Pet Memories: My Own Pet Stories

When I read K. Partin’s hub about Spud the Squirrel, I was reminded of a dog we had whose name was also Spud. Then I started thinking about other four legged family members who have brought so much joy to our lives. I decided they needed their moment of fame, and one or two may actually get their own hub page. So I started writing and realized I was creating a novel. I could not believe how many animals had touched my life in a very big way. Right now the document is at six pages. I have always loved animal stories; most of my favorite children’s books are about animals. Well, it seems I may be writing my own. For now, here is just a sampling of my favorite pet memories

I'll begin my pet stories with Cookie.Mom got Cookie for me when I was about two years old. I don’t remember not having her. When the picture of me at about 3 sitting on Mom’s horse Cricket (my profile picture)was taken, Cookie was there somewhere nearby. She was a “Scotty-poo” and resembled Benji. She was a high strung neurotic dog (we had a lot of those), but I loved her and she loved me. She loved ice cream, and going “Bye-bye” in the car, but was scared of her own shadow. We moved around a lot, when I was a kid, but she was always with me. We lost her a few times but I always got her back. One time, Mom paid a hundred dollar reward (an unbelievable amount of money in the early 70’s) to have her returned. She is still pretty sure the person who collected the reward was the one who took her in the first place. As she got older, she lost her hearing, and developed arthritis. She used to lie in the street in front of the house where the pavement was warm. Cars would slow down and honk and I would have to go get her, because she either didn’t hear them or was just sleeping too soundly. I can’t imagine she wouldn’t have felt the cars on the road, but who knows for sure. When I was 13, she disappeared during a thunderstorm. That night I kept going out into the storm, desperate to find her, terrified that I wouldn’t and terrified that I would. She was, after all, an old dog. I didn’t find her, but a few weeks later we found out that a park ranger from nearby Fort Osage had found her, took her in, and the next day, gave her away to some people canoeing down the river. He didn’t know who they were. I never saw her again. I actually became physically ill over the whole ordeal, and told my mother I never wanted another little dog. I was heartbroken.

Taran was the first dog I owned as an adult. I got him while I was in the Army, stationed at Fort Ord. Yes, Taran will get his own hub. He was an adult dog who a co- worker had adopted in Korea. He had actually gone through all the red tape necessary to bring a puppy into this country. He was being transferred back to Korea, and the place to where he was moving his family couldn’t have pets. They were distraught. I offered to take him. By that time Taran was five years old. Did I mention he was a 40+ pound Standard Poodle? For the next five years, that dog was quite literally my best friend. I went through a very bad marriage, and there is no doubt the dog probably saved my life, by his presence. He loved taffy, cats (really, I think he thought he was one), women in general and me. He tolerated men. Asian men were another matter. I figured that came from his experience in Korea as a puppy. He did understand the Korean language to some extent. He was terrified of any loud noise (thunder, gun shots, fireworks), and had absolutely no concept of his own size. He was also a klutz. He often ran into things. Later, I honestly wondered if he had given himself a brain injury. He was unbelievably protective of me. My second husband would not come into the house without announcing himself if there was any chance I might be sleeping.  I was concerned about how Taran might react to a baby when my son was born, but I needn’t had been. I think he considered my son to be an extension of me. My baby became his baby. Well “our” baby was about two when I noticed a change in Taran’s personality. At first I thought he was just getting old and maybe a little arthritic so he was cranky. Pretty soon it was obviously more than that. After several months of denial, we finally visited the vet, who said yes, Standard Poodles do suffer from dementia and they do “turn”. If he was scaring me, it was time. He was scaring me, and it was killing me, but I had no control over him, and he was dangerous. I was afraid he would hurt someone. Twenty years later, I am still tearing up thinking about the phone call I made to my mother. She reminded me that if he had cancer and I knew he was suffering, I wouldn’t hesitate. She said “Connie, he’s suffering now, and he depends on you to do what’s best for him.” We ended his suffering the next day. I still have his collar.

Spud was a 12 year old mutt who stayed at the farm in Kentucky after his owner moved out and we moved in. There is actually a long story about that, but I think he mainly stayed because of James, my oldest son, who was four at the time. Spud loved attention and would do anything to get it. He had an incredible nose, and was famous for retrieving any rock one might throw into the woods, whether you wanted him to or not: The exact, same rock. Clearing out the yard to mow was interesting with Spud around. When I threw something out of the yard, he brought it back. He chased the cows and the horses, and how he was never stomped is a miracle. I don’t know about the cows, but I think the horses kind of liked the “game”. He was deadly to chickens, and killed every one we tried to raise. One time, he brought home a duck. It didn't survive either. However, Spud’s biggest problem was that he thought he owned the road and would not move out of the way for anyone or anything. When I would come down our drive way,which was about an eighth of a mile long, he would run down the driveway right in front of me, where I could not see him. I was scared to death I was going to hit him. He was hit at least five times that I know of; not by any of us, but by people driving down the road. By the time we decided to move back to Missouri, Spud was 16 and very arthritic. His sense of smell was gone, and I think he relied on Elizabeth a great deal. One morning, when I was getting the boys ready for school, I could hear him whining outside. When I took the boys out to the bus, Elizabeth was there, but Spud wasn’t. After the bus left, I called Elizabeth to me and said “where’s Spud?” She ran around the back of the house and looked into the crawlspace. I looked too and there he was. I crawled in to get a better look. He had obviously been hit again He actually had tread marks on him. At first, I wasn’t even sure if he saw me, let alone knew who I was. I cannot imagine the strength it must have taken for him to drag himself the eighth mile back to the house, but I did know he was too far gone. I crawled back out and woke my husband, telling him to bring his gun. Trying to move him to take him to the vet would have been excruciating for him, and although I knew my husband wouldn’t like it, he would do it because it had to be done. Then I went back to Spud, not wanting him to be alone. He had been a good dog, and he deserved that. My husband called me out and then crawled in himself. He told me to take Elizabeth in the front yard and hold her there. He took Spud off the property to bury him, afraid Elizabeth might dig him up. Nothing was left to do but tell those two little boys. James didn't really remember Taran, so Spud was the first one they had lost for both boys. Of course, it wasn't the last, but now grown, they too can talk about their own pet memories, as can their little sister.