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---
