Lethal Guardian

I had finished college.
I was now a college graduate.
This meant several things.
1. I was no longer a student.
2. I had to earn my own living
3. I had no idea how to do it
4. I was a bit frightened
My Dad knew the people who published 'The Canadian Hereford Digest'.
Yes, it's just as exciting as it sounds.
And yes, they would give me a job.
Their offices were in Calgary (population 450,000+ in 1975). This necessitated me moving there.
It was a bit larger city than I was used to.
A bit.
Okay, I admit it. Our family had been living outside of Fort MacLeod. Population 3500.
On a ranch.
Population 6.
I don't know what the percentage of difference is.
My estimate would be: large.
I packed up my little, orange Dodge colt and my six-month Old English Sheepdog puppy, Muffy, and headed out.
My best friend, Debbie was living in Calgary, in a comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I could move in with her.
In a matter of hours, it was done.
In a matter of days, I had gotten used to the change of pace that working and living in a large city entailed.
In a matter of weeks, I could fly across said city like a native, making use of the myriad (good word) back streets and little-known avenues.
I was officially a city girl.
I enjoyed my work and the people I worked with.
I got along famously with Debbie.
I was earning $300.00 a month. A fortune!
There really was only one thing that stopped me from being completely happy.
I was still a bit frightened.
Lets face it, Calgary just wasn't a ranch in the Porcupine Hills.
For one thing, there were . . . people . . . everywhere you looked. People I didn't know.
And a complete lack of cows.
I did have my dog.
And I found a place to board my horse.
But somehow, that didn't make all of the strangers in my new world any more familiar.
Or friendly.
One Sunday night, I was just returning to my apartment from a weekend at the ranch.
I really hadn't been excited about leaving, so I had put it off until very late.
Very late.
My Muffy and I pulled up in front of the building about 2:00 am.
Now this wouldn't have been a problem back on the ranch. In that safe little world, the most I would have had to worry about was my parents . . . worrying.
Here, there was the unknown.
Suddenly the dark street looked, you know, dark.
And rather scary.
I got out and started unloading my suitcase and boxes of food and donations from my Mom.
Then I proceeded to lock the car door.
Suddenly, Muffy growled.
A deep, forbidding sound.
Then she pressed back against my knees, pushing me against the side of the car.
I stared down at her in surprise.
I should probably mention, here, that Muffy was the gentlest dog ever born.
Her own bark startled her. And I had never heard her growl.
I didn't know she could.
But there, still pressing me back against the car, and still growling deeply, was my gentlest of dogs.
I stared down at her.
A sound intruded.
Footsteps.
I looked up.
Just in time to see two men walk past on the sidewalk.
The far side of the sidewalk.
Both of them were looking at Muffy.
She was definitely looking at them.
Her head was lowered, her stance rigid and the hair on her neck and back, standing up threateningly.
She was almost unrecognizable.
For several moments, we stayed like that.
Muffy, me, and the car.
Which was beginning to dig into my back, by the way.
The men continued on their way, perhaps even quickening their pace a little.
They had disappeared before Muffy quit growling and looked up at me.
Her back end began to wiggle happily once more.
I let out my breath.
We made very quick work of gathering our stuff and getting inside the building.
After that, I made sure I returned, if not in the daylight, at least at a decent hour.
And, oddly enough, I discovered that I was no longer frightened.
Especially when there were lots of people about.
And as long as I was accompanied by my guardian.
Gentle Muffy.

Summer in a Quonset Part Three

Yep. We were living in the feed lot.

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.

(If you missed part one, you can find it here. And part two here.)

The Long First Night

It was long past our bedtime before we managed to get everyone settled.

The shed had become very chilly with the setting of the sun and we found that we had to dig out many extra blankets.

It was really quite snug in our beds.

There is really something quite special about your own bed. If you could take it with you wherever you went, any place would feel like home.

As we lay there quietly listening to the last sleepy little giggle, though no words were spoken, I know we shared the same thoughts. Surely this was the most unique experience of our lives and certainly a satisfying solution for now.

And we were soon asleep.

I woke with a start!

Something had awakened me.

Something weird.

The shed was very dark and all I could see was the sky-light.

For a moment I couldn't seem to collect my facilities.

Where was I?

And what had startled me?

It was very still - a deafening kind of stillness.

Then, suddenly, a scream pierced the silence.

It was half wail, half screech and it was very close.

My hand clamped on my husband's arm and he stirred.

Then we were mesmerized by another wail - much longer than the first.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"I don't know!" he replied, "but it sounds like an animal of some kind."

Again the night stillness was shattered by this weird weeping sound.

It was right outside the shed wall.

We must surely have invaded the private territory of some wild beast. His voice was fraught with angry indignation.

I imagined a huge cat-like monster, his teeth and eyes glistening.

"What are we going to do?" I gasped.

"I'm going out to shoot him!" said my practical husband as he proceeded to dress in the dark. "I have a gun in the pick-up."

I lay back, shivering and pulled the bed clothes up around my chin. "But he might . . ." I couldn't manage to form the words.

"I'll be careful," was his parting shot and I watched helplessly as his dim form vanished into the thick darkness towards the door.

The door slid open and shut.

The screaming had stopped.

The stillness was awesome.

Every nerve and muscle tense, I huddled under the covers.

Suddenly, the moon shone through the cloud cover and the sky light brightened. I could see the monster shapes of furniture in the dim light.

One of the children stirred and laughed weirdly in his sleep.

The shed was suddenly like a huge, black cave and I felt unknown things lurking in its murky depths. At any moment, bats would descend in a cloud, their sharp teeth and claws poised.

Another scream echoed through the night. This time, its creator seemed to have moved away toward the river.

Where was my husband?

The clock on the head board of our bed said 1:30 A.M.

For an eon, I lay there waiting for the sound of the snarling monster attacking.

I could just picture my helpless mate walking into a trap.

One apprehensive hour later, Mark returned and as he undressed and slid his cold feet into bed, I learned through a whispered exchange that he had spent the whole eternal hour observing safely from the cab of the truck!

He had seen nothing.

The children slept through it all. The events of the day had tired them more than we thought.

Some time in the wee hours of the morning, I slept.

But with the coming of daylight, the young bulls to the south of the shed began to test their voices in preparation for the 'bull chorus'.

Further sleep was obviously out of the question.

First we had the deep bass. Then the baritone. Then the alto.

Then the tenor broke away in careless abandon. He sounded like the braying of an ass.

Morning also set off another reaction.

As the early sun's rays hit the quonset, we became the unwilling audience to the pop-pop-popping conversation of hundreds of bolts in its ribs.

The temperature change had obviously set off a chain of protests from our little bolt friends.

Day had come.