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PatchWork |
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PatchWork |
Last Updated 02/22/06
Email: joy@our-town.com
D-Dog Gone
by Joyce Whitis
Stray dogs are forever wandering up to the dairy barn. Not all of them are really strays, some just leave home and take up residence at the barn. Maybe it’s because they get lonesome and they come looking for human companionship. Since there are very few hours out of 24-7 when the average dairy barn is deserted, that’s where come. But this story isn’t about all those dogs that have scarfed up stale donuts and cold burritos after the morning milking. This story is about one little black Labrador mix that fled from the traffic on Farm Road 8 and hid herself in the commodity shed until her six pups were born.
Seth named her “Dairy Dog”. Her name was shortened to D-Dog as she wedged herself into the family circle. In a few days, Tommy came home with a new doghouse in the bed of his pickup and the pups and mother moved in up close to the family home. She got plenty of rest and regular meals. She needed the rest. Her pads were scared and torn from the miles she’d traveled, her obviously pregnant condition making her less welcome, perhaps than if she hadn’t met that four-legged traveling salesman.
When the pups were old enough, the family found homes for them, took D-Dog to the vet and brought her home “fixed”. From that day on she became a pampered house pet. Anyone entering the house became a friend, a friend who was expected to pet that broad head, and looking into those brown eyes, see what complete trust and unconditional love looked like. She slept on the coach, the floor, the foot of the king-size bed, in bed with the grandkids, on the front porch, on the shady side of the yard, under the trampoline. She could find rest anywhere.
D-Dog liked to ride in the car, the pickup, on the Polaris, or run behind the tractor and feed wagon. She liked to come inside the dairy barn and walk between the rows of cows outside at the feeders. She enjoyed life and to pet her head and walk with her was to know joy as well. Everybody was her friend, but one friend was special. Tommy had spotted her first, that day she ran from all those cars out there in a perpetual hurry to get somewhere. He was the one who decided to let her stay and eventually he was the one who loved her the most. “Look at my dog,” he said often. “She’s a friendly dog. See what a good dog she is.”
As the grandkids grew, their little hands grabbed D-Dogs’ sturdy tail and pulled themselves upright and they learned to walk. Little curly heads cuddled up to her broad belly and using her as a pillow took a nap. Little legs straddled her broad back and hitched a ride across the floor.
As other kittens and puppies were added to the family, D-Dog adopted them, slept with them hugged to her chest, trotted with them around the yard, watched them as they played.
When tragedy struck the family and Tommy was killed, D-Dog became Beverley’s best friend, waiting most mornings to go to work with her. If the dog didn’t go to Polished Pets in the morning, she was waiting by the door for Beverley when she came home in the afternoon.
The dog they all loved continued to run with the children, though not so fast. The hair around her eyes and mouth turned snowy white, her brown eyes dulled, her hearing wasn’t so sharp, and she spent more hours on the couch snoring softly. Still she never failed to get up and welcome everyone who came to the house.
She seemed a little restless that last day, getting up and moving around the house, then lying down again. Around midnight, she lay down and went to sleep. She didn’t wake up when they called her.
In another place, where the fields are always green and the skies blue, and a tasty beef bone is buried under every bush, a big black dog runs on young legs toward a man’s outstretched hand and she hears him say, “Look at my dog! She’s a friendly dog. See what a good dog she is?”