A Dog's Tale

His name was Kitty Tom, a farm feline who feasted on fallen birds, rodents and scraps tossed from the table. He may have been orange striped or perhaps black and white. My memory doesn't stretch back that far and those who would know are long departed. As a rural cat, he spent his time prowling the yard, barn and chicken houses with infrequent coddling. Several times a day he'd wander up the wooden steps to the back porch, looking for food. As the resident toddler, I'd give his sleek back a rub or two.

One day Kitty Tom, normally quite docile, took offense at my intrusion or mistook me for food and left a long scratch on my tiny arm. The adults panicked. With domestic animals everywhere as well as woods rife with other critters, the potential for disease was high. After consulting the family doctor, my parents made a grave decision. The cat must be tested. Doing so ended his life.

Though the state lab found no evidence of dreaded infections, three of us began a series of injections. Thankfully I was so very young that I have only stories instead of real memories regarding those unbelievably painful inoculations. My mother often said that I would begin crying the minute they put me in the car and wouldn't cease until we had gone into town for the next shot in the series and returned home. I'm sure this scene was heart wrenching for everyone. Rabies shots are administered around the belly button and remain excruciating even today.

I choose to believe that this experience poisoned me forever with respect to cats. There is the little problem of dander which causes me to sneeze uncontrollably with eyes watering and a throat that threatens to constrict. Kitty Tom's innocence has not mitigated my aversion to his species.

No more cats came to live at our house. Dogs, however, were welcome. I recall a large, somewhat loopy, Lassie look-alike named Pal. He disappeared one day and I was told that he'd wandered away. In retrospect, the truth was probably that the beautiful collie been hit by a car or had died a natural death. Frequently, the yard teemed with assorted German shepards. Daddy firmly believe that this breed knew instinctively the ways of moving sheep and cattle from one place to another. He never tired of trying to get the newest dog to practice this technique. I'm not sure why, but none of the dogs through the years ever became proficient at a skill which was supposedly inbred.

As puppies, the shepherds were adorable. Fat and cuddly, lazy and loving. My brother and I would romp with them across the pastures, down to the barn, and into the orchard. We weren't the most attentive of pet owners and were distracted by having our own horses to ride at any time. The dogs always lived outside and sought shelter beneath eaves or in their doghouses. Not much thought went into the selection of individual names. The only one that I can recall with clarity is 'Blackie.' I'm certain many dogs bore that moniker.



By the early 1970's, I was married and living in suburban Phoenix. For reasons I simply don't recall, a decision was made to get a dog. No breed other than English bulldog would do. A newspaper ad alerted us to a litter for sale in nearby Mesa. Once we saw him, we'd made our choice.

Were we prepared to be dog owners? Not at all. Was our yard secure enough to keep this adventuresome animal secure and enclosed? Not at all. He was a purebred, so what could go wrong? Plenty.

But first, the selection of a name. Purebred puppies come with papers and names. We discarded his birth name immediately and began calling him "Thaddeus." Not the commonly selected name of "Winston" or some play on his ugly/cute face. He'd have a name worthy of his breed.

As two people who appreciated American history, we'd named our new dog after the Civil War era Radical Republican Congressman Thaddeus Stevens (1792-1868) from Massachusetts. Maybe there was some facial resemblance.

The name felt right. It was strong, manly, uncompromising. Our Thaddeus proved to possess all these attributes and more.

Possibly we should have sought a dog training class as we began our lives with our first pet. Today, we could watch "The Dog Whisperer," purchase numerous books on the subject, find a Facebook site devoted to bulldog owners. Instead, we began attending the Phoenix bulldog owners meeting. It did not go well. Thaddeus, perhaps excited about seeing faces that mirrored his, misbehaved badly. We were chagrined but our naivete made us rather helpless to correct his actions. We were politely, but firmly, asked to leave him at home. Feeling rejected, we abandoned the group entirely.




Our house was new, built as part of a development where one could choose among three or four styles and floor plans. Neighbors were mostly young marrieds with a sprinkling of older couples and retirees. The gamut of professions included certified public accountant, air traffic controller, Xerox salesman, graphic designer and librarian. At least one dog lived at each residence.

In the evenings, a parade of people and their pooches meandered through the neighborhood streets. Thaddeus seemed to relish this activity and we thought he might have a social side. With his very low center of gravity and fully grown weight of almost eighty pounds, it was he who took us for a walk and not the other way around.

While we were away for very long work days, he must have gotten bored. His innate curiosity could not be controlled and often there would be a message on our answering machine regarding his wanderings. Some kind person would have found him, coaxed him into his or her backyard, and called the number thoughtfully included on the tag of his collar. A few voices were almost shrill and seemed to infer that we were negligent pet owners. With fallen faces, we'd retrieve our Thaddeus and admonish him (again) for his misbehavior.

Grape stake fences were no deterrent to this determined bulldog. He could paw his way through a section and be on his way. Some drastic action was necessary to contain our canine. Replacing the wooden fence would have been too costly so we searched for alternatives.

In homage to the raging heat of Arizona summers, we'd installed a doggie door which led from the covered patio directly into the kitchen area. Not wanting Thaddeus to be loose in the house when we were away, a three foot wire mesh and wood cage was built and attached to the kitchen wall. He could escape the weather by popping through his own door and splat on the cool kitchen floor. Water and food were plentiful in his enclosure. It seemed ideal.

One night, a colleague from work was staying with me while my husband was away on a business trip. This very tall and gracious lady loved dogs. She owned several adorable daschunds and was completely devoted to them. Our evening progressed nicely and sometime around 11, we said good-night and were soon asleep. That slumber was instantly interrupted by a cacophony of doggie noises. My sleepy mind couldn't comprehend how Thaddeus could sound like several dogs at once.

My friend Merle appeared at her bedroom door at about the same time I arrived at mine. She looked very alarmed as did I. Cautiously, we approached the sounds, by this time even louder than when we'd first awakened. Turning on the lights, we saw, with startled faces, a trio of dogs in the pen meant for one. Each was standing on his hind legs with paws casually draped over the wooden slats.

Immediately I recognized the two intruders. They lived next door. Picture the scene. Short, squat, brown Thaddeus flanked by a lumbering white Old English Sheep dog and his companion, a tall, sleek black Labrador Retriever.

If I hadn't been so outraged and tired, I might have laughed. Obviously, my pet had clawed his way through our fence and made enough of an opening for the next door dogs to bound through. I suspect he may have had some assistance in this endeavor. Perhaps it took several days or hours to complete the task. I believe I detected the slightest look of smugness in their eyes, if dogs are capable of such emotion.

What could we do? With great effort, we separated the threesome and sequestered Thaddeus in our backyard. Hastily, we tried to repair the fence. Then, we managed to hold on to the larger dogs long enough to take them next door, ring the doorbell, and deliver them to their owners. Not the most neighbor friendly action in the middle of the night. We are fortunate not to have been shot on sight.

That episode brought a new era into our lives. A fence company was contracted and a dog run built which attached to the patio and disallowed any more fence tampering or social gatherings with other dogs. Thaddeus could not leap the wire fence nor was he able to dislodge it at all. He was stuck. Home for good unless we deigned to take him some place.

During the coming months, we learned that dogs get sick much like humans. A trip to the vet confirmed old-fashioned flu. Maybe we gave it to him. He stepped on a thorn and required surgery. His front paw bandaged and his body filled with antibiotics, he wobbled when he walked and we felt pity for his suffering. Another time, the vet informed us that bulldogs have a natural proclivity for ingrown eyelashes. Strange, but true. A second operation was required to correct this problem. Thaddeus was tough and survived these maladies with dignity.

One unusually cold January day in the desert, I was helping move Thaddeus' doghouse from one part of the yard to another. Not watching my path, I inadvertently stepped into the deep end of the pool and sank to the bottom. Wearing a heavy sweatshirt, tennies, and jeans, I was sodden immediately. Why didn't I allow the doghouse to be drenched instead of myself? Truly I couldn't blame Thaddeus for this frigid mishap.



The last time I saw Thaddeus, I began to cry uncontrollably. I was taking my belongings from the house and leaving forever. He looked confused and I like to think, almost sad. I could not retreat. I turned from the kitchen and walked out the front door.

I don't know his fate. By now, maybe he's been in the equivalent of doggie heaven for decades. I hope he's totally free, mingling with friends, gnawing on fences, dragging people down beautiful streets.

Thaddeus taught me that though pets aren't people, they require much the same care and direction. I probably failed him though my intentions were otherwise. He's been the subject of many conversations with my daughter over the years. She's especially fond of the middle-of-the-night debacle. It's quite funny to her. She knows that her childhood was pet bereft primarily because of my earlier experiences. Once she was living elsewhere, Leaky, her beloved tuxedo cat, joined her household. Now Leaky has grudgingly accepted an unwanted 'sister' named Georgia. These cats enhance the lives of my dear daughter and her husband. She has her own pet tales to share.