Reflections of
Darwin Knudsen
A Little History of My
Closest Friends
Of the few beings in this
world that I can truly call my friends, the most genuine, devoted, intimate,
enthusiastic, interesting, and wonderfully private, have been, by far, the
several dogs in my life. And while dogs are regarded by mankind, in general,
as being "poor dumb animals," mine have been, to me, wondrously endowed
creatures who have expressed themselves in language, lucid and compelling,
conveying an understanding and appreciation that have greatly enriched and
brightened my life.
And before all the precious
memories of them fade away, with time and mental decay, I should like to
recount something of the place and meaning they hold for me, if only for my
reliving them, but perchance also, that some other dog lover, coming upon
these pages, might share a common bond of treasured experiences which maybe
only dogs can provide.
They all began with Jack,
the first dog in my life that was mine, well, maybe not all mine, but mostly
mine, because I paid him much more attention and loved him far, far more than
the rest, who were older than I.
I must have been about
seven, going to school, because the first thing that sticks in my memory is
the time he disappeared, for two or three days, and the feeling of doom that
settled over me, believing he was lost forever. A day or two later, I rushed
home again frantically, from school, but found no sign of him. Mother was
alone, ironing in our big kitchen.
It was a hot afternoon and
the kitchen door was wide open, as usual. I had barely gotten myself a piece
of bread and jam, when Jack bounded through the door, up on the ironing board,
down around the big old kitchen table, leaping up and knocking me down, then
tearing through the whole house -- crazy with joy. Soon I was holding him,
both of us trembling with excitement, and so glad -- he licking my face, and I
hugging him with all my might . . . through joyful tears. That was the first
great day of my life.
He wasn't great big, or
small -- just middle size, smooth short hair, black on his back, but I
remember four white paws, white chest, and white tipped tail. Not a purebred
anything, but everything to me -- soft brown eyes and half-bent ears over a
brownish, rounded muzzle, trimmed in white under his chin, which brightened
his smile.
The next few days we ran
around the farm and down through the neighbor's woods like long lost friends,
reunited, little knowing what was in store for us before the summer ended.
It happened on a cold,
cloudy day -- maybe September, the kind I spent in the house, playing on the
floor in front of the big, black coal stove. Jack was always there with me on
cold days, but not that day, for a strange and terrible reason. And
considering the thousands of days I've completely forgotten, it is amazing how
vividly this one is remembered -- but then, this one was far, far different
than all the rest.
It must have been a Saturday
afternoon. I was looking out the big kitchen windows for some sign of Jack,
when suddenly I caught a glimpse of him coming toward the house, from the Mill
Race.
He was moving very slowly,
hesitating every few steps, looking aimlessly from side to side. Something was
wrong. When he reached the kitchen porch, I noticed white saliva dripping from
his mouth. My heart leaped! He climbed up on the porch and stood awkwardly,
head down, staring at the floor -- at the very spot he slept on every summer
night. My heart pounded and my eyes were glued to the whitish foam oozing from
his lips and dropping in a puddle on the porch floor.
"Mama! Look at Jack!!" I
yelled. (It was always Mama and Papa)
She hurried to the window.
"He's been poisoned!" she
gasped. I stared in disbelief. Jack crumpled to the floor and lay jerking.
"He's dying!" I blubbered
through tears, and started for the door.
"Wait!" Mama grabbed my arm.
"Don't go out! He might bite you!"
"Noooooo! I moaned, and
tugged to get loose, but Mama held me like a vise. Just then, my oldest
brother Rudolph stepped onto the porch and Jack, noticing him, began to writhe
and growl, gnashing
his teeth menacingly, and
frothing at the mouth. Rudolph stepped inside and latched the screen door.
"He's got hydrophobia!" he
blurted.
"What's that?" I yelled with
alarm.
"If he bites anyone they'll
die! We'll have to shoot im."
"No! No! You can't! You
can't! Papa won't let you! Where's Papa?" I was desperate -- yelling, crying,
pounding the table. I wouldn't believe it! But I hadn't taken my eyes off Jack
who was lying prostrate now, his mouth still frothing and baring his teeth.
And then suddenly, Papa
stood outside the screen door.
"This dog has hydrophobia!"
He said it as though Jack was just another "stray."
"Don't come out of the
house!"
"You can't kill him!" I
screamed. Mama unhooked the door and Papa came in looking grave and worried.
"We'll have to do away with
him," he said, firmly. "He's dangerous, and he'll die anyway." He looked at me
helplessly. "There's nothing else we can do, Son," he said, softly and
consolingly, "He's dangerous and he's suffering. We've got to put him out of
his misery."
But nothing fazed my panic
over what would happen. I paced around the table, sobbing -- over to the
window, back around the table, over and over again with no relief. Rudolph got
his shotgun out of the back room, and he and Papa went out the back way,
through the old shanty. I don't know how they got Jack off the porch and down
behind the barn, but it seemed like I was going to die, any minute. I was in
the grip of the worst fear I had ever known. My best and only real friend was
about to die -- a friend far dearer than anybody at school, or even at home.
Everything and everybody else meant nothing to me at his moment. And then an
awful bang -- an echo through the woods -- and my first happy world came to an
end.
The next days and weeks were
full of tears, bloodshot eyes, anger, and despair. Hours of staring into the
happy past ended with another burst of grief flooding over my cheeks. Fits of
hate swept over me as Papa and Rudolph loomed as tyrants in my mind. But time,
merciful time, gradually closed up the tear ducts and dimmed the blast of that
terrible shotgun, until I appeared my usual, happy self. But inside, very
lonesome for a long, long time.
Dewey
How and when we got Dewey, I
don't recall, but getting didn't matter; having was all important. I only
faintly remember naming him Dewey, which really doesn't matter either, except
that it meant that he was not just mostly mine, but entirely mine. And the
name, Dewey, had a full rounded sound to it. Having two syllables, it rolled
off the tongue more easily than one, and hung on the air when it was hollered.
Dewey was no purebred
either, but one of the prettiest mongrels that was ever delivered by a cocker
spaniel mother and sired by, maybe, a golden retriever father. He was taller
and finer muzzled than a spaniel, but retained the spaniel's calm, loving
nature. But his smooth, short hair raised the question of his paternity,
though it filled my mind with far less wonder than gratitude.
Somehow, Dewey had a nice
looking, roomy doghouse. It was far beyond my ability to construct. I suspect
Rudolph was its creator, or maybe Harvey, three years older than I. However,
Rudolph was much handier with tools in those early years, so I give him the
credit. The door opening was so big you could easily see the whole inside,
something I've always remembered, from what happened later on.
Why I don't recall playing
or running through the woods with Dewey, I guess I'll never know. In fact, not
one fun experience stands out in my mind. But one fateful, unforgettable
picture remains, and it will always seem strange to me that I would remember
Dewey's death, far more than his life.
In those days we had a
beautiful, rich brown colored cat whose name, and life, time has also blotted
from memory. But how can I ever forget walking out of the house one icy, cold
winter morning, expecting Dewey to jump up and greet me with snowy paws, only
to find no happy dog in sight? I walked around to his kennel. And there a
strange scene met my eyes which remains so vivid, I might have seen it this
morning. Dewey was curled up on his blanket, peacefully sleeping, and the cat
was curled up on top of Dewey's warm back, peacefully napping. It was a
touching, surprising, yet comical sight. I was smiling, almost laughing, but
when I spoke, only the cat raised its head. I pulled Dewey's ear, but my hand
jumped back! The ear was cold and stiff! He was not asleep, but dead! I stared
and stared in disbelief. How could it be? Why? Why was he dead?
I rushed into the house and
screamed, "Dewey's dead!" Everyone hurried out to see the tragic, ludicrous
sight. Papa quickly pointed to the dark saliva that had oozed from Dewey's
mouth, and said gravely, "He's been poisoned." For several minutes my eyes
drank in this curious picture of mixed realities -- cat and dog so close in
life, and now even closer, physically, but infinitely separated by death.
Finally I walked in a daze into the warm house, but inwardly I was still cold,
and forsaken. A second chapter of my happy, dog-centered world had come to an
awful, shocking close.
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