Four Dogs and A Bird

(River road miracle) The four of us were lollygagging our way alongside the river road headed to a grassy field next to the Hillsborough River. The field, near a bridge, served the neighborhood as an all-sports play area. This was an October Florida day, so the sport was football.

Young boys, in our case 7th and 8th graders, usually lollygagged, or if you prefer, 'dawdled'. Such erratic slow walking provided time for loud male boasting of previously shown football prowess, and of course, predictions for that Saturday's contest.

With a couple of blocks to go, our youthful bravado was interrupted by a male's repeated yells up ahead. When I looked up, I saw a mostly dark German shepherd running toward the road. The dog had evidently deserted a teenage boy looking on helplessly from green grass. The frozen boy no doubt fretted the same approaching car I did. Car and dog met.

One of my group screamed a strange sound, but my eyes remained transfixed on the dog being sucked under the front bumper. The unfortunate canine rolled under the car until it passed over him. Amazingly, no wheel touched him during the rolling, and his body was parallel to the rear bumper when clear. The dog stood on four uninjured legs, looked around, and walked back to his roadside master.

(Beans vs. crab) Beans was the only dog companion I had as a boy. Our good times together paralleled the two instructive years I had with a lousy stepfather. I was introduced to curse words; observed excessive alcohol consumption; and witnessed physical abuse against my mother. After one rough abuse incident, she permanently kicked him out.

During that uneasy period, fishing was my primary escape activity, and Beans was my talented fishing buddy. He quickly learned to sit and watch a floating bobber, barking if it moved erratically on water's surface. Good work, but still, crabbing was Beans' specialty. I'd tie raw fish heads on strings of varied length and toss them out into the causeway water. The lines were anchored to stakes.

Using multiple lines kept a crabber busy. You walk and check a line by slowly pulling. If you feel activity on the end, you slowly retrieve the line and have your net ready by your side to scoop up the dining crab. With a partner, crabbing is easier ... a line puller and a net scooper.

Beans learned to pull in the lines with remarkable feel. When I saw him backing up with a line in his mouth, I joined him, net in hand. One day, while I had a hefty crab on my line, I could see Beans busy retrieving another line. As I shook a feisty crab from my net into a white plastic bucket, I looked Beans' way and was puzzled.

The reddish-brown beast, with string dropped and barking loudly, jumped into deeper water. Seconds later, he came ashore and began walking toward me. Barking was interrupted by some yelping. As Beans got closer, I noticed a crab dangling by both claws from his nose. He shook his head hard and fast, causing the crab to fly into the water. Beans then came up to my side, and I gave him a well-deserved petting.

(Panama City retreat) Some 30 years later, I was on a weekend run in a Panama City neighborhood where four of us soldiers shared a house. We had recently relocated our entire unit from Honduras. Still, I missed running on San Lorenzo's rural dirt roads while listening to the 'soothing' music of daily rooster alarms and occasional passing pig grunts.

Panama was a different world. After I turned onto the next city block, I heard a yip behind me. Before I could turn around, a small impudent dog bit me in the right cheek of my posterior. This was not the way to treat a U.S. soldier. I jerked around and loudly threw a few Spanish curse words at the four-legged assailant. Then, for emphasis, I piled on a derogatory German name. This was a mistake.

From behind a car in the driveway, came a very large hairy black dog aggressively barking at me as if I was a midnight intruder entering his owner's home. He growled and flashed giant teeth. I lowered my voice and said goodbye using kind gentle words. The behemoth quit his threatening advance. The sergeant in me opted for a slow strategic withdrawal toward home and coffee.

When I neared the next corner about 45 yards away, I could again hear the pushy little dog confidently yipping 'ha-ha-ha'. After turning the corner, I breathed again and resumed running.

(Bye, Tweety Pie) From Central America, I was headed to D.C. after Arizona leave. I had a friend to visit on the way in North Carolina. My Carolina buddy, Dave, was a fellow beer drinker, golfer, and softball playing fool. He was a very good shortstop and a master wise cracker.

Dave put me up in his daughter's bedroom. The 12-year-old Marie had a couple of more days visiting her mother out West. Her room was white, and even more white. The dresser was white and her canopied bed was white with frilly white linen. On the room's white rug was a floor-standing bird cage in which a talkative cockatoo - also white - lived.

The first night, after enjoying a filling meal and discussing plans for the next day's golf, I retired into the white palace. I dosed off quickly, lullabied by the seemingly off-key cockatoo. The next morning, I woke to "Howard, up. Coffee in the kitchen". I sat up and saw Dave peeking under the cloth covering the birdcage. I heard no bird sounds.

"Still asleep?" I asked. Dave answered, "Nope. Dead. Let's go, pancakes waiting and we have a tee time to make. And don't worry, odds are, it probably wasn't your infamous snoring that killed it."

Two days later, I rode along as Dave picked up Marie at the airport. Away from the airport, on the road to their home, Dave, looked over his right shoulder and said to his daughter, "Marie, Howard killed your bird." She turned and looked at me, and even though innocent, I felt quite guilty.

(Gentle into the night) Wendy was a great family pet. Plucked from a dog pound, my son named her with Peter Pan in mind. A multi-breed, Wendy had uncontrollable brown hair which provided her a constant scruffy look. I'm sure people thought we never bathed her, especially since she was an accomplished burr collector.

Wendy daily demonstrated a love for humans, but also, their love for freedom. A constant flight risk, it is easy to imagine her running free in the Austrian hills while barking out the 'Sound of Music'... not returning to her start point until the song in her head was done.

Her run-abouts were habitual, usually controlled and not always convenient. Wendy wasn't a big one for crossing streets or even standing next to one. Once, she ran from me when I picked her up from a dog groomer. By the time she tired of a vacant lot near the pet salon, you could not tell she had visited the groomer. She was happy and not fazed. I was 30 minutes late to work.

When a young cat exited from the woodsy lot next door into our yard, Wendy welcomed and quickly accepted the new family member. Wendy and young 'Bonkers' became reminiscent of a big sister and much smaller brother.

Occasionally, after making it home late from an early morning newspaper publication, I would go to sleep on the bottom mattress of my son's bunkbed. Wendy would sleep on a rug nearby. One of those mornings, when we woke, Wendy lay peacefully on the rug, having passed away during the night. Her final flight achieved the ultimate freedom.