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uring the years we lived in Howard, we had a lovely Collie-Shepherd dog
who looked much like Lassie. His name was Tuck. (His brother's name was
Nip.) I suppose I was three or four years old when we got him; anyway I
was tricycle riding age. I was allowed to ride my tricycle on the
sidewalk in our block from one end to the other, but not cross the
street. Tuck went with me, back and forth. I thought he was my pal, but
he must have thought he was my guard dog. one day a man passing by
reached down and patted me on the head. Tuck's hackles rose, and he let
out a mighty growl. That man made a hasty exit. Later he told my father
about it and added "That dog of yours is worth a million
dollars." Dad already had a pretty good opinion of Tuck. Across the
street lived the Smith sisters, unmarried ladies with some artistic
talent. They constructed a rock garden and had a pool in which they grew
water lillies. One day they came across the street and said, "We
don't like to complain, but your dog is swimming in our pool at night
and tearing up the Willies." Dad's first reaction was disbelief. He
couldn't believe our paragon of a dog would do such a sneaky thing. That
night he watched the pool to see what dog was doing the damage, for he
knew it wan't his. He came home from his vigil rather shaken up. It was
Tuck. |
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ur next dog was a French bulldog named Lily. Dad bought her while he
was living in Medicine Lodge and brought her to us when he was back in
Howard for a visit. She moved to Medicine Lodge with us and then to
Pratt and died when I was a sophomore in high school. The evening before
Lily died she and Dad had a vigorous game of tug-of-war with a gunny
sack, a game Lily loved. That night she went to sleep on the front porch
and never woke up. Lily was a bit chunky to be considered a canine
beauty, probably as a result of being neutered, but her brindle coat was
shiny, and she had a naturally happy expression. She appeared to be
smiling at us, and perhaps she was.