Let us put by some hour of every day for holy things...

I will not doubt, though all my ships at sea
Come drifting home with broken masts and sails.
I will believe the Hand which never fails,
From seeming evil, worketh good for me.
And though I weep because those sails are tattered,
Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered:
I trust in Thee.
--Ann Kimmel

Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labor of the olive shall fail and the fields shall yield no meat, the flock shall be cut off from the fold and there shall be no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation. Habakkuk 3:17-18

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Farm Dog



Not All Heroes Are Human


     He was only a dog, just a plain ordinary dog. He had no pedigree, no papers, he was just a dog. Big and homely, his black and tan hide full of fleas, the lazy hound would never have won a beauty contest, but to his owners, he did not need a handsome appearance to win his way into their hearts.

     We saw him for the first time fourteen years ago on a Sunday afternoon, full-grown, lost, lonesome, and hungry. Several of the hogs had managed to escape for their sty, and our ancient collie, Elmer, despite his stiff muscles and aching joints, was trying to herd them back. In spite of our efforts, one or two of them eluded recapture, for old Elmer could not move swiftly enough to do the job. It was then the dog appeared, seeming to have sprung out of nowhere, and proceeded to herd the remaining livestock into their pen for us. He seemed to know from the start what he ought to do, and in no time had completed his task. Of course, we thought the collie, as usual, would send the stray packing, for he never allowed another animal on the farm. To our surprise, he made no hostile moves against the dog, but permitted him to stay. To this day, I think the old fellow knew a good thing when he saw it, for the stray stayed on the farm for fourteen more years.


     If an animal can think, this one did. What uncanny sixth sense told him to aid in rounding up the straying hogs? He seemed to grasp the situation at once, choosing to help, and asking nothing in return. As a result of his actions, the dog won for himself a good home, and all the love he wanted. We named him Harry, gave him a home for life, and never regretted the impulse. Harry, in return, faithfully guarded our livestock, people, and home, and, becoming loyal to his benefactors, was a family pet. He considered himself an important addition to the farm, and decided to make himself at home for life. If we had any qualms about his presence, they were forgotten when the loss of chickens by theft fell to nil from the one time high total of over one hundred at a time. Also, in several weeks, we did not worry about the loss of gasoline from the tank where it was kept for use in the tractor, for Harry kept watch.


     A great many lessons had to be learned by the stray, and it was really amusing to watch the old collie teach him right from wrong. For instance, there was the little matter of chickens. Harry,  no more than a pup, liked the questionable sport of chicken chasing, though I doubt he would know what to do with one if he caught it. Old Elmer, however, soon cured him of that by biting the dog whenever he started out after a chicken. From then on, however, Harry permitted no one to chase the hens, not even one of us. He had to be penned up on the back porch until the chicken was caught, or it would not be safe for the offending party.


     From the day he arrived, it became apparent that Harry loved the presence of children, for he romped in the yard with the younger ones, or roamed  the farm with older children. No man could spank a child when Harry was near, for he would simply place his mouth around the person's arm and growl, and, usually, the child was spared his whipping, at least until he could be gotten inside. He stopped more than one of my brothers and sisters from administering discipline to a child, and the youngsters knew they could count on Harry. 

    One by one they left the farm, and Harry decided he was my mother's dog, following her about the yard, or as she worked in the garden. In the evening he sat by her chair, receiving her caresses as if they were pure gold. When we had to be away for a short time, we always knew Harry would keep her safe. When she walked outside, Harry was there, wagging the long black tail he had situated there like it was a fan. If, as she patted his big, brown head, her hands, tiring, would stop, he gently pushed a wet nose under her hands, begging for more.

     He never allowed a stranger in the yard when she was alone, even, at times refusing to admit a neighbor. Sometimes a sharp word from one of us would suffice to stop him from attacking any stranger who came, but other times we had to hold him. Even my nieces and nephews held the big fellow,but woe be it to the stranger who tried to follow suit. It was somewhat unbelievable to see a small child holding the big dog and warning someone that he was dangerous and would bite. Once we let someone into the house, Harry ignored him, but, if the man happened to stop by again some other time, Harry did not great him any different than the first time. Harry knew who was a neighbor, who  had no business being there, and who he should admit.


     The years rolled by, and old Elmer died, leaving only Harry, who developed into quite a notorious character. He was well known in all of Preble County, Ohio (where our farm was located), in Indiana, Kentucky, and other states. Admired by some, hataed by many, and feared by the local population of thieves, Harry's fame kept many persons from attempting to trespass. Several people offered to buy him for use as a watchdog, but, of course, he was not for sale. Despite large amounts of cash which were offered, we could not give up the dog, for he not only was a good watchdog, he also was a family pet.

     All the pay he ever wanted was a place to lie his head at night, good meals, and a little love. In return, he was the perfect watchdog, keeping every inch of soil safe from prowlers, tramps, etc. He never forgot one of my brothers or sisters, no matter how far away they moved or how long since he had seen them. Even after he grew old, hard of hearing, and partly blind, he guarded the farm as best he was able, and I know we will never be able to fully appreciate what he did for us.


     When my mother passed away, Harry lay on the porch, not making a sound until someone came to him. Old then, and not able to see as well, he decided he was my father's dog, and guarded him as he had my mother. He was as safe in the yard alone as mother had been, and we knew Harry was on the job. 


     When part of our farm was used for a highway, Harry was an old dog, but he did not leave my father's side while the workmen were there. Though he did,  after a while, make friends with one of the men, Harry still remained wary of letting any of them in. After the highway was finished, our lane, which had been used as a transportation link between the back roads and the new highway, was a shortcut from the highway. People used it with or without permission, observed no speed limits, and ignored no-trespassing signs. Harry would snap at the wheels in an effort to fend them off, but he was frustrated in any further results, for most of them ignored any attempts to stop them.


     Shortly after the highway was completed, my father passed on I moved to town, and the farm stood empty. For some weeks afterward, all went well. My brother took Harry's food to him twice daily, and the dog had the entire run of the farm. As to his worth as a watchdog, we found that, though he was alone Harry still guarded the farm. One neighbor reported that Harry had chased him from the yard when he came to check on things. Another, who had been told to help himself to as many of the pears as he wanted, said that Harry did not let him out of the car.

     Things went along fine for some weeks afterward; then, one day my brother brought Harry's food to him, as usual, but the dog did not meet them at the gate. Worried, the searched for him, finding Harry on the porch, injured. His leg was smashed! Tracks in the lane revealed that a strange episode had taken place. A car, running some fancy curves, had evidently tried to run down the old dog. Taking him to the veterinary, the dog made little sound, for his leg was quite painful. When my brother arrived, the veterinarian said it was too late: Harry, fifteen years old, was too old to recover from his wounds. He was put to sleep, and would suffer no more.

     I only hope the person(s) who committed such a cowardly action know what they have done and repent. Why any man would deliberately destroy such an animal who never harmed anyone, is beyond me. Harry had always liked children and old people, and refused to harm them or let them be hurt by anyone. Tje man who did that must be a warped individual to let Harry be so badly wounded.

     Yes, he was only a dog, just a plain, ordinary dog. We could not claim him as anything else. He was a stray, with no particular pedigree or sign of any recognized breed. Although we had no idea of the ancestry of the dog, he did not need a long pedigree to win his way into our hearts. Harry was a friend of children, loyal to his benefactors, and protectors of my mother and father. He protected livestock, guarded property, watched over my mother and father, and won his way to our hearts. Many humans would be happier people, with more friends, if they were as grateful to those who help them.

     The farm is occupied by another family now, and Harry no longer roams the land, but somehow I feel that, if I do return some day, he will come bounding up to meet me as he used to do. I do know that none of us will ever be able to add the things he did for us, and never be able to repay him. As I said, not all heroes are of the human variety, and I believe that dog proved my words.

--Margaret House, R. N.
Camden, Ohio

Note: The above photos of farm dogs and their owners were found on Pinterest, a rich source of fascinating vintage snapshots. This account was written by my husband's aunt, and was found among her papers long after her death. I'm happy to say a photo of the actual Harry was just sent to me so I could add it to this post. This is Harry and my brother-in-law in the early 1950's. 

Harry, the coon hound, and my brother-in-law, circa 1953; Camden, Ohio.

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