Life has many lessons to teach us, even if too often we don’t pay attention. We’ve all been a part of conversations where we acknowledge that miracles do happen, even in the 21st century, and maybe in those conversations we can even describe something that at the time or in retrospect we know, “ah-ha, that was a miracle”. “Any amazing and wonderful occurrence” says one source in defining a miracle. Sometimes what amazes us and causes us to wonder might not be recognizable to a passerby. Life itself is a miracle, a gift, one we too often treat with disregard, or that we embrace and abuse almost within the same breath. Our lives are filled with gifts, along with all the hurdles and the stumbling that mark our journey. Having the opportunity to love others, including pets, counts among the gifts.
I could never describe myself as a pet person, although I am drawn to animals in my own way. We grew up with dogs, dogs whose domain was outside. As I recall, the only times they made it inside were maybe the first night a new puppy came to live with us. We had one of just about every breed that was common to American households in the 1940s and 50s. The earliest breed I remember was an English collie—named Lassie—whose picture made the Houston Press in the late 40s. She had 11 puppies. The tear out from the newspaper came our way recently when our cousin brought us some keepsakes she had uncovered while going through her deceased mother’s personal stuff. Somewhere in a box of photographs we have a similar image, along with one of Mother, my two sisters, me, and our friend Jim Hulme holding the puppies. I don’t remember what happened to all those puppies or to Lassie.
Over the years our family had various terriers, Chihuahas, Cocker Spaniels, Dachshunds, Pekignese, Scotties, German shepherd, another collie, mixed breeds, and when my sisters and I had all left the nest, Mother had two Toy Poodles—Jacques and Nanette. Later, in the country here in Leon County, they had a Bassett mix named Cleo. The stories of what happened to all of these various pooches can bring both tears and laughter. “I’ve Been Everywhere”, the country song penned in the late 1950s, doesn’t cover much more territory than our family pet history.
Pepe the Chihuahua drowned in an open septic tank; Sissy the Chihuahua was run over by Mother’s and Daddy’s friend and employee, Joe Smith; an unnamed Scottie met his fate under the wheels of a car driven by either my maternal grandmother or her daughter-in-law. Bitsy, the terrier we brought to our home in the country in 1951, had formed the habit of napping in the shell street of our quiet Houston neighborhood, a habit that didn’t serve her well on West Montgomery Road. The school bus driver, Clinton Hargrave, had to console Mother and bury Bitsy when he dropped us off the bus one afternoon. Candy, a deer-legged Rat Terrier, wandered onto the highway a couple of times. The first resulted in a broken leg, requiring that she wear a metal brace for a few weeks. Healed, at our daddy’s insistence we let her run loose one night when the family week to Shepherd Drive-In Movie. We found her on the side of the road when we got home. Princess, the German shepherd, and her running mate—I’m amazed but I don’t remember either the dog or its name—met their fate together one night on West Montgomery Road. I ran over a Dachshund puppy in the driveway; Mother drove over one of two puppies from Curley, the Cocker Spaniel; one of our horses stepped on the other. One of our Chihuahuas got in the way of our sister Sue’s bat during a childhood game of softball. The Pekignese, named Pup-Pup by Sue’s daughter in the early 1960s, also found his way to an open septic tank.
Jacques, Nanette joining him later, made their way into Mother and Daddy’s house, and Nanette ultimately lived a relatively long life, by that point living with our oldest sister, Joan. During the time they lived on West Montgomery Road, the highway had become much busier, and I think they had a bad habit of crossing the highway to get from the front yard over to the family place of business. In the end, Jacques had to pay the price. Oddly, he was hit twice, surviving the first time. The family vet told Mother and Daddy that dog’s can have suicide wishes and that Jacques, who was plagued with what the vet diagnosed as severe arthritis, had such a wish. If so, it did indeed come true.
When Mother and Daddy moved to the country—the real country here in Leon County—in the 70s, they brought with them a mixed Bassett they had agreed to take when they bought their previous home northwest of Houston. Cleo was their companion. She loved riding along with my parents to put out cubes and hay for the cattle. On one such venture, she innocently jumped from the back of the pickup. A Brahma-cross cow with a new calf went into defensive mode. Cleo was not a cow dog—just a family pet. The cow knew no difference.
It’s been a long journey to the 21st century, especially in dog years. Since 2000, Casey, a Blue Heeler, has been a family pet here in Leon County. I got her from a Houston vet who volunteered his services to Pals for Pooches. He had rescued her from the family that had bought her as a puppy for two little girls. She became, in his words, too rambunctious for the girls. The vet had owned Casey for several months, trained her to the leash, taught her to retrieve the Frisbee, and she was being supplanted in his home by a Chihuahua—his wife’s decision. Had it not been for Bart the horse, who lived here on the place, our neighbor Jake says Casey wouldn’t have stuck around during the year that I continued to live in Houston. She did stick around though, and while she has no official duties as a cow dog, for which Blue Heelers are bred in Australia, she occasionally asserts her nature and, in her mind, works the cows. She herds Joan’s horse and donkey as well. She used to nip at my pants legs when I walked across the yard. I think Casey is semi-retired, though. She mostly just hangs out now, having just celebrated her ninth birthday last November. She has the heart of a champion, the vet said. Mother loved Casey, but she sure didn’t like Sadie, the Rat Terrier, also a rescue, who came to live here a few years ago.
Santa Fe New Mexico, where I have started living part time, is a dog city. There is even a dog park. Dogs are integral to the landscape. Having a dog is serious business for lots of people. That’s for another story, though. For us, growing up in the 1940s and 50s, dogs were pets who lived in the yard. They had a dog house, or maybe they slept in the garage. After we moved to the country in 1951, they had lots of yard and woods to roam, doing their dog thing. They got a bath occasionally in warm weather. They ate well. We loved our dogs, and I guess they took their chances, just like the rest of us.
Dog Days—Normangee, Texas (January 17, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
I could never describe myself as a pet person, although I am drawn to animals in my own way. We grew up with dogs, dogs whose domain was outside. As I recall, the only times they made it inside were maybe the first night a new puppy came to live with us. We had one of just about every breed that was common to American households in the 1940s and 50s. The earliest breed I remember was an English collie—named Lassie—whose picture made the Houston Press in the late 40s. She had 11 puppies. The tear out from the newspaper came our way recently when our cousin brought us some keepsakes she had uncovered while going through her deceased mother’s personal stuff. Somewhere in a box of photographs we have a similar image, along with one of Mother, my two sisters, me, and our friend Jim Hulme holding the puppies. I don’t remember what happened to all those puppies or to Lassie.
Over the years our family had various terriers, Chihuahas, Cocker Spaniels, Dachshunds, Pekignese, Scotties, German shepherd, another collie, mixed breeds, and when my sisters and I had all left the nest, Mother had two Toy Poodles—Jacques and Nanette. Later, in the country here in Leon County, they had a Bassett mix named Cleo. The stories of what happened to all of these various pooches can bring both tears and laughter. “I’ve Been Everywhere”, the country song penned in the late 1950s, doesn’t cover much more territory than our family pet history.
Pepe the Chihuahua drowned in an open septic tank; Sissy the Chihuahua was run over by Mother’s and Daddy’s friend and employee, Joe Smith; an unnamed Scottie met his fate under the wheels of a car driven by either my maternal grandmother or her daughter-in-law. Bitsy, the terrier we brought to our home in the country in 1951, had formed the habit of napping in the shell street of our quiet Houston neighborhood, a habit that didn’t serve her well on West Montgomery Road. The school bus driver, Clinton Hargrave, had to console Mother and bury Bitsy when he dropped us off the bus one afternoon. Candy, a deer-legged Rat Terrier, wandered onto the highway a couple of times. The first resulted in a broken leg, requiring that she wear a metal brace for a few weeks. Healed, at our daddy’s insistence we let her run loose one night when the family week to Shepherd Drive-In Movie. We found her on the side of the road when we got home. Princess, the German shepherd, and her running mate—I’m amazed but I don’t remember either the dog or its name—met their fate together one night on West Montgomery Road. I ran over a Dachshund puppy in the driveway; Mother drove over one of two puppies from Curley, the Cocker Spaniel; one of our horses stepped on the other. One of our Chihuahuas got in the way of our sister Sue’s bat during a childhood game of softball. The Pekignese, named Pup-Pup by Sue’s daughter in the early 1960s, also found his way to an open septic tank.
Jacques, Nanette joining him later, made their way into Mother and Daddy’s house, and Nanette ultimately lived a relatively long life, by that point living with our oldest sister, Joan. During the time they lived on West Montgomery Road, the highway had become much busier, and I think they had a bad habit of crossing the highway to get from the front yard over to the family place of business. In the end, Jacques had to pay the price. Oddly, he was hit twice, surviving the first time. The family vet told Mother and Daddy that dog’s can have suicide wishes and that Jacques, who was plagued with what the vet diagnosed as severe arthritis, had such a wish. If so, it did indeed come true.
When Mother and Daddy moved to the country—the real country here in Leon County—in the 70s, they brought with them a mixed Bassett they had agreed to take when they bought their previous home northwest of Houston. Cleo was their companion. She loved riding along with my parents to put out cubes and hay for the cattle. On one such venture, she innocently jumped from the back of the pickup. A Brahma-cross cow with a new calf went into defensive mode. Cleo was not a cow dog—just a family pet. The cow knew no difference.
It’s been a long journey to the 21st century, especially in dog years. Since 2000, Casey, a Blue Heeler, has been a family pet here in Leon County. I got her from a Houston vet who volunteered his services to Pals for Pooches. He had rescued her from the family that had bought her as a puppy for two little girls. She became, in his words, too rambunctious for the girls. The vet had owned Casey for several months, trained her to the leash, taught her to retrieve the Frisbee, and she was being supplanted in his home by a Chihuahua—his wife’s decision. Had it not been for Bart the horse, who lived here on the place, our neighbor Jake says Casey wouldn’t have stuck around during the year that I continued to live in Houston. She did stick around though, and while she has no official duties as a cow dog, for which Blue Heelers are bred in Australia, she occasionally asserts her nature and, in her mind, works the cows. She herds Joan’s horse and donkey as well. She used to nip at my pants legs when I walked across the yard. I think Casey is semi-retired, though. She mostly just hangs out now, having just celebrated her ninth birthday last November. She has the heart of a champion, the vet said. Mother loved Casey, but she sure didn’t like Sadie, the Rat Terrier, also a rescue, who came to live here a few years ago.
Santa Fe New Mexico, where I have started living part time, is a dog city. There is even a dog park. Dogs are integral to the landscape. Having a dog is serious business for lots of people. That’s for another story, though. For us, growing up in the 1940s and 50s, dogs were pets who lived in the yard. They had a dog house, or maybe they slept in the garage. After we moved to the country in 1951, they had lots of yard and woods to roam, doing their dog thing. They got a bath occasionally in warm weather. They ate well. We loved our dogs, and I guess they took their chances, just like the rest of us.
Dog Days—Normangee, Texas (January 17, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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