My 'Almost' Pet. And My Dad

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds.

Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog.

Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet.

He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd. What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy.

He injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad last night and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

Our Mike

A reworked post for a very busy day.
Enjoy!


We had a dog. 
Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 
My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty.
We decided to take our fearless guard dog swimming. 
We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 
He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Swimming couldn’t possibly fit in there anywhere. 
But he good-naturedly followed us because he was . . . good natured. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 
If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so. 
By whatever protruded enough for him to get a grip on. 
But to his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.
Finally, Mike’s lack of success in the saving department became too much for him. His frustration boiled over into something more proactive. 
He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone – anyone - to save. 
A limb passed near. 
Or someone’s backside. 
He grabbed it, and whoever it was attached to, and dragged them to the shore. Kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act.
He never managed to drown anyone. 
Wisdom. 
Or a miracle. 
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

Ranch Cats

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was night.

And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.

Something she did a lot. At night.

We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.

It was annoying.

Finally, I got up to see what could be bothering her.

Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby.

A cow bawling.

Water running in the canal.

Crickets.

Dumb dog.

I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport.

It had two walls, one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.

The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.

It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.

Something I usually did.

Tonight I . . . didn't.

I don't know why.

I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.

There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.

And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.

My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.

Still barking.

Stupid dog.

I sighed and pushed the screen door open.

I hesitated.

Then did something I had never done before.

I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other garden tools.

Then I walked between the cars towards my frantic dog.

I paused at the edge of the carport.

Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased.

I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.

And I do mean shattered.

It was the scream of a cougar.

Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.

It's . . . scary.

This scream was five feet away.

Above me.

At the very edge of the carport roof.

See? Shattered.

I froze instantly.

Then started to back up, one step at a time.

Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.

I called my dog and she came running.

Still barking.

The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.

Now, I should point out that the main door of the ranch house was never closed, let alone locked.

Except when I was out on my first date with my husby and my Dad didn't want me back.

But that is another story.

Moving on . . .

Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”

I was staring out the window.

Cheetah was now standing behind me.

She continued to bark.

“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.

“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”

“Are you sure?”

I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”

“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.

I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.

My dad appeared. Calm as always.

“Where?”

“Well it was on the carport a few minutes ago.”

“It'll leave.”

I stared at him.

“You're not going to go out after it?”

“Not while it's on the roof.”

Good point.

Dad got a flashlight and pointed it out the window towards the carport roof.

Empty.

I cautiously opened the door.

Cheetah shot through the opening and into the night.

Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and towards the foothills.

Our visitor was obviously headed home.

The first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.

Or being offered a warm meal.

Oh. Wait.

I guess that's a good thing.

My 'Almost' Pet - and My Dad

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds.

Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog.

Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet.

He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd.

What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of . . . hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy.

He injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad last night and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all.