Dog Blog Number 7: Salesman vs. Dog

This final dog blog isn't graphic and is only mildly offensive to certain people, like your grandma's 98-year-old pastor's wife.

Attack Dog

 In 1998, I was on a sales crew going door to door selling vacuums. Our vanload of salesmen liked to hit the back roads and find our own customers. We got bold and courageous at each door, facing new ways to ward off excuses and rejection.

 I felt pretty lion hearted when we drove past a yard sign stating, “Guard Dog on Duty.”

 “Who wants it?” Terry French, our lead man and driver, quipped.

 “I’ll take it,” I said, serious.

  Terry looked at me in astonishment. “I was only kidding.”

 “I’m not,” I said. “Let me out.”

 The other guys were amazed as I swung open the side door and walked toward the house past the sign.

 To my horror, a real guard dog, a large Rottweiler, came lunging around the corner, teeth bared and growling fiercely. I ignored my impulse to run. In fact, I shut down all senses toward the animal, knowing he’d sense fear. I blocked him out as if he didn’t exist. The dog rushed me, jumped in my face, but turned back inches away, dropping to the ground. His training told him not to attack if someone didn’t instinctively fling up their hands in defense. I kept walking, never breaking stride, as if I were Hellen Keller and couldn’t see or hear the animal. He charged again, equally as fierce, jumping up in my face but turning abruptly again, sensing no reaction from me.

 The third rush was feeble, and he whirled about again, scurrying away, head down, glancing back and still realizing he’d been ignored.

 I was at the front door by now.  A woman came rushing out, face pale.

 “Are you alright?” she said, nervously.

 “I’m fine,” I said, “Your dog’s a little embarrassed, but I’m just fine.”

 She looked at her dog, then at me. “You’re the first person to ever make it to the door,” she said, a look of shock and amazement on her face. “What do you want?”

 By this time my insides were liquefying and the adrenaline was wearing off. I wanted nothing to do with this woman or her dog.

 “Well, I’m just out selling vacuums today,” I said. “But I suppose you don’t need another one, do you?”

 She shook her head no. I had deliberately declined the opportunity to sell her, feeling nauseous.

 As I returned to the van, the looks of awe on the guys’ faces were worth it. I was a champion, a warrior, fearless.

 “Do you hear that clanking sound?” Rob, one of the veteran salesmen said. “That’s the sound of John’s balls clanking. They’re obviously made of steel.”

Another Dog Bite

 On another sales call, on my own this time, I knocked on a door at Linden lure. The dog of the house responded by rushing from the living room to the screen door, smacking it open with his snout and biting me on his way out to the yard. I felt the sting of pain as I realized he’d broken the skin and made a hole in my pant leg.

 I whirled to kick him viciously. As he and I squared off for battle, the owner appeared at the door and scolded the dog.

 I was furious, and left quickly, determined to keep knocking on doors and not give up.

Violated

On yet another sales call, a huge black Labrador Retriever lugged around the corner and nuzzled my crotch with abject familiarity. I thrust his slobbering nuzzle away, only to be re-nuzzled and snout bucked in my private area over and over. To make matters worse, the damn dog put his humungous muddy paws all over my good pants!

 Even more infuriating, the homeowner came out and talked to me, acting as if the dog wasn’t there as I fidgeted and tried not to punch the dog in front of him.

 He enjoyed my discomfort, to say the least. I guess being a door to door salesman, I deserved it. But as soon as his back was turned, I violently struck out at the big dog’s face, startling it but not enough to deter it. I retreated to the van, feeling dirty inside and out.

Every door-to-door salesman's fear...

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 3: Where the sh-- hits the fan

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material which may be offensive to some readers.

When I was about 17, these two young pups, well, they weren't that young, they were half grown dogs, came wandering across our rural property one day. They were hanging around and I was afraid they would kill our chickens, so since I never had seen them before, I got my over and under single shot .22 caliber rifle /.410 shotgun.

 I put a shell in the .22 chamber, aimed inches from one of the dog’s heads, and pulled the trigger.

 The dog let out a pitiful howl and took off, much to my surprise. I thought he’d drop over dead. I had learned of a hillbilly named Sammy Arnold years earlier who went deer hunting with just a .22. I was shocked my .22 didn’t even drop a little dog.

 About 20 minutes later, a pickup came roaring down our dead end gravel road. I panicked as I saw an angry hillbilly getting out. I hid my gun and answered the door when the angry hillbilly knocked.

 “Do you own a .22?” the man demanded.

 “No sir,” I said, thinking to myself, “I own a 22/410 over and under, but not a .22.”

 “Well, my little dog came home just a little while ago with a bullet in his eye,” the man said, trying to hide his rage and sorrow. “He still had his collar on and everything!”

 He shook his head in dismay. “That’s where the shit hits the fan,” he said. “When I find out whoever done it, it’s over.”

 I feebly wished him well on his search for the low down dog shooter and quietly hid my gun out of sight. Maybe this gun thing wasn’t so quick and effective after all.



Dog Blog Number 2: Hanging Around

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material which may offend some readers.
It was a light brown, smaller to medium, stray dog. No collar. No fear. Just a mutt that wouldn't stop hanging around our rural dead end road property. Probably a drop off situation.

 But we didn't have money or interest in another mouth to feed. Mom had more than 15 cats, after all. A dog would be just too much. And, he disturbed the feline community that populated itself in the back woods. 

 I was about 15 or 16. I took matters into my own hands.  I called Louie, my neighbor. Louie was a small kid, younger than me by a year, but his face looked like it was made of stone. He had a heart to match.

 I had a medium sized string, not even a rope, about a clothesline width.  I thought I could do this dog in without a fuss. It wouldn’t leave. It followed me everywhere. I tried to get rid of it, yelling, throwing rocks. Nothing worked. The mongrel was a sucker for punishment.

So I  did it. I called Louie. He showed up in five minutes, driving his daddy's pickup even though he wasn't quite old enough to legally drive.

 Louie took the small rope, tied it around the dog’s neck and secured it in a common square knot. The dog didn’t want to be led. It balked, stiffening its legs and sliding through the dead leaves. Louie continued to drag it into the woods. I didn't dare follow.

 Louie told me the dog would get tired of being dragged and would run ahead, eager to explore. He came to a clearing with nothing around it and threw the end of the rope over the low branch of a tree.

Louie hoisted the dog off the ground by tugging hard on the other end of the rope. The dogs' front paws instinctively hugged the rope as it yelped and howled in pain, kicking and struggling against the rope. The body was two feet off the ground. Louie held on, watching the dog struggle for air, yelping, twisting, howling. It was too much to watch. He turned away, afraid he’d done permanent damage and not wanting to do a halfway job. But as the seconds ticked by, and he thought for sure the dog would succumb; it seemed to gain more energy from its desperation.

Foam came from the sides of its mouth as it tried to bite the rope, twist out of the rope, kick against it, and struggle to howl in pain.

"Did he die?" I wanted to know. 

 Louie just kept telling the story in a matter-of-fact voice, avoiding my eyes. It was as if he were enduring a painful memory. "I kept thinking the dog would give up and die, that its tongue would stick out and its head slump over and its body grow limp," he said, barely above a whisper. "None of that happened."

 I had never tried to hang anything alive before, and this news certainly wasn’t making my day.

 I began to have serious doubts about my arrangement, and questioned why I did it in the first place. What kind of person was I, to arrange to have a dog hung?

 I should have just shot him, but I didn’t own a gun at the time. Besides, I thought this would be more discreet since no one would hear a gunshot.

 "After what seemed an hour, but was probably close to a minute, I let the dog drop to the ground," Louie continued. "He got up and started to run. I thought he would be in a daze, or fall over, or something. I yanked him back and pulled again, raising his feet off the ground once more. His body kicked and swung, and came free of the neck hold. Crazy dog staggered off into the woods. I never saw it again. Not sure if it died or not."

 I felt terrible. I decided I needed to buy a gun and make these things go more quickly and less painfully.

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.