Thursday, October 16, 2014

Peewee and the crescent of dogs

A GENERIC BLOODHOUND

I don't know if this happened when I was a teenager or a young man. I'd take walks around the neighborhood in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and sometimes I'd range farther up on the ridge.

Dogs from the neighborhood often followed me, formed a pack around me and walked along, and that's the way it was that day. We were on the ridge, and this biting dog had found us.

The biting dog was at least part German shepherd, and he was way bigger than any of the dogs in "my" pack. The biggest dog and best fighter of my pack was Peewee, a sweet and skinny bloodhound. Peewee had guile and was a terrific fighter, but fortunately he didn't have to fight that day.

I didn't realize what was happening, but that pack of dogs slowly formed a scraggly crescent formation in front of me, with Peewee in the middle. One by one, they wobbled into place. I later realized that they were ready to protect me.

 The shepherd looked at them for a few seconds, then sat down. He looked around, uncertain what to do. After a standoff for a couple of minutes, the offender trotted off. Strangely (and happily), I never saw him again.

We finished our walk unimpeded.

P.S.: You may find the blog entry on Old Joe on this blog. The Bryant family had owned Old Joe, and they later owned Peewee, too.

 EMAIL: tgilli52@gmail.com  TWITTER: EDITORatWORK


BLOG ENTRIES FROM THE AUTO RACING JOURNAL
(a book of great stories about the Intimidator)
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Saturday, October 11, 2014

Old Joe


When most people talk about old dogs, the old dogs are 14 to 16 years old. My dog Lady, for instance, is still lively (most of the time) at 14-plus.

 When I was a kid in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, people always talked about Old Joe, owned by the Bryant family. He was eight years old when I was born, and he was still alive when I was 15. That meant Old Joe was 23. In human years, that would be about 130, if not older.

 I remember Joe well. At 23, he'd stagger up for breakfast, stagger off to do his business and then stagger back to his spot to take a nap. There were no pee dances, no playing, no toys and no chasing balls. Joe did what he had to; then he slept.

 He was surly and apparently didn't see well, so we never tried to pet him. Toward the end, his fur was matted and ragged, and you weren't going to give him a bath. He wouldn't allow it.

 Joe never made it to 24, and I wasn't there when he was buried. He was just gone. He wasn't the best dog I ever saw — nowhere near it — but he was memorable.


EMAIL: tgilli52@gmail.com  TWITTER: EDITORatWORK

BLOG ENTRIES FROM THE AUTO RACING JOURNAL
(a book of great stories about the Intimidator)
(the book of great NASCAR stories)
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