MY DOGS

I was asked by a dear friend to rerun this story and you know me, I just can’t say no to a pretty lady, so here it is. 

I’m a dog person. Always have been, always will be. Don’t get me wrong, I like cats, too, it’s just that dogs always seem to like you no matter what, and cats…well, cats are cats. But this is about dogs.

I don’t know if I am politically correct enough to have a dog now-a-days. I mean, now-a-days dogs are so pampered, I don’t think they have the opportunity to be dogs. If you watch TV, you’d believe that a dog has to eat a certain kind of food that is nutritionally balanced or they can’t lead a long and healthy life. Well, I just don’t buy into that premise. 

When I was growin’ up, my dogs ate whatever we ate. That’s right. Whatever we had for supper, my dogs ate for supper. And they ate well, too. My mom was a great cook and whenever we finished eatin’, she would scrape anything that was left on the plates onto one big plate, and then I would take it outside and scrape it into an old half-moon hubcap that served as my dog’s food dish. Half the time, I didn’t get it out of the plate good until it was all eaten. And I didn’t check to see if there were any chicken bones and such in the food, because my dogs didn’t care. They loved bones. They’d crunch them up, and swallow them faster than a minnow can swim a dipper. Now, I’m not tellin’ you to do any of this stuff, I’m just tellin’ you what we did. 

My dogs never went hungry either, because after they ate at our house, then they’d go down the road to the neighbor’s houses and see what they had for supper. My dogs were the neighborhood garbage disposals and the neighbors were glad that they provided this service. 

My dogs didn’t get baths, either. Well, if we were swimmin’ in the creek, they might jump in and wallow around, but they never had a formal bath. The closest thing they got to a bath was a dippin’. For you ignorant out there, a dippin’ was what we’d do once or twice a year to get rid of ticks. Of course, if there were any fleas on the dog, the dippin’ took care of that, too. My dad was the neighborhood dipper. He’d fill a big 55 gallon drum with water and pour in the dippin’ stuff and stir it up with a stick. I’d spread the word that Daddy would be dippin’ dogs and the neighbors who owned dogs would show up with their canines in tow.  You had to tow dogs, because they were not really that fond of dippin’. 

The way Daddy would dip them was he would grab the dog, pick it up, and plunge them head first into the barrel. That way you got the entire dog dipped. The dog would flip right-side up under the dippin’ water, and shoot out of the barrel like a porpoise and hit the ground runnin’. They wouldn’t be runnin’ on all four feet, either. They would be runnin’ with the side of their head flattened to the ground while their back legs would be propellin’ them along. That way you knew the tick dip was doin’ it’s job burnin’ those ticks to death. The next day, you’d have a tick free dog.

My dogs hardly ever went to a vet. My dad’s rule was, if there was no bone stickin’ out or you couldn’t see guts, then you got doctored at home. This rule didn’t just apply to dogs; it applied to us as well. Heck, when I broke my finger while playin’ in an old fashion barber’s chair once while my dad was gettin’ his hair cut, my dad set the bone and then tied a couple of popsicle sticks to it for a splint, only after he whipped my rear end for playin’ in the barber’s chair.

The only time my dogs saw a vet was when the vet would show up at the school once a year to give rabies shots. Any cuts the dog might have gotten were taken care of with purple medicine, at least that’s what we called it. Daddy always kept a bottle of purple medicine that he used on our cows, horses, and whatever other animal we had around when they got cuts.

Now, I know y’all are thinkin’ that all of that sounds mighty cruel and the dogs suffered and all that junk. Well, my dogs were all healthy, and lived somewhat long lives.

They didn’t sleep in the house, either. Heck, they never came into the house. They stayed outside, and slept under the stars. They did have dog houses, but they never went in them, unless it was rainin’ or cold. I spent more time in their houses playin’ than they did livin’ in them.
But the most important part of havin’ a dog, was that they were always loved, and they loved back. We didn’t just leave them in the yard. We played with our dogs. Where I went, my dog went. If I went into someone’s house, when I came out my dog was waitin’ for me.  When I went into the woods lookin’ for adventure, my dog was right there with me sharin’ in the experience.

Not long ago, I was visitin’ a place and I looked out the window into the back yard and there was a big ol’ dog layin’ in the grass. I started out the door, and was stopped by the owner.

“You don’t want to go out there,” he said.  “That dog will want to play.”

I walked out anyway. Sure enough, the dog saw me, grinned and ran over jumped up on me and we started wrestlin’.

The owner started apologizin’ and started yellin’ at the dog. I told him, that the dog was just bein’ a dog, and anyway, I was the one that was the instigator.  

Havin’ said all of this, I’m goin’ to let you read a poem I wrote a long time ago.  I’ve published it before, but it is one of my favorites.

COUNTRY DOG

by Rusty W. Mitchum


I’d hate to be a City Dog

I’d just as soon be dead;

Livin’ in a small back yard

Just waitin’ to be fed.

They’d pet my head, I’d wag my tail

In hopes they’d want to play,

But they’d go back in their house alone,

And in the yard I’d stay.

I’d rather be a Country Dog,

Now there’s the life for me;

Just running around, chasin’ squirrels

Livin’ wild and free.

And when my friend came home each day

Feelin’ low and blue,

I’d jump on him and lick his face,

Which means that I love you.

He’d hug my neck and call me names  

We’d rassle to and fro,

Then he’d grab his gun or rod and reel

And off to play we’d go.

Then at night, I’d lay my head

And dream my happy dreams,

Of fish and squirrels, of birds and snakes,

Of woods and fields and streams.

And every night I’d thank the Lord

For what He’d given me,

And for makin’ me a Country Dog,

What a blessing that would be.

 

Copyright ©️2013 by Rusty W. Mitchum

All rights reserved 2/24/13