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Mike

When my Dad was a young boy, he was swimming in the Stanislaus River were it crosses Highway 99. He waded in too deep and started to drown. His dog, a German Shepherd, grabbed his arm and pulled him to safety. That began a run of many German Shepherd dogs that graced our homes.

Mike came to us as a puppy. I remember Dad laying newspapers out on the kitchen floor and when we woke up in the morning, Dad rubbed Mike's nose in the inevitable poop and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper. About three days of that and Mike was trained to go outside to do his duty.

From the beginning, Mike had an engaging personality. He loved to romp all over our 40 acres. I roughhoused with him many times. He would hold his own by biting my arm, but would never break the skin. We both enjoyed fighting to a draw.

We had another dog, a mongrel named Scottie. Scottie was smaller than Mike, but he could hold his own too. I had to be about 12 when Dad let me drive the tractor down the street a little way. Dad was walking along side and Scottie and Mike were playing and tussling with each other. Then a second before it happened, I knew we were in trouble. Mike made a wrong move and was run over by the front tire and the huge back tire before I could stop the tractor. Mike took off and ran yelping like a banshee. We all thought he was a dead dog. I was surprised he could run. He finally came limping back and Dad took him to the vet. "He'll be sore for a few days, but should be just fine," came the diagnosis. I felt responsible and was afraid Dad would take a rolled up newspaper to me, but he understood. It was an unavoidable accident. Relief and celebration were the order of the rest of the day. 

Several years later, our neighbor across the street, Mr. Banks, a grey haired, gentlemanly, old farmer, informed us that two of his prized sheep had been killed in the night. Their throats had been chewed through. Although there was no blood on the muzzles of Scottie or Mike, Mr. Banks was certain our dogs had done the deed. Banks was very reasonable, but as there were no other dogs in the immediate vicinity, the conclusion was that we had to get rid of Mike. I assume Dad paid for the sheep. We had to take Mike to the dog pound and we knew what usually happened to dogs there. The next Saturday, Dad dutifully took our German Shepherd to the pound and Mike was gone from our lives forever, or so we thought.

Some months later, Mike came happily bounding into our backyard. He had escaped from whoever had picked him up from the dog pound and returned to us! Mike was the prodigal dog and we were overjoyed to see him. Even Scottie was happy. After a week, however, Mike disappeared. He was gone for about ten days, then suddenly returned. This episode evolved to where Mike would spend a week on and a week off. We were overjoyed when he came and sad when he left. We realize that whoever had picked him up from the pound had taken good care of Mike and that he had an attachment with his other family.

After more weeks, Mike began to spend ten days with us and a week with his other family. Then it became two weeks with us and three days away. Finally, Mike just stayed. He had chosen us! We felt privileged. I don't know that Mr. Banks ever saw Mike after his return, but no further complaint was lodged.

I was 16 when we moved from our 40 acre farm to more acreage across town. Old Scottie was taken to the pound. He was arthritic and in pain and we decided this was a good time to let him go. It would be better for Scottie too. I drove him the 15 miles to the pound. It was hard as part of my youth left with Scottie.

Mike was as happy as ever with our new place. Dad put in a swimming pool in the backyard and now it was fun to even swim with Mike. In the late fall, I remember wrestling with Mike. I had a thick coat on, but again, Mike would not break my skin. As lonely as life can get sometimes, my best friend was Mike. I went for walks and Mike would come with me. He was always there and never complained.

At Christmas, my Uncle Jim dressed as Santa Claus and was coming through the backdoor to surprise my young cousins who had come to our home for the holiday. Mike had seen Jim a number of times, but the Santa costume was new to him and Uncle Jim had to make his way onto the roof to save himself. Dad controlled Mike, who was in a rage and Jim came in through the front door startled, but no worse for the dog attack.

A couple of months later, late on a Sunday night, there was an ominous knock on our door. A neighbor said, "You're the house with the German Shepherd?" Dad answered affirmatively and we were told that a German Shepherd had been hit on the main highway about 400 yards from our house. Dad and I somberly took flashlights and drove to the highway. After a brief search, we found Mike's lifeless body in weeds by the side of the road. Dad and I didn't speak to each other, but lifted Mike's body into the back of our station wagon.

There was weeping throughout the house when we brought Mike home. We all agreed that there would never be another dog like Mike. There never has been. Finally, Dad drove the station wagon around the side of our barn and began to dig a hole to bury Mike. Dad was fighting hard to control his emotions. I had never seen him cry, but his chest was heaving in grief.

"I'll take care of this. You go inside." I figured that Dad wanted to be alone so he could let go of his emotions alone. I turned to walk back to our house. I didn't look back.