Sally was my dog when I was a little girl living at Tipton’s farm. She was a shaggy shephard collie mix who spent a good number of hours soaking up the sun on our back porch. The porch was only a little bigger than the doorway. Mom would stand at the edge of the steps wearing one her housedresses, white cotten socks and brown tie shoes with a big ole kerchep tied around her hair. She talked to Dad as he leaned his arm out the pick-up window. I would pet old Sally.
Dad had his dog Snipper in the pick-up next to him on the seat. If he went out to the field on a tractor, Snipper would stay back at the house. Snipper was a black cocker spanial with a horrible disposition. My Dad loved him.
When someone drove by the farm on the dirt road, Sally and Snipper were high tail it out of the yard barking their brains out to chase the cars. All the calling by us to come back fell on deaf ears. These dogs loved to chase cars.
Snipper would have nothing to do with any of us except my father. He would growl and snip at the least disruption in his life. Petting him was out of the question, unless Dad was holding him. The more he didn’t want petted the more I wanted to pet him. The dog always won.
Somehow ole Snipper contracted rabies. This made him even worse. One day soon after Snipper started foaming at the mouth, Uncle Swede came out to the farm with his 22 shotgun. Dad and Uncle Swede loaded Snipper in the the back of the pick-up and went up to the right-of-way by the railroad tracks. They didn’t come back with the dog. Dad was distraught for a long while.
Sally lived a nice long leisurly life. When it was her turn, Uncle Swede came out again. I was excorted into the house while they loaded Sally into the truck and didn’t come back with her. I must have been really little. All I remember is when they came back, Uncle Swede asked if I wanted to keep the 22 shell. I didn’t put two and two together until many years later.
We moved to the Swanson Farms across the road when I was about 11 or 12 in 1958. The County extension agent would come around to talk to Dad. They were good friends. They would sit out on the patio and drink Pepsi and eat sweet rolls. He went from farm to farm making his rounds checking the crops and chewing the fat.
One day the extension agent brought a golden brown Boxer with him and asked Dad if we wanted to give him a good home. We named her Maggie. She was the love of my life. That dog could play ball with me for hours. She would run after that ball and bring it back quicker than lightening. She loved the rubber balls that she could chew up. At Christmas we would wrap up a couple of balls for her and hid them in the tree branches. She would sniff around looking for the ball until we would finally give it to her. Maggie was a big drooler. My Mom would not let the dog in the living room. She would wait at the kitchen doorway drooling away until I or my Dad would excort her across the living room to the family room. Generally, she was tied up with a chain in the back yard by the door house when we weren’t playing with her.
Somehow Maggie ran away or someone saw her on the road and picked her up. My Dad really liked this dog too. He kept his eye out and talked to the neighbors about the fact that she was missing. One neighbor alerted him that they had seen a dog that looked like her close to the bend in the road when you first go out to the country where we lived. One day on our way home from town, Dad pulled into that yard. I could see the dog that looked just like Maggie wiggling here body in a curve with the little stubby tail going likity split. The man at the house quickly put the dog into the house so we couldn’t she her.
My Dad was big of stature and had the strong will of a Swede to makes things right. He infatically told me to stay in the car. I knew that tone of Dad’s voice. Even though I was eager to find our favorite dog again, I knew better than to disobey him. I saw him stomp over to the man. I couldn’t hear the words very well with the window of the pick-up rolled up, but I could see the gestures. My Dad raised his voice and I did hear him say, “You can’t take another man’s dog. You know that dog belongs to that little girl.” The man finally gave in, got the dog from inside the house and brought her out. Maggie was so delighted to see my Dad again. My Dad handed the man a bill (probably five bucks) for his trouble and brought to jump into the seat beside me. I was so happy to put my arms around Maggie again. She licked me profusely as if we had never been apart.
One morning a terrible thing happened that touched my feelings to the core. Maggie was loose in the yard and lite out to chase a pickup. She got caught between another car coming the other way. She was killed instantly. That was the first death I encountered that meant so much to me. I was distraught for days.
Other dogs came and went in my life during those young days, but none compared to my love for Maggie. We had a boxer mutt that was to replace Maggie. But nothihng can replace the dog you love.
Mark, the County Extension Agent found us a big old Collie we called Don. I was in high school at the time. Don was OK, but never really became the love of my life. He didn’t know how to play ball and barked a lot. It is good on a farm to have a dog who barks so you know if strangers are coming in your yard. When I went off to college, my Mom decided enough of Don the Collie and gave him away. I found out when I came home for Thanksgiving. I was surprised she hadn’t even talked to me about it. But when she made up her mind about something, nothing stopped her.