It was summer and the hot August sun beat down on the fields
and pastures surrounding our white frame farmhouse in southwest Georgia. My sister Gay and I played with our dolls on
the covered front porch while Fluffy, a black curly dog near the front
screen-door, slept. She had been given to us when she was a puppy, and we loved
her. I often buried my face in her soft fur and squeezed her in a tight hug.
She licked my face to show me she loved me as well. Wherever Gay and I played,
under the huge oak tree beside the house or on the porch, Fluffy was always
close by as if she had appointed herself babysitter.
Our playtime was interrupted when Mother rushed out on the
porch, grabbed each of us by the arm and hurried us inside. We were forced to leave our dolls and Fluffy
behind.
Being grabbed so quickly and seeing my usually calm mother
in such a dither, I cried, “Mother, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a strange dog in the yard. He looks dangerous. Stay inside until he’s
gone," she said.
It was then we saw through the screen door, the large brown
dog coming from behind the house. Mother
had noticed him from the kitchen window, his muzzle white with foam, slobber
dripping down in long streams. He seemed intent on a mission, looking for a
victim.
Mother called to Fluffy, "Come here, come inside,
Fluffy."
But Fluffy would not come. Mother did not believe in having
pets in the house. Fluffy had never been inside. She ran down the steps heading
for the place where she felt secure, her bed under the porch. It was the only
refuge she knew.
The strange dog saw her and followed. In minutes we heard
Fluffy’s pitiful yelps. I wanted to go to her. I pushed on the screen door, but
Mother would not let me open it. I stood safely inside and called Fluffy until
she finally came up on the porch. I let out a sigh of relief. I saw no blood.
She looked fine to me. I wanted to run out to her and give her a big hug. There
was no sign of another dog in the yard.
“He didn’t hurt her, Mother,” I said. “She’s not bleeding or
anything.”
Still, Mother insisted we stay inside away from Fluffy who
was back on the porch, licking her fur, cleaning herself of the terrible ordeal
she had experienced.
My father and brothers came home for the noonday meal, and
Daddy examined our friendly pet. He found bite wounds we had not seen. The
rabid dog had done the damage. Daddy locked Fluffy in a cage beside the barn.
She would be fed and given fresh water as he watched for signs of illness. She
was quarantined, a word my sister and I did not know.
Her sad brown eyes
begged for our pats and hugs, and when we approached she wagged her bushy tail.
But we could only talk to her from a distance and tell her how sorry we were
that she had to stay in the cage. We
missed her and every day we asked, “How much longer does she have to stay shut
up?”
One day Gay and I went out to visit Fluffy and found the
cage shut tight, but our beloved dog was not there.
“Mother, Fluffy’s gone. What happened to her?” I ran inside
to the person who always made things right. Tears ran down my cheeks. Somehow I
knew she couldn't fix this problem. She seemed as sad as I was, but I couldn't
help my anger toward her. If only Fluffy had been an inside pet.
We were little girls and no one wanted to tell us Fluffy had
to be euthanized. Daddy said she must have gotten out of the cage somehow. He
evidently wanted us to believe she escaped and wondered away. Even today my
older brother tells me he doesn't know what happened to our pet.
I knew Fluffy would never have left us. No matter what we
were told, Gay and I believed she had been destroyed. I vowed then and there,
at the age of six, that when I was grown up and had my own house, I’d have my
own dog, and he would sleep in the house and even sleep in my bed so that I
could protect him.
We had other dogs as I grew up. They were family pets. Brit
was an English Shepherd that was killed when she was run over in our yard by a
neighbor kid. Turbo, a purebred cocker
Spaniel, was given to us by an Air Force officer who was going overseas. That
was a big mistake. That fine animal deserved a home where he was groomed daily
and fed treats, curled up by the fireplace. Instead he ran out and collected
sand-spurs and burrs in his lush coat. He went to the field with my brothers
and my father. Turbo rode in the pickup and acted like a hound dog. He
disappeared one day, and we never saw him again. I always hoped he had found a
better place to live.
One week after my wedding day, I was finally able to fulfill
the promise I had made to myself. My husband Barry, who also loved dogs, gave
me a puppy, a miniature black poodle, that we named Brandy. This lovable little animal quickly owned our
house and both of us. In many ways he looked like Fluffy with his dark curly
coat, his deep expressive eyes that could read my mind. For nineteen years I
kept him safe in spite of his mischievous ways, his daredevil personality, and
his stubbornness. But one afternoon, his old body gave out as he slept in our
bedroom. It was raining. Barry was out of town. Alone, I buried him under the
trees behind our back yard.
Since that time I've opened my heart to other dogs – Nicki
and Kodi, the Samoyeds, so pristine white, always smiling and loving – Rocky,
the rescued mix, who was Barry’s dog, but won my heart even as I grieved for
Kodi. We protected them well, loved them and they loved us.
Each one had his
own personality, his peculiar traits just the way humans do. They all lived
long and good lives except for Nicki who died at the age of two from a
mysterious malady no one understood. All of them lived in our house and Brandy
slept in our bed. The bigger dogs had their own beds or slept wherever they
wanted.
Rabies is a terrible disease, and found in wild animals in
our area even today. I am grateful that my mother was vigilant enough to
protect my sister and me, even if she couldn't save sweet Fluffy.
Did you ever see a rabid animal or have a pet bitten by one?
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Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins by Glenda Beall and Estelle Rice will be available early in September. $16.00
Order now and get a discount: Contact gcbmountaingirl@gmail.com for ordering information.
"Glenda Beall and Estelle Rice have documented that
unique companionship offered by our furred, finned, and feathered friends. The
community of animal lovers will cheer for the poodle who rode motorcycles, the
rabbit that went to college, and all the other remarkable pets in these pages.
It’s a pleasure to spend time with these creatures in a book that is funny,
poignant, and full of warmth.
