A Country Rag Occasional Treats

MY GUARD DOG
by Roeena

We lived in a lumber mill camp, deep in the woods behind Mt. Shasta,
consisting of 200 souls and half as many dogs. Peter had become sort of a
dog orphanage before I married him and had eight large ones when I came on
the scene. Much of my day was taken up in opening the door to let dogs in or
out. I learned to stand back, because there was always a mad dash to go in
either direction and my small frame wasn't up to coping with the herd
gracefully.


Outsiders often dumped unwanted animals off at the camp, thinking they'd
find a home. One young black dog had gone wild over at the mill and Peter
made a game of feeding and trying to get near it. He had a way with canines
and soon managed to tame it enough to bring it home. It was a beautiful
male, bigger than any of our dogs - sort of like a collie with a plume for a
tail. Peter had a tight hold on the leash and a silly grin on his face as he
brought him in, and when I said,"Nooo", he begged like a kid to keep it,
promising to train it to sit and lie down. We sure didn't need another dog,
but he was so pleased he'd been able to win it over, and who could say no to
that darling, red-bearded man?

Peter named the dog Strider, and with a few minor mishaps Strider soon became
adjusted to home life and established himself as top dog, since he was the
biggest. He was also the smartest. He figured out how to get the screen door
bouncing so he could get his long nose in there and open it from the inside.
I made no extra fuss over him, but he decided I was his to protect. He
proved to be a biter, so Peter fenced in the yard and Strider spent alot of
time out there, barking at every person or vehicle that passed by.


One day, a salesman came to call. The brochure had promised this wouldn't
happen, but there he was, foolish enough to come inside the gate, with that
huge dog menacing him, and of course, he got it in the leg. I wasn't home,
but he complained to my son that his pants were ripped, and Michael
retorted, "You're lucky it wasn't your leg." Needless to say, we didn't have
to put up with his sales pitch.


I had studied wild foods, to do my part in augmenting our fluctuating
income. There were five lush meadows in a short radius from camp, that gave
up a different crop of goodies about every two weeks. The dogs loved
gathering time. They would gambol about, almost laughing for joy. Strider
was something to see, running gleefully in these open spaces, easily out
distancing the  other dogs. It was because of him that I learned to roam the
woods alone, without fear, to find mushrooms, berries and greens. Being a
city girl, I was leary of the bear I KNEW was behind every tree, or the
amorous logger, lying in wait to pounce. We would sally forth, Strider
enthusiastically pulling me along with his chain. He was really too heavy
for me to handle physically; all I had going for me was his devotion. The
most dangerous thing he ever flushed was a scared, little rabbit, so I
became at home in the forest, happily getting acquainted with the wonders of
nature. Peter always said one was safer there than on the city streets.


There was a tiny store 45 minutes away from camp in a high valley (we were
at the 4000' level). I had tethered Strider outside while we shopped, and
when I  came out, he had gotten loose and was dancing about, very pleased
with himself. Not bothering to wrassle him back onto the leash, since no one
was around, I started to pick milkweed pods that were ripe and ready along
the ditch, and that smarty noticed what I  was taking and would go up to
the next plant and stand by it until I got there.


Then, there was the time I had Peter let me out of the pickup so I could get
some prime wintercress while he did errands in the next town. I usually made
it a rule to never cross over a fence to gather food, but there was so much
of it in this pasture, at just the right stage, and a bit of a rare find. I
made my way through the fence and proceeded to fill my bag. Because of a
back injury, I couldn't bend over long enough to pick much, so I sat down
and was merrily clipping away when three tall horses ambled up to see what
was going on. I've always been wary of anything much larger than I, but
I had Strider to defend me. Well, he'd never seen a horse before, and
instead of charging them and noisily running them off, as I expected, he hid
behind me for protection! I wasn't about to give up my wintercress, so I
waved and shouted at them to go away, surprised at my own courage,
considering my vulnerable position. The horses stood there, dumbfounded at
this crazy lady, sitting in the dirt. Evidently, they decided it wasn't
worth bothering with, 'cause they wandered off, leaving me to finish my
picking and share the tale of Strider's "heroism" with Peter when he came
back to pick me up.


Strider loved riding in the back of the pickup. He'd throw one elbow over
the side and lean out, watching the road ahead, the wind ruffling his fur
and ears. It gave him kind of a rakish look; you almost expected to hear him
say, "Hi,Babe".


One day, Peter dug his mouth organ out of the closet and surprised us all
with a few tunes. Strider tipped his head one way and then the other, not
knowing what to make of that strange sound. Another time, having parked
the pickup in downtown Mt. Shasta and telling the dog to stay (he was well
trained that way), we went to get an ice cream cone. On approaching the truck
and seeing the perked up ears and wagging tail, playful Peter said, "Watch
this. Just walk on by as though you don't see him.". It was worth it to turn
back and see that perplexed, forlorn expression. Peter often got a cone for
the dog to slurp up in one gulp, which was done with extra relish when the
adventure of almost missing out was added. Peter's oldest brother was an
ex-marine officer with an attitude that grated on me alot. He took a job at
the mill and we wound up taking him and his four active boys into our home
for a month while his wife sold their house in Anaheim and settled their
affairs there. Strider accepted the situation and got along fine with the
boys. The oldest son, who was as insufferable as his father, was away at
college. He was scheduled for a visit, and the second oldest, who was the
gem of the bunch, conferred with me as to how to control Strider when he
arrived, since the dog took strong action against newcomers. 


The older brother was no favorite with the younger, who had been picked on
unmercifully, so  when he surprised us by suddenly walking in without
knocking, and got one sniff and a bite from Strider, who was alone in the
living room, we could hardly muffle our giggles in the kitchen. The father
promptly took the young man into the bedroom and shut the door. Instead of
railing at me for having such a dog, he lectured his favorite son on the
fact that Uncle Pete was married now, and things were different.


Then came the day we decided to move to Paradise, and had to find homes for
all the dogs, as our new place wasn't big enough for the kind of romps in
the woods that they were used to. Strider had the special kind of qualities
that made him attractive to a police officer in Chico, who had a ranch and
wanted some protection for his wife when he had to be away. My last sight of
my friend was watching him being led away on a short leash, gently nipping
at the smiling man who knew he had just what he wanted. Goodbye, my unique,
dear pal.














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"My Guard Dog İRoeena, 1997. All rights reserved.