My next-door neighbors are my son, daughter-in-law and their brood. They bring us much pleasure, partly because the little folks still think I hung the moon. The adults, of course, have figured out that’s not so, but we manage to peacefully co-exist and go on with life.
They also bring us other things, in this case a dog ... or dogs. I think the idea is ... or was ... that the dogs are really theirs and serve a multitude of functions including barking at the deliveryman or any other unrecognized vehicle that pulls into the driveway, and to be playmates for the little folks.
The good news for them — the dogs — is that on their most recent performance reviews they did well in those two areas. Were we to grade them in other areas, such as leaving things where I put them, well, the scores might not be so good.
Part of that behavior is because the two have quickly learned the short distance across the pasture between our houses. They often like to go out to eat, as in at our place, and are especially fond of fried chicken skin, assorted leftover cuts of beef and pork and week-old biscuits. It wasn’t unusual on the cool mornings of a few weeks ago that when I went out to the heater to put in wood that the dynamic duo would emerge from a night in the sawdust filled barrels under the woodshed left over from pups of my own through the years.
Let me hasten to add I don’t mind them visiting; actually I rather like it. I am a sucker for a dog, and dogs know it.
Dogs are many things. They’re much cheaper than a $100/hour therapist. They do bark when noticing something — the mail carrier, the dog across the road, a squirrel, the cows who sometimes they have just seen for the first time and the assorted visions they apparently have. To me, a dog is an ambassador from God, a reflection if you will. Think about it: spell those two words backwards and what do you get? You get the other; there’s got to be a connection somewhere.
All of those traits are significant, but the other day I realized one I hadn’t seen before. The younger of the two is still in puppyhood, although leaving it fast. As I sat on the porch watching her sniff the yard for the reasons dogs do that, it struck me as I looked at her that she’s almost a carbon copy of the first dog I had in my life — and for a brief moment, I was 10 again.
Tootsie was her name. My dad brought her home in his shirt pocket years before he brought me home from the hospital’s maternity ward. She was older than me but we grew up together.
When we moved from Apex to Pittsboro she rode in the car. As the years went by, she began to suffer from the ravages of time. Aching joints. Poor eyesight. Loss of hearing. But still she was mine and I fed, played with and loved her dearly.
She was 16 the day she wandered across the highway one Sunday morning; I was 12. As I stood at the edged of our yard and my dad did his best to get her back to us, a car that had barely been moving decided to increase speed and swerve not to miss her but to hit her. I saw it all and still can.
That day I learned several lessons. One is that whoever told the world that bull about boys don’t cry never knew me or my dog. I’ve since carried that ability with me into adulthood and Senior Citizen Land.
Secondly, on that day and often since, I’ve wished bad things on the driver, things like a flat tire, an IRS audit, redbugs in his pants, having to listen to hours of Barry Manilow records. I often said had I been of driving age I would have chased him down and we would have had prayer meeting right there on U.S. Hwy. 64.
Now it’s been so long I don’t feel that way anymore. Tootsie wasn’t in great shape, so maybe it was best. I’ve forgiven him, the nameless individual who wrecked a little boy’s world — but still, I wonder why the driver acted that way.
Time, forgiveness and a vision of the past in something of the present makes for a great lesson.
Woof!
Bob Wachs is a native of Chatham County and retired long-time managing editor of the Chatham News/Chatham Record, having written a weekly column for more than 30 years. During most of his time with the newspapers, he was also a bi-vocational pastor and today serves Bear Creek Baptist Church for the second time as pastor.