Dog Blog Number 6: Defied by a dog

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material offensive to some readers.
My friend in college, Doug Anderson, and his family, had a black and white short legged dog named, “PeeWee.” Their beloved family pet was entrusted to us during the Anderson family vacation. 

 I fed and watered PeeWee for my friend, but had little tolerance for dogs. One day, PeeWee, a house dog, got loose from me and ran off into our woods. I called frantically after the dog, but it seemed to not care. I ran after it, but it kept its distance, enjoying the chase, and not intending to come back. I was outraged and humiliated at being defied by an animal. I ran inside, fetched my brother's 12 gauge shotgun, and raised the barrel. I took aim at the retreating family pet and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun barked and PeeWee halted his retreat, dead in his tracks. I went up to inspect my kill. “That’ll teach ya to run off and not obey,” I said, satisfied.

 Later, I told my friends how sorry I was that their dog ran off, but they understood.

 “PeeWee had a knack for wandering off,” they said. “It’s not your fault.”

Main thing was, that stupid dog would never disobey me again.

Dog Blog Number 5: Bear

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material which may offend some readers.

Our neighbors down the road had a black chow dog named “Bear”. It looked just like a bear. One day, bear got into our chickens and killed one. I knew the routine well. All dogs who kill chickens earn a death sentence.

I waited until our neighbors’ car went by, signifying their absence from their home. I took my trusty shotgun/rife over and under, loaded it with a 22 shell and a 410 bird shot, and walked down the dead end gravel road to the neighbors.

 They were gone, but Bear was home. He was tied by a rope to a post next to the separate concrete block garage. Bear was under a fiberglass corrugated roof overhang and was standing on concrete.

 He looked at me suspiciously, a low growl in his throat. I raised the gun barrel and took aim at Bear’s head. I pulled the trigger. BAM! Bear was on the ground instantly, blood draining from his head.

 I cut the rope, not caring how it looked, and dragged the Bear’s bloody body off into the nearby woods. I took some water and cleaned off the blood from the concrete and headed home now that the mission was accomplished.

 The neighbor’s never asked me who killed Bear and I never bothered to tell them.

Dog Blog Number 4: Hammered hound

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material which may offend some readers.

My dad didn’t like to shoot animals. He didn’t own a gun. But he didn’t seem to mind killing animals when he had to.

Our dog got hold of one of our chickens one time. Dad took the dog out back of the house and struck it on the head with a hammer. He struck it over and over until the skull was soft and blood came out the canine’s eyes and mouth.

 He buried it in a shallow grave part way up the hill from the house in our woods.

 It was close enough to smell the decaying carcass on a hot summer night.

My sister and I visited the dirt heap and put flowers on its grave.

Dog Blog Number 1: Boys best friend?

WARNING: These dog stories are not necessarily for dog lovers. If you are offended by violence against animals, some of the material may offend you. Proceed with caution.

Attacked

When I was four, my parents got me a little black mongrel for my birthday. I appropriately named him, “Blackie.” The pup had boundless energy and soon proved to be an outside dog only. Nothing in the house was sacred. But outside, Blackie was a nuisance, too. He’d yank clothing off the line and run away with it. Everything was a game to the lively pup. The more you’d scold him or try to get him to comply, the more he’d make sport of you.

 Blackie was part collie, so his instincts were to be aggressive by running by, nipping and continuing the run, like a drive by gangster shooting at his victim’s windows. Blackie would circle around, run back, and nip at you again, continuing his flight, whirl about, and repeat the process.

 I’ll never forget the day his fighting instincts got the best of me. We had a large tire swing that hung from high atop a large oak in our back yard, which sloped steadily down hill. This swing my father constructed had such a massive sweep over a drop off gully below, that even teenagers and young adults couldn’t resist lining up with the kids for the thrill.

 I was swinging myself gently back and forth on the swing when out of nowhere, a furry black bomb exploded. I felt the wetness of tongue and the sharpness of teeth, and I let out a scream as Blackie sailed by, oblivious to my terror. Instinctively, the dog whirled and re-attacked, getting a little more aggressive with the teeth this time. It caught my shirt and yanked me off the swing. I struggled to get up, but Blackie was in full zone now. He was on top of me. He was beside me. He was gone. I shrieked and got tackled each time I tried to get away, literally knocked off my feet by the charging dog who was only playing.

 My six-year-old brother appeared on the back steps leading down to the swing. There was a full concrete stairway leading down the steep hill. He watched, helpless, as he assessed that I was screaming in fright and pain rather having fun. His efforts to stop the dog would have only encouraged it, so he ascended the stairs and sought help from mom.

 By the time she hauled Blackie off me, I had been rolled over and over, shielding my face but getting bitten each time on the hands, arms, and face. I couldn’t stop crying and screaming. I’d been mauled by my own pet. The brutality left deep scratches and a scar on my hand which remains to this day. 

 I remember being bathed and bandaged and salved and soothed, but nothing could take away the emotional terror and mistrust for canines.

 Future blogs relate further encounters with dogs.