Animal Farm - Part 1, Pets I’ve known

A steady procession of cats moved through our home while I was growing up. There was always one in residence, but few lasted more than a couple years. Mainly they were males that would go out tom-catting toward evenings, and wander back home the next morning, or the next.

Snowball, a pure white one, came back with a rat trap clamped to his paw on one occasion. He had been absent a week or more when he finally returned packing iron. He laid around recuperating for several weeks, and then went out again.

We had no idea what he got into when he came home with his face cut up and bloody - a scarface thereafter, not so pretty as before, not so precious to pet anymore. Snowball’s fate was similar to all our cats; a morning dawned but the cat didn’t.

Another cat always appeared shortly after the last went missing. Dad was the one that brought pets home. Most of the animals that appeared were pups or kittens, but a few were grown. Those were probably the ones given to Dad by Moose Lodge members who could no longer care for them. Dad was a softie.

I remember lots of cats, but few of their names. In contrast, we had only three dogs. Each lasted longer than the one before.

Rags was aptly named. It was a small, long-haired terrier with bangs covering its eyes. I don’t remember if it was a he or a she. I don’t remember its age, probably no more than a couple years. I have a vague memory of Dad building a dog house that sat in the back yard underneath the apricot tree. That was Rags’ home, and my only memory of Rags is seeing its furry little body lying in that dog house. Rags died of distemper. Not an uncommon end for dogs in those days. His/her end was my introduction to death. I was in the back yard with Mom shortly after Rags died. I asked her about that and she, in a matter-of-fact way, commented that we all die. That was a new concept to me - my first epiphany. I remember the shock I felt upon achieving the sudden insight of my future mortality.

Poochy was the family favorite. We all loved her. Its been more than fifty years since she died, and the only picture of her is one of Don or me sitting next to her in the front yard with a hand on the top of her head shoving forward and distorting how she really looked - not a good likeness. Poochy was not a big dog - 30 or 40 pounds. Her coat was nearly white, but I remember a large brown spot on top her back that ran down each side making it appear like she was wearing a saddle. Her tail was long and full, but not real bushy. Her ears stood up but were not especially long.
Poochy came to live with us shortly after we moved to Sycamore street - probably in 1951. She made a big impression on the whole family even though she lived only two years. She was smart and territorial in the respect that when the neighbor's free-range chickens wandered onto our yard she would chase them off, but would stop precisely at the boundary of our property. She never hurt one or pursued them beyond that imaginary border line.

On the whole, she was a homebody, and never wandered the neighborhood. I don’t recall her ever leaving the yard or crossing the street. One time she did accompany the three of us (Don, Lamar, and Me) along the creek out east of town. We hiked two or three miles along the shore before coming to a swinging foot bridge that crossed the creek. It had rope rails and wooden plank flooring. We climbed stairs to a raised platform. The bridge swung rhythmically back and forth as we crossed the span of water.

Poochy was left on the far bank. We called to and cajoled her to come across to us. She finally took courage and swam the creek. We cheered as she dog-paddled the seventy-five foot span of water. I think it was the first time she had ever gone swimming, and she seemed proud of her accomplishment. We walked back toward town on the opposite side and noticed that she plunged into the creek at every opportunity.

Poochy died in 1952 or 1953 of distemper. I think the whole family cried. I know I did. Mom was standing in the kitchen next to Grandma Frank washing dishes. I remember seeing her shoulders lurch fore and back as she tried to stifle her sobs.

Susie came to live with us as a mature dog. She was the last family dog we had while I was growing up. In ways, hers was the saddest story, because she had a tough act to follow. Susie was a fully grown black Cocker Spaniel given to Dad by somebody at the Moose lodge. I never knew the particulars, but he brought her home about a year after Poochy died.

She was a shy, insecure, little dog, and we thought she might have been mistreated. When she first came to live with us she behaved as if we were going to be hit when anyone approached. She never entirely got over it.

Susie lived with us several years when she developed a fear of our car. That had not always been the case, so we concluded she must have been accidentally bumped, though no one recalled any such occurrence. Whenever our car started her response was always immediate and the same. Her favorite outdoor bed was in the narrow strip of flower garden that lay between the drive and the neighbor’s property. She hurriedly got up, moved around the car, giving it as much space as possible, and trotted into the garage, and would not come out until it had left the drive.

We were never cruel, always fed and took care of Susie, but we never really did right by her. Part of it might have been that Don and I were moving into our teen years and our focus was changing. To us she was another fixture around the house. I don’t remember playing or doing much with her, as neither Don nor I were much attached. We just tolerated Susie's presence. She lived ten years with us, growing old as an outsider in her own home.

Susie did teach me one important thing. It had to do with an incident by which I came to view her in a new light. A large pile of lumber lay in our back yard - old trash waiting to be carried away. One day Susie and I were back there and I climbed onto the pile and it shifted a bit under my weight. Two big rats ran out from under the pile heading toward the field next door. I would have expected Susie to cower in fear, but instinct took over and she sprang into action. I never saw her move so fast. She was instantly on the closest rat, grabbing it across its back and flipping it over her head as she continued, without breaking pace, toward the other. The second rat didn’t get much farther before meeting an identical fate.

I was astonished. I had known her for several years and thought I knew all there was to know about her. She taught me to be willing to look into a dog’s life a bit deeper than what’s on the surface, and that goes for people too.

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