual anyway he slid underneath the wheels of the car. The car continued on its way. When I ran down to the road, I found my dog yelping and spinning around in the middle of the road. Even at my young age I knew he was badly hurt. In order to understand my actions of the next few minutes, it is necessary to explain the traditions my parents had as to injuries and sickness at that time. I can remember only four remedies. If it was a cut, we used iodine. If it was a cold, vapor rub. If you stepped on a nail, we soaked the injury in warm lysol water. And anything internal, unless it was a sharp pain low on one's side, was treated with the dreaded castor oil. I think the castor oil was to keep us from playing sick when we weren't, as much as it was for any thing else. I do not think there is a nastier tasting substance known to man. My young mind determined that my dog was hurt internally. I ran back up the drive way to the house, burst in the door, loudly proclaiming that my dog was terribly sick and would someone come quick with the castor oil. For years and even to this day, my words and actions still bring instant glee when it is recalled at family gatherings. Needless to say, my dog died. He was placed on a manure spreader and taken to the field, never to return. In the days that followed, I did not go out to play by myself nearly as much as I had before the death of my dog. I had my first look at death, and I wasn't comfortable with what I had seen. also, my companion wasn't there any more. My mother tried to get me to go out and play when the days were nice, but I felt better in the safety of the house. So it was that one day, when we three were gathered for dinner, Mom told Dad that she thought they should get me another dog. I can still remember his reply, "Every boy should have a dog." Every boy should have a dog-a simple statement. There was no promise he would get one for me, but I knew as I looked at him that it would not be long before I would have a dog. The days were growing colder now, and one morning I was informed that today would be the day they would get me another dog. Mom and I would spend the day at a neighbor’s and Dad would go on to Turton to get him. It was a cold day, so we all bundled up. Mom and I got down in the bottom of the bobsled on some straw that Dad had put in to protect us from the cold. This neighbor lived about a mile and a half from us and we soon arrived. Letting us off, Dad continued on to John Dunn's house in Turton. He still had five miles to go standing up in that cold bobsled. I never knew if Dad went just for the dog or if there was other business that day. Dunn's were a family that my mother had stayed with when she taught school in the Turton area. They had become great friends and always kept in touch. They raised purebred rat terriers. The folks had made arrangements to get the dog there. Back at the neighbor’s I could hardly wait for my dad to return. As there were no other children to play with, it seemed that it took forever. At last I saw the horses returning. I still remember when my father came through their kitchen door. He was dressed in a great overcoat and had a wool cap that covered his ears for the day had indeed turned cold. When he appeared, my heart sank a little for there was no dog to be seen, but one look at those laughing eyes told me I was not to be disappointed. Soon a nose came out from under the large lapels of his overcoat to be followed by the body of a small white puppy with black spots. Dad had placed it under his coat to protect it from the cold on the ride home. Soon this puppy and I were racing around the house having a great time. A white puppy with black spots left only one logical name SPOT. Remember, this was years before I ever heard of Dick and Jane and their dog Spot On the way home, down in the bottom of the sled that day, I held my dog against the cold. This boy had a dog. That winter it was decided in order to save money we would not heat the whole house. The kitchen and a small wash room were all that we would heat. This gave us about a 12 by 20 foot space in which the six of us would spend our evenings. We kids would sit around the kitchen table doing homework, reading, or playing some kind of game. Mom would sit in the one rocker that could be placed in that small area, and Dad in a straight chair reading the paper or talking. Spot, because of his young age and short hair, could not be expected to stay outside. So it was into this confined space that Spot took up his residency. This puppy, after hard play, liked to sleep a lot, and he thought the best place for that was under my mother's rocking chair. In his deep sleep he would change positions and almost always his right rear foot would get rocked on. This happened so often that he stopped using that foot. He could move very well on the remaining three and did not seem to let it bother him. After a year or more, the foot didn't seem to be deformed and he gradually began to use it. The rest of his life he never recovered the use of that leg completely. He would run on three legs for ten to fifteen steps and then on four for about the same period of time. The next winter when he took refuge in that same room it happened again. This time my mother proclaimed that her nerves could not stand this any longer and poor Spot was banished to theoutdoors . He then spent the rest of his life sleeping on a small open porch on the back of our house. On the very coldest nights, he would give up his watchful post and consent to be locked in the barn. Growing up with this dog, I thought of him as just an ordinary dog, but looking back now I see that he was quite unusual. Small as he was, no other dog came on the place thatwasn't challenged. Some of these dogs were over twice his size. Spot was surprisingly fast and sturdy. He didn't beat all these dogs in their fights, but neither could they pin and beat him. Some just left in frustration. He hated rats and gophers. If he caught them in the open he could dispatch them with great speed. He could catch and kill full grown rabbits. He even killed skunks. This poor dog would fight them for a few minutes, then go roll and rub in the dirt-then back into the fight for a few more minutes, and so forth. It some times took him an hour or more but in the end they were dead. Once this battle was joined you could not get him to quit. Of course, he then would come and lay on our porch. He even caught pheasants-the only dog I ever saw that could do this. By his sense of smell, he would trail them in high weeds or grass where they couldn't rise from the ground as quickly as normal. When they did try to fly, he was only three or four feet behind them, then he would take a great leap, land on their backs and bring them down. When I was ten or eleven my father bought me a rifle. Shells cost about fifteen cents a box and gopher tails were worth two cents apiece. If you were careful with the shots that you took you could keep yourself in shells. But even with very careful shooting there was still a problem. Sometimes, no matter how hard you hit the gopher he would manage to get back down his hole. So I decided to take Spot hunting. It wasn't long before he learned to stand by my side, pick out the gopher I was shooting at and rush to where the gopher was the minute I shot. If I hit it, he would bring it back to me. If I didn't, he would chase it down the hole. Then he would come backand look at me as if to say, "How come?". In the spring and summer my father worked with horses in the field. Many times Spot would go with him. Being a constant hunter, he would often catch gophers while he was out there. He would promptly bring them to my dad so he could take the tails off. When I went to buy another box of shells and found I didn't have the money, I certainly couldn't blame Spot. True to his breed he hated rats with a passion. At that time, we had an over abundance of rats on our farm. They had their dens under a small washhouse just east of our house and an old granary south of the house. These two buildings were about 150 feet apart. Spot had a great deal of trouble catching the rats before they found a haven under one or the other of the two buildings. One day I was playing in the yard and I noticed rats out in he open. Spot was asleep on the porch, which was very unusual, as he never stopped trying to catch them. Looking more closely at him, I saw that his eyes were wide open and he was intently watching the rats. Soon one rat started to go from the washhouse to the granary. Spot waited till he was almost half way there, then he exploded off the porch in a whirlwind of action. Result, one less rat. He then went back and took his position on the porch again pretending to be asleep. He had learned in his constant warfare with the rats how far they must be from their homes before he could catch them. I learned from watching him that there was only a five foot space in that distance which would assure him of success. This dog would accompany me everywhere. I had to teach him not to come along when I walked to school, but he was always there to meet me when I walked home. When I was about twelve, my dad bought a very good saddle horse named Brownie. When I did not have any thing to do in my spare time, I would ride every chance I got. Spot would always come along. Sometimes I would take my rifle and we would cover many miles hunting. Later, when I started working in the fields, he would be there and make every round with me. He would make many miles on his side excursions, catching rabbits-or just following other game scents-for he was the constant hunter When I started high school during the Spring and Fall of the year I drove to school. Sometimes when the folks needed the car, I walked. In the winter it was decided that because of the distance, I should stay in town. The first year there was a dormitory to take care of the country kids. Many of the students that lived in the country owed their education to this facility. Because of the hard times preceding this era, it was subsidized by the government. I think it cost three dollars and sixty five cents a week for the room and the meals. It probably was the main reason that Conde High School remained open during those hard years. After my first year, this program was dropped. Times had gotten better and it wasn't needed any more. The last three years of high school, I spent the winter months in private homes. All through my high school career, I went home whenever possible, even if I had to walk. Whenever I did Spot, was always glad to see me. No returning hero ever got a warmer welcome. My last three years of school I traveled with the basketball team and most always had a game on Friday nights. On those nights, because it would be late and I didn't want Dad to come and get me, I would get home by myself. Some of the times, I was lucky enough to catch a ride home with one of the other players. But many times I walked. Most of the time I could catch a ride to the corner a mile and a half from our place and walk from there. The first time I walked home after dark, when I reached a point about a half mile from home, I heard Spot start to bark. In fact, he raised quite a ruckus. Soon he stopped and it wasn't long before he bounded up to greet me, very eager and excited. This procedure was repeated every time I walked home until one particular dark night. On this night, I had passed the spot where he always started to bark. About the time I had decided that the darkness had covered my presence, quite suddenly he bounded out of the gloom ahead of me as happy and excited as ever. Because of the fact that I was not too brave in the darkness, it took me most of the rest of the way home to recover. Somehow, in that sharp mind of his, he had decided that it wasn't right for him to bark at his friend and master. He had the ability to recognize me from over a half mile away. No one else ever approached the house after dark unannounced. On those evenings when I walked home, the house was almost always dark. My folks did not stay up much after ten. I would go in and light the gaslight. On the back of the stove, if it was Friday, there would be a pot of tomato soup. On the table would be the Friday paper, the Conde News, and any letters that might have arrived in the past week. I had two sisters in California and a brother overseas in Italy, and I was very much interested in anything that they might have to write. After eating my fill and catching up on the news, I would go to bed. At that time, my father was milking about nine or ten cows. In the cold of the winter, he would keep those cows, their calves and a team of horses in the barn, sometimes day and night. This would make it necessary to clean out the manure three times a week. He did this on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. We would take out three or four loads of manure and haul in two loads of straw for bedding. In the wintertime that was Saturday’s work. Often, we got done in time to go to town in the afternoons. Spot was getting old. Although I could see it, I wouldn't admit it. Sure, he was getting thinner, he seemed to be sleeping more lately, and even on cool nights he would sleep in the barn. That fall when I was plowing in the fields, he didn't make every round following the tractor. He would follow me a little past the center of the field then he would sit and wait for me to come back, get up and follow me a little ways, then sit and wait for me again. That last fall, he got so that he would just stand up when I came by, then he would sit down again. Rabbits just didn't seem worth the chase anymore. I think it was in February of my junior year, and we were playing ball in Redfield on a Friday night. On the way home, the car that I was riding in went by the place that I usually walked from, so I asked them to let me off and I would walk. When I reached the place where Spot always greeted me, he wasn't there. Thinking that it was probably too cold for Spot to be outside where he could hear me, I continued on home. He wasn't on the porch, nor did he come when I called his name. I thought this was odd for he slept close to the barn door where he could hear all that was going on in the yard. Thinking no more about it, I went in, had some soup, read the papers and went to bed. In the morning Dad and I went out as usual and hitched a team to the wagon, went into the barn, and loaded up a load of manure. In all this time, Spot had not shown up. I knew by then what I was about to hear. I approached Dad and said "Spot isn't here." My father answered me with these simple words "No, Spot isn't here." One look at his face told me all that needed to be said. We never talked of it again. To this day, I do not know how Spot died. I do not know if he became too weak to fight off the cold of that winter or if Dad mercifully put an end to his life. I guess it didn't matter, for he had lived his useful life. Working in the barn that morning, I thought back to that day long ago when Mom, Dad and I sat at that kitchen table, and he spoke those words "Every boy should have a dog." I thought how prophetic those words were. He knew that because I was younger than the rest, I was going to spend a lot of time alone. From that time when I was four until now, I had a great companion. Now, although I was not quite a man, I was no longer a boy. This boy had owned a great dog. Now it was time to go on to other things. |
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