My sister wised up
before I ever did, and her focus changed from fruitless promises to financial
strategy. Pretty soon, Dad couldn’t
watch the news without putting a few pennies in the jar marked “dog fund” that
sat atop our old brown TV. Jars started
popping up all over the place: on the dryer, over the refrigerator, and even on
the back of the toilet. After a while it
seemed very reasonable to pay only five cents for a bath or twenty-five cents
to use the car. We wore Dad down enough
to say he would consider buying a dog, if we could come up with half the cost. Penny by penny, month by month, we
saved. We said “no thank you” to trips
to the movies, the Clallam County Fair, and ice cream. We asked for nothing at Christmas (though
Santa still came) and tried our best not to waste any food or electricity. And eventually, after many extra chores,
several baths, and every allowance we could afford, we had saved fifty dollars. Never in our lives had we seen so much money
all at once. A small voice in the back
of my head (I can only assume it was the devil, himself) said, “Fifty dollars
will buy a lot of ‘Archie’ comics. Fifty dollars will buy an Upper Deck complete
set of baseball cards.” It was true. I
didn’t know when I would see this much money ever again, but it was half my
sister’s and she was better at quieting the evil thoughts in her head.
We still had several
months until school would be out for the summer and we would head off to
Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Dogs cost a
lot less in Montana, so we gave all our money to dad for safe-keeping and made
plans for the new puppy. With
highlighters in hand (Mary with pink and I, blue), we scribbled through our
tattered “Big Book of Baby Names,” page by page. I liked things like “Jasper” or “Max.” Mary said we would get a girl dog because dad
had to make back his fifty dollars by selling her pups. I couldn’t think of a
single girl name I liked—including my own—so I gave up the reigns and went out
to play. Mary had been on a General
Custer history-kick that year—she always seemed to get caught up in one era or
another, and her life focused on little else until the obsession passed. We heard again and again the stories of the
Little Bighorn, and how we “white folk” completely lost that battle due to our
own dumb pride. Therefore, Mary coined
the dog “Libby,” to be named after General Custer’s wife. I didn’t hate the name, but I had never heard
it before.
Summer came, and
along with it, our expectations. Dad and
Mom planned a big family trip to—where else—the Little Bighorn
Battlefield. Grandma and Grandpa, aunts
and uncles, and plenty of cousins piled in and spent the week in Miles City
looking at Great-Grandpa Baba’s childhood ranch (made famous by a visit from painter
Charlie Russell), a museum of human hair, and the Little Bighorn National
Monument. Mary click-clicked her little
red camera wherever she went, her eyes gleaming with the glory of it all. To stand on the place where your hero (albeit
a total dunce) met his maker was nearly more than she could handle. But at last, after several 100-degree plus days in tiny
motel rooms, we packed up and headed north on highway eighty-seven.
We found our next
destination off the beaten path, in a little place called Lewistown. We’d been driving all day, but wouldn’t let
dad stop for anything short of emergencies.
And now, here we were— months of anticipation all just a memory. The old wooden sign out front said it all:
“Pete’s Beagle Farm.” Mary and I raced
to meet old Pete, in his red ball cap and worn-out overalls, sitting peacefully
on his porch. He hadn’t a tooth in his
head and his thick glasses made it very hard to see his expression; but he seemed
happy to see us. From the look of
things, no one had stopped by in a very long time. Pete opened the gate and led us back to his
dogs. There appeared to be about a
hundred beagles all over the place. The
males had their own yard filled with stumps and barrels to climb on, while the
females slept peacefully with their pups.
We peered in, kennel by kennel, wondering just who would come home with us. Mary asked for a little girl and Pete said
there were only two: one with a hernia (but he “would sell ‘er for fifty”) and another
he was keeping to breed. We held the
little girl, but she was awfully sick and dad said that we needed to take home
a healthy dog.
Circling the yard, we
came to a kennel at the very end. The
puppies all slept in a tiny black and tan mound, hidden under their mother’s
protective paw. “Will they always be black?”
I asked. Pete said he supposed they
would develop their colors in time, but “a black beagle is a dead beagle.” People in those parts didn’t buy dogs for
pets, but for hunting or for show. No
one wanted an “imperfect” show hound. I
frantically scanned the puppies, looking for one doomed to be dark, but no one
could tell at this age. Who knew what
they would become.
That’s when we met George.
Mary reached into the soft, earthy-smelling pile and grabbed a tiny nugget with a birthmark on his bum. He didn’t even wake as she held him to her chest, cooing and singing softly to his little head. Mother Beagle looked up but showed no concern—she knew we would be gentle. No, he certainly wasn’t a “Libby,” but that wee little lump walked away with a large moniker. “Puppy” was now “General George Armstrong Custer.” He would have to become a much bigger dog to live up to a name like that. But I almost didn’t mind my sister’s eccentricities. After all, who needed a “Rover” or a “Fido?” The second we yelled his name, only one dog would come running.
Almost immediately,
“General George” became “Georgie” because he was just so dang cute. We placed him, still sleeping, in a little
cardboard box filled with blankets that smelled like his mom. Under the old pillow was a clock shaped like
a big pink jewel that steadily ticked, reminding Georgie of his mother’s very
own heartbeat. And with that, off we
drove to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, with the newest Leinart sleeping softly
in the back seat, unaware of all the little hands that would be holding him in
just a few hours.
That first night at
Grandma and Grandpa’s could have been a little easier, had the weather been
kind. But Montana in the summertime is
prone to violent thunderstorms, and this was no exception. Our poor pup whimpered and yelped from his
box between the twin beds. We dipped our
hands down beside him but he didn’t know us.
We didn’t smell like Mom; we didn’t look like Mom. Dad opened the curtain that separated the two
rooms, and lifted George out of the box.
Downstairs, he took our scared little dog out into the stormy
night. Sheet-lightning lit the outdoors
like midday, and George shook as dad stood over him saying, “Go, dammit!”
At summer’s end,
George came home with us to Washington.
Excitedly, he bolted through the yard, heading straight for the garden
to pull up the veggies. Only then did we
learn that his favorite food was carrots.
That dog would do anything for carrots.
With one or two in his mouth, he whipped back to the porch to meet his
new nemesis. Our old calico, Coko, had
no need in her life for anything small, cute, or friendly. Coko looked at us with disdain and jumped onto
the roof to sulk in the shadow of the chimney.
George, caring little for Coko’s opinion, ran into the house to sniff
every square inch of furniture and to “claim” it before being tossed back
outside. There he found his new favorite
place underneath the old apple tree in our back yard. He nibbled at the rotten ones and scratched
his backside against the bark.
From that very first
day, until the day I left for college, George slept under the covers at the
foot of my bed. He became my closest
confidant and pal. Mary, who quickly saw
the drawback to owning a dog, decided that she preferred being a “cat-person” and
did her best to coax Coko out of her perpetual mood. But for me, I had a friend and tag-along for
life who sat with me while I did my homework, pawed at my toes for a secret snack
under the dinner table, and sang while I practiced my piano lessons. Yes, George was the dog for me.
Over the years, George
grew quite popular with everyone in town.
While I went to school, Mom walked him down to the waterfront and around
the neighborhoods. In the early
mornings, George sat with my school friends at the bus stop, eating pumice
stones out of old Mr. Stevens’ perfectly manicured lawn. No one could figure out why he loved the
crunch of pumice so much, but he downed several pounds over the years and lived
to tell the tale. But he almost
didn’t. One day, while out on one of his
adventures, George swallowed a rock that he couldn’t
digest. My cheerful, happy, excitable
mutt held his head down and moaned. I
offered him a can of tuna—a treat for any dog—but he merely looked away. I told dad that George looked sick and he
mumbled something like “sure, always
on the weekend…” but our vet came in to take a look. Dr. Mowbry felt poor Georgie’s sore belly,
took a few pictures of his insides, and gave the diagnosis. A rock.
A $400 rock, to be exact. Apparently, it was small enough to fit in one
end, but just too big to come out the other.
Dad said there was no way he was spending four-hundred bucks to pull a
rock out of a “stupid dog,” when the dog cost only a hundred bucks to begin
with. Mom, Mary, and I cried and pleaded. He was such a good dog. How could we let
such a good dog die? There would never be another good dog like him. Please dad! We
convinced him—or he had second thoughts about going home with three females who
would hate him ever after—and dad wrote the check. But to this day, we have a little pill bottle
on the mantle above the fireplace, and inside that little bottle is a small
stone. Dad keeps it there because he
says it’s the most expensive thing in the house.
Each December, our
family would pile into dad’s truck to go find a Christmas tree up in the
mountains. As a member of the family,
George always came along. He loved not
having to be leashed and ran up and down the trails, marking every stump and
twig as “his.” My mother always fretted
that he would be eaten by a bear or get lost in the snow. Dad said he “hoped so,” but George found his
way back every time. If he did get stuck, we heard the pathetic
baying ringing through the trees and dropped everything to rescue him. On the way down the mountain, dad thought it
was fun to let George run. Mom, Mary,
and I would, again, beg and cry, pleading with dad to let George back in the
truck. But Dad, laughing hysterically,
would pile us in and take off, as if he was leaving George forever. George would barrel down the mountain in a
tiny little ball, legs above his head, frantic to catch up. Never had that dog run so fast. About a mile later, dad would pull the truck
over and let our poor, shaking dog inside.
And every time, George would have a smile and would wag his tail in
forgiveness, before collapsing into a well-deserved nap.
All throughout my
life, I could rely on George to understand whatever I was thinking. For some reason, he always knew my mood. If I aced a test, he sat waiting for me, looking
out the window, full of life and excitement.
He knew that something great had happened, and was prepared to go
jumping around the house with me. Still
too, if a boy dumped me (and believe me, a few have), George knew it.
He would head straight to my bedroom and curl up next to my head,
licking my tear-stained cheeks. If it
took all night long to stop crying, he would never move until I moved first. I tried to return the favor. Some of his worst days were spent cowering in
the closet. Generally this occurred only
on the 4th of July (or if the red-neck neighbors got a little crazy),
but I always tried to make him comfortable until he felt safe enough to come
out. Other times, when he got in big
trouble for eating Grandma’s Parisian chocolates or peeing on the photo albums,
he would hide behind the couch, fearful of my dad’s yelling and stomping around
the house. On those days, I climbed
behind the couch, carrot in hand, and we held a little pow-wow until the moment
had passed.
Before I graduated
from high school, the silver streaks lined George’s soft face. He still got excited when the moment
warranted, but a little more slowly each time.
For fun, I would bring him to history class with me, where he would spar
with Mr. Rennie’s basset hound, Ralph.
Ralph was often dropped off by the local police after escaping from his
back yard. He always headed straight for
the bread aisle at Albertsons, where a clerk would call an officer, who knew to
bring him straight to school. They never
wrote a ticket because this was routine and almost happily anticipated.
Our loved puppy dog
grew older, slower, and quieter. He
still followed my every move, but preferred sitting. When I would stand up, he looked at me as if
to say “please, let’s stay a while.” The
sweet old beagle who grew up with me, who watched every baseball game with my
dad, and who did his best to protect all of us, was fading away.
I dreaded going away
to college. I had always known that life
with my pal would never be the same. Dad
brought him to school a few times, for overnights in the dorm. He would smile sleepily and crawl under the
covers to the foot of my bed, just like he always had. Mom still took him for walks, but he limped a
little now, and couldn’t go quite as far.
One day, I got a
call. Old George, blind, deaf, and
without the nose that defined his breed, had no quality of life. He still responded happily to soft pats on
the head or a scratch on his bum. He
still sat under his favorite apple tree, squinting at the sunset behind the
mountains. But he was saying good-bye to
all of us.
“It’s time,” my dad
said. I waited until after work to cry,
but told him to hang on until I could get home.
I packed my clothes into the back of my clunky Subaru, and gave dad one
more call before hitting the road. “It’s
done, Ellie,” he said softly. Angrily I
told him he should have waited for me.
George would want me there. But
dad said that it needed to be quick, for George’s sake. Even our poor old vet cried the day George
said good-bye. She had given him his
baby boosters, and he knew her and loved her.
George died in 2003. Dad buried him under the apple tree in his
favorite spot. It was there that he
could see the whole world from atop his little hill. I go and sit out there on warm days, leaning
against the trunk where he would scratch his back on the bark. I see the rotten apples he would nudge and
nibble, and I shut my eyes and pretend that he is still here.
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