Dogs - April 19, 2012

Red had been missing for several days and Gene expected that he wouldn’t be

coming home.  Red was Gene’s dog.  He was getting pretty old.  He just showed

up one day when he was just a pup, apparently dropped off by someone.  Gene’s

other dog, Pete, accepted Red and taught him his craft.  Pete was a “Greeter

Dog” and worked at the RV park and the nursing home.  After Pete left for

dog heaven, Red stepped into his life’s occupation.  I believe all dogs should

be given the opportunity to earn their bed and board and many do.  There are

farm dogs, police and military dogs, watch and guard dogs, dogs for the blind,

and many others that I’ll name later.  Anita and I happened to hear Red calling

for help when we were up at the bluff house.  I called Gene and we found Red,

badly injured and almost gone.  We did the humane thing and, with the help of

our neighbor Buddy, helped Red over the Great Divide.  Friends Shirley and

Myron helped Gene with the burial.  Red is greatly missed.  Everyone knew Red.

You can get greatly attached to your dog.  Which is one of the reasons I don’t have

and don’t want a dog.  I don’t want a dog for my best friend.  Let me put it this way:

If a dog poked me on Facebook asking me to be his friend, I’d probably be inclined

to double-click the “ignore” square.  Every dog I have ever owned has died of

vehicular homicide; they were run over by a car.  I don’t want a dog.

Funny thing, when Anita and I were traveling in the motor home, we soon noticed

that most other Rvers were transporting some kind of canine passenger.  It was

then and there that I developed what I called Reed’s Rule which is “the size of

the dog passenger is inversely proportionate to the size of the RV.”  Sometime

a small class C would pull up and out would pop a Great Dane and then a 45-foot

diesel pusher would pull in and out would step this cutie holding a leash and a

fur-ball that she called “Princess.”  Well, EXCUSE ME.  Don’t name your dog

“Princess.”  Hurts their ego.  Dogs have self esteem, too.  Brutus or Jugular, maybe.

When I was a boy, we always had a birddog.  My dad liked to quail hunt.  Now

I know they only had to work two months a year but they practiced in the off

season on their stance, exact curve of the right paw and the point of the tail.  They

worked hard to earn their bed and board.

Last fall I had an experience with a guard dog.  I was going door-to-door passing

out notices of the fall revival.  I had just stepped through the yard gate of this

house when I heard it.  A low bass growl, about two octaves below middle-C, then

I saw him just standing up on the front porch.  I think he was a pit bull.  He had

a Jay Leno lower jaw and he looked MEAN.  When he started slowly moving in

my direction, I started backing up, slowly, keeping eye contact, saying “good boy”

and  “Yessir, I’m leaving” until I was safely through the gate, breathing a sigh of

relief.  I don’t believe that family was at the revival, but, thankfully, I was.

I remember two dogs we had when the kids were growing up.  First, there was

the Australian shepherd, Patches.  He died early in life.  Then there was Lester.

Lester was trained as an “Escort Dog” by a former preacher, Ed. Lester would

run along beside Ed’s VW bug taking him to church, the post office, etc.  When

Ed moved on to another pastorate, Lester began escorting me to work every morning.

Then he would go back home and escort Anita later, running along beside the left

front tire, barking all the way.  He would hang around outside the store during the

day.  I think he tried to be a greeter but he wasn’t very good at it.  At the end of the

day he would escort Anita home and come back for me.  Sunday was not a day of

rest for Lester.  He would escort us to church, patiently wait, then escort us home.

This routine actually continued for several years until that fateful morning that

he was escorting Anita to work.  Apparently distracted, he veered into the path

of an oncoming car.  Carl came straight to the store and told me there was nothing

he could do to prevent the accident.  Leedee volunteered to go get Lester and bury

him.  Cindy and I got busy and wrote the obituary which appeared in this newspaper

along with Lester’s photograph.  I get a little tear eyed thinking about Lester.  He

was my, well, pretty good friend.  And that’s about it for this time, so this is

Rambling Reed, reporting from the Queen City of the Ozarks, beautiful Calico

Rock, Arkansas and that’s ---30---