My Dogs: Sad Endings

My Dogs: Sad Endings

     Contact with dogs came early in my memory. Spot was an aging, cancer-eaten long haired dog, nearing the end, faintly recalled in my early recollections. Not so faintly recalled is the rifle shot that ended his suffering existence.

     Snippy was a short haired, black, chunky feist. He was a dandy squirrel dog without a hunter. Harold, my older brother, his hunting partner, had gone off to college. Snippy spent his days, lying in the warm sun, dreaming of days gone by. On cold winter nights, he would jump up through the open crib door into the barn, work his way into the hayloft, and burrow in for the night. One very cold winter morning, with the temperature hovering near the single digits, I approached the barn. Then I saw him. Snippy lay, curled up in the snow, frozen solid. Above him was a closed, and latched, crib door.

      My very first dog of my own was Champ. I built Champ a house, painted his name over the door. We wrestled and played, getting closer daily. As Barbara and I rode to the cucumber patch one morning, Champ followed. When we arrived, I said, “Let me out so I can watch after champ while you make the turn.” I was too late. Bumped and knocked off balance by a front wheel, the rear wheel ran over his snout. Champ got up, walked a few steps, looked at me, and I saw the light fade from his eyes. Slowly he fell. I raced to kneel beside Champ, my shaking hand feeling a faint heartbeat fading away. It was a long time before the memory of Champ began to fade.

     When I got Tooter, he was an eight week old, part German Shepherd pup. He had a black and white cross on his chest. I carried him, resting on my forearm, the two miles back to our farm. As Tooter grew, he learned quickly. He became my constant companion as we hunted, fished, and trapped – or just roamed the bottoms and mountains for the fun of it. He quickly learned to “stand,” “heel,” and “back  up.” Tooter was my best friend as I grew up. Early one summer morning, after my freshman year of college, a loud disruption awoke me one morning at daylight. I ran to the yard wiping the sleep from my eyes. Two large coyotes held Tooter, strung out between them. When I hollered, they dropped him and ran. Tooter chased one of them down, and grabbing him by the throat, began to choke the life from him. I pulled Tooter back, and the coyote melted into the woods.

Over a period of days, Tooter seemed to be getting better. One morning, Tooter leaped from a load of cattle feed in our truck, yelping loudly with pain. He limped to the porch, and lay down. Soon, he was unable to get up. I carried Tooter to the cool cellar. He got worse. As I checked on ;him during the night, he became weaker. At daylight, he was gone. That day, I buried tooter under the large tree overlooking the valley and the bottoms we had roamed so many times. Tooter had seen me through my growing up years. His job was done. Now I was a man. I must go on from here alone.