I can never remember a time when my dad did not have a dog. The first one I remember was Old Bob, a black and white English Springer Spaniel. When he was old, some friends of dad all decided that they would buy an expensive Weimaraner female and then divide pups among themselves after they bred her.Two of my parents' friends at the time were Fern and Dale Thomas. He kept the female locked in a secure coop. His neighbor had a little tiny mut that looked a bit like a Dachshund, one of those mean little dogs with the short legs. It's the one most people referred to as a weeny dog. This one was one of those under any definition of the word "weeny." Dale would find the dog with the female, and then a few months later, he would drown the little mutants. This happened a number of times, all the while Dale tried to find how the little critter kept getting into the coop. He finally found a small hole in the wall some six feet off the ground.
Finally the day came when they were able to get some real pups. Dad picked out a male. We named him Dutch. I will never forget the first time I went hunting with my dad. Dutch was the type of hunting dog, that unlike the springer--running back and forth across a field brushing birds--would stand motionless with one front leg and an opposite back leg raised a bit. Dutch, like all Weimaraners, was a pointer. The dog's nose would point in the direction of the bird. It was fun to watch, and Dutch was an incredible dog. The fact that dad never mentioned how much money the female cost them is proof enough that the blood-line was very good. He would never have mentioned something like that in a farming community. The thought that you would spend as much if not more money on a dog than a range bull would raise eyebrows.
After we moved to Bannock Street, Dutch was hit by a car. Prior to the accident, he was dominant in the entire neighborhood. After they inserted the pin, one leg was never functional. He would hop on the remaining three.
Dogs would seek him out continually, and Dutch would still fight, but he never was the same dog. Eventually, dad had to have him "put down."
Curley, the springer in the picture at the left, was the next one. He was a cute pup. And we played with him so much, that he really developed a personality. The picture at the left is Memorial Day 1971. During that summer, I would load him into the back of the Model A, go to the Malad Drive-In, and order Curley a frosty.
I would had it to him out the window. I wore one of those large black felt hats that you see Native Americans wear in the movies, and I had an eagle feather I found at the ranch. In those days, I didn't know you could get an incredible fine for that, and I never knew it was an eagle feather until years later.
People always laughed watching me and Curley at the Malad Drive-In. I would hand the treat out the window, and the dog would lick it from my hand, wagging his tail and coaxing for more.
Daisy was a cattle dog, the little Blue Heeler at the left in the picture with Curley below. Daisy could climb to the top of a load of hay on the pickup, and we stacked the hay very high. At first she killed cats, whenever they approached her "dog dish." But we soon trained her not to do that.
When coyotes killed Curly one night on the ranch, we soon found another dog. Bear was dad's last dog. He was a Rotweiler, a breed of dog the ancient Romans used as cattle dogs.
When he was just a pup, we were riding to the ranch and fussing over him, Daisy was on the floor sulking and covering her eyes with a paw. After we put the pup down on the seat, Bear leaned over and sniffed at Daisy. She bared her teeth, and instead of a growl, she hissed like a cat. It was crazy. I have never heard of anyone ever seeing anything like that.
Daisy became very strong-willed. She would trot to the Interstate, and run along the road. Someone ran over her, and she was not in the lane of traffic: just a short distance in the emergency lane, so we always believed someone swerved to hit her.
Bear went everywhere with dad. During the final days of dad's life, he was under hospice care at home. We built a large pen for him in the back yard. On February 11, 1991 at 9:00 p.m. he began howling. It was the very minute my dad passed away.
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