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Pets, companions, stories
A GIRL AND HER DOGS
By William Bedford
Saturday, September 30, 2006
As told to me by my wife.
While stories about boys and their dogs are commonplace, girls and their canine companions get short shrift in our culture. When was the last time you saw a movie or a TV show about a girl and her dog?
Well, I'm here to say that girls and dogs can also go together like peanut butter and jelly. Being an only child of divorced parents, I was shuttled back and forth between two sets of grandparents, so I really bonded with the dogs of my youth. I was about five years old when I was given a Jack Russell puppy for Christmas. I named him Terry, because I loved to have Terry and the pirates, a popular comic strip, when I was growing up in Hamilton, Ontario, read to me.
I remember struggling to hold Terry in my arms while crossing the street when the strap on my sun suit broke, causing my shorts to fall down. I nearly died of embarrassment. Terry was a born ham, and whenever there was a picture to be taken he would bark like mad until he was included. There were few cars around in those days, and whenever one came down our street, Terry would take off after it. Then, one day, a car hit him, and even though he wasn't really hurt, he was content after that to stay on the front porch and bark his head off at any car that went by.
Grampa and I used to take Terry for an hour's stroll around the neighbourhood every Sunday afternoon at 3: p.m. When Grampa passed away, Terry would whine at the door every Sunday at about that time, until he was let out. He would always return at four o'clock, on the dot. One day Gramma and I followed him, and, sure Enough, he traveled the exact same route that Grampa and I had always taken. Terry died of unknown causes when I was ten years old, and I was broken hearted. Shortly after Terry died, I moved to my other grandparent's house. They had a big old terrier they called Buster because he was so rambunctious. Buster and I hit it off right away. He was a great guard dog, and if a stranger approached me on the street he would growl and scare him off.
Every night after dark, Buster was allowed to go for a walk by himself - this was a common practice in those days- and he would return in about half an hour. One night we heard a whining at the door, and when we opened it, there was Buster, looking like he had been through the wars. One of his eyes was badly torn. Gramma said he had probably tangled with a raccoon. We nursed him back to health, but he lost the sight of his eye. One time I tried to cuddle Buster while he was sleeping. He awoke with a start, and bit me on the upper lip. Gramma always said that when she was putting iodine on my lip, she didn't know whether Buster or I had howled the loudest. Also, I learned, the hard way, never to disturb a sleeping dog.
After that incident, Buster would follow me everywhere. I think he was really sorry he had bitten me. And I still have a little scar to remind me of him. Buster died of old age when I was fifteen, and shortly after that, Gramma bought me the last dog of my youth. I named my new pup, Babe, after a popular song of that period, called "Lay that pistol down, babe." Babe was part terrier and part mystery, the kind that some people would call a mutt, and he was as gentle as Buster had been rambunctious. Babe hated being left alone, though. The only way to prevent him from sulking, when we had to go out, was to leave something of gramma's, or mine, in his bed. My gramma loved to listen to opera on the radio, and Babe always joined in the chorus. To this day, whenever I hear opera music I can see Babe howling along with the radio.
Terry, Buster and Babe, like my youth, are long gone, but, they are very much alive in my heart.
