Dog Days
In spite of no detectable water in the rain gauge, the grass was nearly a foot high in places as we drove in the driveway. I needed a wash-down after 4 hours of dusty mowing Saturday morning and had filled the old galvanized washtub in the back yard from the utility pump. The water had already warmed up in the midday sun. Fortunately, I had my bathing suit on when our neighbor drove up.
It’s now Monday morning and my favorite plumber tells me we’re second on the list. I’ve lost track of the number of buckets of water I’ve hauled over the weekend—flushing, washing a few vacation clothes, making coffee, even a Sunday morning bath in the restored claw-foot tub. It was comforting to discover I could get in and out of it without having to call the Grove fire department.
Apropos the dog day theme, I’ve finished up a couple of short dog stories with the last pending, and a Gum Swamp tale of olden days. Here’s the first dog story.
First Dog Story
Mickey is the earliest dog I recollect. She was Grandma Mac’s baby; smallish, round, white with black spots, pointy-nosed, with a short-legged, rolling gait. Crotchety at times, she didn’t hesitate to nip pesky young fingers. Blacky and Whitey, two of her rare pups (by an obviously longer legged daddy), became our first pets as my brother and I started school.
Whitey had an unfortunate early and fatal encounter with a logging truck, so we ended up sharing Blacky for the next 9-10 years until he had a similar encounter with another large vehicle. This time, however, we faced the difficult issue of what to do with a horribly injured pet. A kind and braver friend relieved us of this painful task.
A stint in the service and college left me dog-less for the next eight years or so. Then, married with one and a half kids, halfway through medical school, the bug bit again. We had a fenced-in back yard in Mount Pleasant and a “friend” near home with a couple of black puppies. Pedigree was obviously no issue at this time in our life, and we failed to notice the huge feet of the two lovable little curs.
The foot-size rule held as the two puppies grew, and by the time little Greg came along, Toddler Christy was getting wiped out every time she ventured into the back yard. I try to believe that a kind and generous friend relieved us of one puppy early on, but I suspect it came down to a pound issue. I remain in total denial over what happened to the second dog when we left Charleston and Mt. Pleasant. I do recall the booby bird incident.
The remaining hound (telling, that I don’t remember a name) started barking early one Sunday morning. This I remember clearly, because it was one of the few days I wasn’t on call and had the ultimate medical student pleasure of being able to sleep in. That is, except for the first dawn alarm from the back yard.
Staggering out of bed through the kitchen and out the back door, I entered a dim, primeval world. In the middle of the yard stood a large brown bird with a long pointed beak and webbed feet, staring calmly at a hysterically barking hound. Hardly acknowledging me, it turned, walked to the chain-link fence, walked up the fence and down the other side. Walked, not climbed. I turned silently and walked back into the house. The hound barked safely behind the fence as the bird disappeared in the marsh.
“What was all that noise?” came the sleepy query from beneath the covers as I crawled back in.
“Booby bird.”
“No such thing!”
“Know there is. Just saw one.” End of conversation.
A day or two later, a short article and picture appeared in the News and Courier–”Tropical birds blown in by storm. Booby birds spotted in Charleston.”
There are several more dogs, all named, and more dog stories. Next time.
Percy
