Who Let the Dogs Out? |
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In my early childhood, as far back as I can remember, dogs have always been my playmates. I grew up in the little town of Barrackville WV with a population of about 1500 people which had as many dogs and cats. My home town was nestled between 4 wooded hills through which a bass stream flowed called Buffalo Creek. It's head water started just beyond Mannington WV and meandered through the hills until it reached my home town some twenty miles away. In this little valley, there were two baseball and one football fields. All it took was a walk through the town with a footfall or baseball bat and you would soon look like the Pied Piper with a dozen boys following you. Sports occupied my daylight hours and my dreams were full of touch downs and home runs. On a good night I might dream about catching the lunker bass that swam back and forth between the two local bridges. As a youngster of 11 years old, I recall listening to the 1954 New York Yankees and the great Yogi Berry hitting back to back home runs in the World Series. Even as I sat on the floor with my ear pressed up against a three foot tall cabinet type radio, my dog would be there sleeping on my knee. These days were full of childhood dreams and my dad allowed me to enjoy them to their fullest. Everywhere I walked or played my dog would be only steps behind me. During my life I have had many dogs, some short, some tall, some could hunt and others even if they had too, could not find their own nose. My first dog was Tippy, he was a tri-colored, short hair, long legged Beagle. I don't remember hunting with this dog, but do remember my neighbor, Carl Hall, saying that he was a very good dog. Carl always had 2 or 3 dogs penned up in a wire cage. His dogs consisted of a couple of well breed beagles and a Blue Tic Hound. So any compliment from Carl, rare as they were, always meant a lot to me. The next dog that we got was given to us by one of my dad's friends who worked with him at the local Coal Mine. This dogs name was BOY. He was a crude, hard nose type of dog. His previous owner who was a Coon hunter had crossed a Walker hound with a Collie and had given my dad and my neighbor Ralph West two of the pups. This dog was my brother Tony's but I assumed mastership after he left home to play baseball. From the time that I could walk out of the house and play on the hills around our home this dog was my very best friend. We swam together, hunted together, walked together, and beat up on other dogs who ventured past my home. Boy was a very aggressive dog who feared no other animal. It was nothing for him to take on 5 or 6 dogs at a time and send them all whimpering home. He was a dog of great experience and therefore could take on Raccoons and Ground Hogs and have an easy time of it. What I have failed to tell you is that very few people tied their dogs up in our neighborhood and as such they roamed freely around town. These dogs would have well beaten pathways in the grass leading from house to house throughout the town. In the winter time, a harden single path could be seen in the snow. Their objectives were to find food, and then scent with urine those homes where the best food was located. This also was a sign of who was the most daring and who was strong enough to fight off other competitors. I recall that dogs would come by our house at night and eat any of the scraps left out. In the morning, when my dog Boy got up and smelled the other dogs scent, he would chase off through the town until he caught up with him and then just thoroughly beat the holy you know what out of him. We kept our dogs tied most of the time, however, there were times that they too would follow the dog paths, find food, and pick fights with any dog in route. Back in those days, stray dogs were the common thing and not the rarity. If someone wanted to do away with their dog, they just drove to the next town and let there dog off to fend for himself. Normally a soft hearted person would take them in or the dog catcher would come and collect them. I hated the dog catcher and felt every stray dog I saw had the potential to become my special friend. The dog catcher was a small built man who wore a full rim hat. I remember he wore a feather in it and titled it sideways on his head. His clothes were dirty and his face and hands looked like he had just changed transmission in his truck. His eyes were narrowly set and his nose was long and pointed. He had but two half rotted teeth that jutted out of his mouth and when he grimaced his sweaty nose would bend over and touch his chin. His mouth was always jammed with a half pack of chewing tobacco and when he talked he spattered brown spit down his chin. To catch a dog, he would snare a rope around their neck which dangled at the end of a pole and then strangled the dog into submission. I can still see the poor little dogs with there blood shot eyes bugling from their heads and frothing spit dripping from their mouths as he shoved them into the dirt. He would kick them with his booths, hit them with a whip and then give out a hideous yell . This was a cruel man and every kids enemy who owned a dog. When we saw him coming, we would chase the dogs away, throw rocks at his truck, and taunt him with a variety names. I recall the time when I found the dog catchers truck parked in front of the school house with no driver. He was supposed to be out on the play ground collecting dogs where a female was said to be in heat. As I surveyed the dog catcher's truck, I got the great Idea to let all of the dogs go free. Without a second thought, I let eight dogs loose and ran like a bandit all of the way home. I had no Idea that they would follow me. After I had gotten about half way home, I looked over my shoulder to fine that the dogs had considered me the leader of the pack and were directly behind me. The faster I ran, the faster they ran. When I got home, I thought how am I going to keep these dogs from getting caught again. The bright Idea came to me to put them in the chicken house feed room and there they would be safe and out of harms way. I felt real sorry for these dogs, some had skin disorders from not eating a square meal, and their bones were showing just under their skin, while others with graying faces were to old to stay up with the hunting pack and others had been abused and beaten. I needed a plan on how I was going to keep these dogs. I went into the house and got all of the old bread that mother had baked from the week before and poured my daily allotment of milk over it. I then found mother's lard can with the bacon grease and poured this over it too. At about that time, my mother, who had been down stairs, came in and caught me mixing this concoction together. She stood by the door entrance and just looked at me. That kinda meant, it was my turn to start talking. I looked up at her and began to cry. Joey she said, why are you crying and what are you doing? After several minutes of crying and her pleading with me, I broke down and told her about the captive dogs. To my surprise she went out to the feed room with me and looked them over. My mother always had a soft heart for an animal. As such, she was very much taken by the abuse and began to shake her head and said, "the poor little things how they have suffered". She then set out to help me feed them and tended their wounds. Afterwards, mother said, " I don't know how we are going to keep all of these dogs. Scratching her head she said to me, you can keep them until they start to feel better and then you will have to find a home for each of them. With that remark, I didn't argue with her, but I wanted to keep all of them. During the week that followed, each day I would feed them and care for their ailments. It was during this time, and I mean I spent a lot of time, so that I became very fond of each of the dogs. Big Red was a Red Bone hound with tumors under his skin and was so old that his facial hair was almost all gray. Big Blue was a very old Blue Tic Hound with hundreds of scars on his face and ears from his many battles. Tippy was a dog whose long hair dragged the ground and had so many tangles that it was inseparable. Shorty was a little bench legged beagle that had a very bad limp from a previously broken leg. Blackie was a short haired dog whose only talent was wagging his tail very fast. Whitey was a medium built dog with short hair whose primary interest was eating and sleeping. Brownie was a dog with a broken tail which dangled when he walked and seemed to be ready to fight at the drop of a hat. The last dog was my favorite, I named him champ because of his aggressive behavior. Champ was a small Chihuahua with no hair. Some mean person had shaved off all of his hair. He looked like a large pink rat and shivered constantly. Being a little dog, did not take away any of his spunk. When he wanted his way he would show his razor blade-like teeth and make the largest dog back off. My dad came home that night and nothing was said about the dogs and when it came time to feed the chickens, I volunteered. For several days I continued to feed the chickens and mother continued to bake bread for the dogs. Then Saturday morning came and Dad had a day off. As we sat in the kitchen having breakfast, my dad made a comment to my mother about how proud he was of me that I had been feeding the chickens all by myself. Joey, my dad said to me, today we will feed the chickens together. I want to be sure that none of the hens had become cluckers and then further explained that he needed to select a fat hen for supper. Oh no daddy I said, I will take care of that and I will get a hen for supper. No Joey, that's to much to ask of you, that's a job for your daddy. Just like clock work, right after breakfast, we marched out to the chicken house. I really didn't know what else I could do but open the feed house door. It never dawned on me that my mother had probably already told him about the dogs and that he wanted to check it out himself. When I threw open the door, the dogs who were feeling much better, all jumped out at the same time. In the process they nearly knocked my dad down. What is this all about, Joe? I was taught to never tell a fib and so I told him the whole story. To my surprise, the second thing my dad asked me was if any of them were good hunting dogs. I hesitated for a moment and then said, it a funny thing that you ask me that because I was just going to try them out today. He looked them over one at a time and pointed out that the Red Bone and Blue Tic might be able to help him out. The other dogs were all multiple crosses and as such it's hard to tell what good they could do. My Dad then turned me completely around to him, held me by the shoulders and said, "now Joey these dogs will have to earn their keep". You let them go hunting with you and BOY will teach them. That evening dad went to he feed store and got a hundred pound bag of dog food and when he gave it to me, he said, "make this last a while". So to spread it out, I would go to John Ice's barn and get left over milk. It normally was the first milk taken from the cows and then while Margaret was milking I would get a shovel full of hog feed from the Farmer's Pig House. Mixing this together with left over bread would make a big bucket full of food for them. Two weeks hadn't gone by and you could see the dogs gaining weight. With this, I felt it was time to go hunting. One evening close to sun down, I started out to find a ground hog having his evening meal of red top clover. The dogs all seem to bunch together and had no Idea what was going to happen. After about an hour of roaming the fields, I heard my dog BOY give out a bark and then a few of the Coon Hounds barked too. This was a good sign and soon we were all digging at a Hogs den. It wasn't long and each dog had taken a turn digging out the hog. We came home with a medium size hog that evening and mother fixed it up for the next day's spaghetti sauce. The next day bright and early we were off again to find a larger hog. This time each dog had found his place in the caravan and walked single file behind my dog BOY. I know that some of these dogs could not smell each other not alone a ground hog trail but they marched in line just like warriors and if any dog tried to get ahead of the other, a dog fight would break out. Marching in your assign place was very important because it was the picking order among BOY'S followers. The trail that day started in a field and extend along a very steep hillside. The path was extremely narrow and occasionally one of the dogs would slip and slide down the rocky hill. I had been on this trail before and knew of the hazards. Far in front, BOY'S bark could be heard and soon I could see BOY digging at a large hole. From the size of the hole I knew we were in for a good fight that day. BOY dug for about a half an hour and when he became winded, the Red Bone would dig. After he had dug, BOY would check the hole out and then let the next dog, in the picking order, dig awhile. They seemed to get into a routine of who was next and took their turn. Every once in a while, BOY would exert his Dominance and slap his troops around a bit to keep them fire up. As the digging went deeper and deeper, I would push a stick into the hole and probe around and then let BOY and the other dogs smell it. If I was close, BOY would take over, and make the final dig. To be apart of this was very exciting, dogs barking, dirt flying, dogs fighting among them selves for higher picking order and the final moment of extraction. Extraction of the hog was BOY'S position. He would bark for several minutes at the hog whose head was the only thing showing at he bottom of the hole. It seemed to be a method of confusing the hog and then a lunge would take place. BOY's hind-end would come completely off the ground as he tugged to break it loose. When it would come loose, all hell would break out. Those dogs would all get a hold and knock the hog out. After there was no more fighting, the smallest of the dogs, the Chihuahua, would jump on top and snarl at the other dogs and dare them to come and get it from him. From this display, I named him the Champ. Champ was not a good digger and frankly he could not fight. He was just a big puff of wind when compared to the other dogs but he had very good eyes and excellent hearing. That summer and fall we made many safaris into the fields and got several fine Hogs. Here and there people heard of my hunting adventures and soon different people were wanting some of my dogs. When I knew the person and knew that they treated their dogs OK, I would give one away. The stipulation was that I could come and visit them and check to see if they were being treated well. I remember giving my dad's buddies at the mine at least three of my best. The others stayed around until they too were adopted. I taught them tricks like shaking hands, rolling over, sit, sit up and stay. When people would see my dog show, they were always ready to adopt one for their children. Everyone wants a well mannered dog they just don't want to go through the trouble of teaching them. As for my dog BOY, everyone wanted him. He could understand three languages, speak 12 words, and do 15 tricks. Yes, he was a super dog and what's more he was also an "ON THE JOB TRAINER". My dog BOY lived until he was 22 years old. The summer of the his 22nd birthday, he got a fine hog. Oh I forgot to mention BOY lost his teeth at age 15 but that did not deter him from hunting. His jaws were very strong and he could break his opponent in half with one hard snap. The only other dog that I kept was Champ, he was as I said, had very good ears, and eyes, and had the ability to retrieve golf balls. He was unable to trail or fight a ground hog but find a golf ball in waist high grass he could certainly do. How this came about was by accident. One day laying on a lawn chair listening to Pittsburgh Baseball game, I through a half eaten pear across the lawn. To my surprise Champ chased it and brought it back to me. That week we played hundreds of times, "go fetch". Then I got the Idea of rubbing the juice of the pear onto a golf ball and true as an arrow, he chased it and brought it back to me. All that fall, winter and the next spring, he chased golf balls for me. He got so good that he could tell by the strike of the club whether I was going to slice or pull the ball. As the club head stroked the ball he would be off in a dead run to get my ball. The one thing that he learned was my scent on the ball. As the grass grew higher in my neighbors hey field, this did not deter Champ from finding my ball. Even when the grass got waist high, he never lost a ball. This was an unbelievable dog. The little dog that was shaved and tossed out to die became the best. Some might say he was Mr..Underdog himself. It was not unusual for me to have a dozen people watching me hit golf balls from my front lawn. Champs reputation grew with each strike of the golf ball. People offered me as much as 500 dollars but I would not sell him. The superintendent of the mine who was a golfer and friend of dads really wanted the little dog. Then one morning I heard a car door slam in front of the house and when I called my little Champ, he was gone. People drove past our house to the mine from far away places so it is conceivable that one them took him. I never had another dog like Champ but his ability and aggressiveness will live on and never die. This story keeps that memory glowing in my heart and for any who want to enjoy one of my childhood champions. I used to tell Champ "GRAB A ROOT AND GROWL BECAUSE IT'S ROOT HOG OR DIE". You get out of life what you make of it and don't look to be given any thing other than a pat on the head and many times not even that. Only you truly know how big your heart is and how hard you fight in the game of life. I leave you with this question? "Who let the dogs out? "NOT ME SIR, NOT ME and I NEVER TELL A LIE." |
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