Memory: Joe

I can't stop thinking about Joe. I hate it. Maybe if I tell the story I can get it out of my head, for a while. 

After Korea, where I served as a man, I needed time to unwind. It was
time for me to switch to dog phase anyway. I went to Indiana, Muncie,
and chose a family with 2 kids. Kids are always one of my prereqs.

Their last name was Baggins. Bill and Natalie had 2 kids, a boy,
Steven, who was 9, and a girl, Susie, who was 7. They were good
people. Bill sold insurance, had fought in WW2, in Europe,
artillery. Natalie was tall, slender, with a head of luscious dark
hair. She was the daughter of a Philadelphia physician, raised in
privilege, and was the one who took care of us dogs, fed us. The kids
were . . . kids. Enough said.

Joe was a beagle-schnauzer mix. He was the alpha dog of the family,
there when I arrived. Often an alpha feels threatened by newcomers,
feels the need to fight back, lash out, in order to protect his or her
position in the family, the pack. Joe was not like that. He welcomed
me, explained things to me, explained things to me in ways I still
reflect on. He was not perplexed at all by my wereness. (Which most
dogs are, at least at first.) We became friends.

Joe was an even-tempered dog. He looked after the kids, stayed beside
Ella most of the days, all day. Bill liked to take us dogs fishing.
Joe would be moving all over the shore, checking on the kids, sitting
beside Bill, checking out any noise or scent that needed
investigation. I spent most fishing trips following Joe's lead. But,
when I was satisfied with the safety o the area, I tended to take a
lot of naps.

One day Ella was clipping Joe's claws. Joe's claws grew fast, got long
if not clipped at least once a month. This day Joe moved his paw, by
accident, and Ella clipped a claw too close. Claws, of dogs, and other
species, are filled with nerves. They hurt like crazy when they break,
snap, or are cut too close. Joe yelped and bit Ella. It was an
impulse. Joe loved Ella, would never hurt her intentionally. But, the
bite left a mark, a small red half-moon. Joe felt sick about it. He
whined about it all night, kept going to Ella. She just petted him,
kept telling him, "It's all right, Joe." But, Bill, on the other
hand, gave Joe dark scowls.

The next day Bill loaded both kids and both us dogs up in the car for
a drive. I knew something was up when Ella did not get in the car.
We drove off, left her crying at the curb. The kids were making
noise, messing with each other, singing silly kid songs, talking
nonsensically. Joe got quiet. He moved over by me and began whining
quietly. I tried to console him, tell him things were fine him. But,
could not really console myself.

We drove for an hour into the country, off the paved highway, onto
dirt and sand roads, past miles of pastures and fields, dozens of
barns, some newly painted, some falling down. The smell of various
manures and crops was intoxicating. I had my head out a window, and
was starting to relax, when Bill pulled the car over. The cloud of
dust billowed up to and past us as Bill got the kids and Joe out f the
car. Not me. Bill told me, "Stay." My heat sank.

Bill walked Joe and the kids back down the road, the way we had just
come, and stopped in the middle of the road. The kids were quiet.
They didn't realize it, but they knew something was up, sensed it.
They stood there, looking up at their dad, not saying anything,
waiting. Joe sat between them, expectant, silent, hoping.

The windows were open, my head was out, so I heard Bill when he said,
"We're leaving Joe here." The kids thought he was kidding. Bill
convinced him he was not.

"But, why, Daddy?" said Steven. Bill told them that Joe was a bad dog
and that he would not have a bad dog in his home, biting his family.
Then he took both children by the shoulder and guided them back to the
car.

Joe sat for a moment, trying to be obedient, but afraid of what was
happening, trying to figure out what was happening, what to do. They
were ten feet away from him when he barked and ran to them. He barked
and aran around them, trying to get their attention.

"Don't look at him," said Bill. "Don't say anything to him." The
children started crying. Steven was sniffling. Susie was sobbing.

Joe was barking desperately as we drove off. I barked too. "Don't
worry!" I barked to Joe. "I'll come back for you!" Joe ran behind
and kept up with the car for nearly a quarter of a mile, his short
legs moving like a bumblebee's wings. Then, gradually, he disappeared
in the cloud of dust. The kids were still crying when we got back to
the house.

I went back for six weeks, nights, looking, but never found Joe. I
searched as a dog, as a man, often as a weredog, sometimes all three
in the same night. I asked around, of coyotes and foxes, of local
dogs, and even cats. But, nothing. I never found any sign or telling
of Joe. He just disappeared. I like to think that someone, a farmer,
rancher, or some city family visiting country kin, picked him up and
adopted him. But, I don't know. And it still bothers me. It is one
of my many memories that still bother me.

It is no small irony that there is no word or scent for "betrayal" or
"loyalty" in dog consciousness. It would have never occurred to Joe to
betray or abandon Bill or Ella, or the kids. He would have given his
life, gladly, for any of them.

So, that is Joe's story, at least the part of it that haunts me. I cannot imagine that Jack would ever do anything like that. But, Jack is no Bill. Thank God. Jack is more the type of guy who would bury a boot up the butt of someone like Bill. And, I could not not intervene or get involved in any way. Because, I am a dog. Mine is to serve. Not judge. And I do that with pride and a deep sense of duty and pride.

And I still have big problems with anyone named Bill.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com