Dog Children

Dog Children

Submitted by: Randolph Toope

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Dog Children: The winter that I turned ten years old my dad brought home a Newfoundland dog to replace a dog that recently died and which I believe came with our house as it was so old. Both the old dog and the new to me, Newfoundland dog, which was fully grown were outdoor pets of course. Mother would not allow us to have an indoor pet of any kind, not even a bird or a cat. I guess she must have had a bad experience with an indoor pet when she was young. Probably she was bitten by a pet lobster, lobsters at one time were plentiful in Newfoundland. Sometimes I wasn't even allowed inside by my mother no matter how cold I claimed to be or how loud and long I cried and pounded on our porch door. Sometimes it wasn't until my father came home from work on his trusty Harley-Davidson that I was able to enter the warmth up our home, still snotting and snivelling of course. We named the Newfoundland dog Blackie because of his totally ebony black fur coat and Blackie seemed to me to be as big as a small horse or a really big pony. Not having seen a real horse or pony at that age except for the horse, or was it a donkey, that pulled Bob Tucker's grocery wagon when there was snow on the roads, which was most of the time during winters in St. John's when I was a young boy. But Blackie was really big and in my mind I was imagining ways I could saddle him and ride on his back as if he were a real pony. Oh, what I and a million others, would give to have that kind of optimism and innocence today. One Winter day I made a harness out of salvaged material I found around our neighborhood and placed the homemade tackle on Blackie's neck and hooked it up to my sled. I tried and tried and tried to get Blackie to move ahead and pull the sled with me on it, but all he did was lie down and look back at me with extremely woeful eyes. I then put my imagination to work and tried to think of a way to get Blackie to pull my sled and take me for a ride. Ah, ha, I thought: The answer. I cut a long branch from a nearby willow or some other kind of tree and tied a hot dog to the far end of the branch which I held out in front of Blackie's nose. I was thinking that being a dumb animal Blackie would chase that morsel of food forever and take me wherever I wanted to go. Blackie was sitting on his haunches when I waved the hot dog laden stick in front of him and when he noticed the food he jumped up and lunged for the hot dog. His sudden movement for the hot dog caused my sled to go forward and me to fall backwards with the stick and the hot dog coming backwards as well. In the wink of an eye Blackie opened his mouth and grabbed the hot dog, still on the string, and in a second all that was left was a piece of string tied to the stick. Blackie didn't lie back down but he turned his head and looked at me with those woeful eyes of his and in my mind I felt Blackie was saying "got any more?" By this time I gave up trying to have Blackie take me for a ride on my sled so I left him tackled in and led him out Empire Avenue to where it meets Penny-well road, just past the municipal dump. There I turned Blackie around and jumped on my sled and started the ride of my life. Blackie took off, headed West on Empire Avenue towards our house, and ran as fast as he could. With me holding onto the sled for dear life Blackie kept running and did not stop, going through two stop signs, until he reached our house and headed for our old shed (which was next door to our out-house) where he slept at night. Without a moment's hesitation he slid under the shed door and the only thing that kept him from going through the other side of the shed was my sled and me hitting the shed door and stopping Blackie cold in his paws. Early in the spring of 1952 Blackie developed a bad habit of wandering up the road to a house where the people who lived there kept hen's for the eggs that they would lay. Blackie soon took a liking to live hen's and one day grabbed one of the hens, eating feathers and all and then came home with blood and feathers on his muzzle. And what seemed to me, at my young age, to be a satisfied smile or a smirk on his face. When the neighbor, I can't remember his name, came to our house to complain to my dad about Blackie and the hen I was surreptitiously listening and trying my best not to laugh. I managed not to laugh until the neighbor had left then I almost peed my pant's laughing and my dad laughed along with me. That was my dad, the best dad I ever had and the best dad anyone could ever have or want. A short while later dad went out side and I heard him calling Blackie. When dad came back inside I asked him what he did with Blackie and all he would say was âï¿½ï¿½Blackie won't kill any more chickensâï¿½ï¿½. When I persisted in my asking, dad said âï¿½ï¿½don't worry about it Randolph my sonâï¿½ï¿½, a phrase he always used whenever he was praising me or chastising me âï¿½ï¿½Blackie won't do it againâï¿½ï¿½. Whatever my dad did or said to Blackie did not work as a week or so later Blackie came home with more blood and feathers on his muzzle and that same smirk on his face which seemed to me to say âï¿½ï¿½Ha Haâï¿½ï¿½. Then no more than an hour later the neighbor paid us another visit. He spoke to my dad outside my range of hearing and when dad came back into our house he seemed upset and when mom asked him what the neighbor wanted and what was wrong he said, words to this effect âï¿½ï¿½don't worry about it it's all been taken care ofâï¿½ï¿½. The next day when I went outdoors, the last Saturday in July, 1952, a day I remember well, I could not find Blackie and I just figured he was off somewhere looking for adventure. When dad came home later that day, a little after noon, I told him I couldnâï¿½ï¿½t find Blackie. He said, Randolph my son, come here, I want to tell you something about Blackie and the bad things dog's sometimes do that cannot be tolerated. He then told me that when Blackie killed another of the neighborâï¿½ï¿½s hens despite his warnings he had to make a choice as what to do with Blackie. He then sat me on his knee and in what I remember as a somber voice he told me that once a dog gets the taste of blood, one time is bad enough but if they get a second taste of blood, there is no cure for them. I didn't know at the time what he meant, but now I do, he also told me that sometimes that principal applies equally to people. He went on to say he could have shot Blackie and buried him in our back yard or give him to someone who would care for him and take him to a place where he wouldn't kill any more hens. So dad said âï¿½ï¿½I gave him to Ramon, a Portuguese fisherman on a trawler which was docked at Job Brother's dock and sailed that morning for the Grand Banksâï¿½ï¿½. Probably, never to be seen in St. John's again, Blackie with them. I didn't know whether to cry or laugh when dad told me what he did with Blackie but I remember how much I loved him, Blackie that is, and I thought how much better it would be for me to remember Blackie alive at sea, rather than dead and buried in our back yard where I would see him, in my imagination, everyday. Submitted By: Randolph Toope