Sometimes, someone unexpected comes into your life out of nowhere, makes your heart race and changes you forever. For some, this someone is a cop. This was not true in my case (at least, not until I got my first traffic ticket).
I suppose I was a somewhat sensitive child. Occasionally I would get my feelings hurt by a sharp word of criticism or correction. Luckily, I had a true pal who never failed to comfort.
I would go sit on the top step of the back porch. Though I had several imaginary friends, a real friend would come and sit beside me. I would put my arm around his neck, lean my cheek against his head and say, “You’re the only friend I have in this whole, wide world.”
My friend never said a word, and while I played with the tufts of hair on his chest and patted his head, he would pant as if to say, “You’ve got that right, Bud!”
This faithful friend was my dog Brownie. Brownie was a part-beagle, part-bull that my dad got when I was seven or eight years old from Earn Hendrix, a blind man who lived on Dotson Creek.
I remember Dad taking me with him to Earn’s house when he picked up Brownie. Dad was not always the most thoughtful person, and he wasn’t one to give gifts even when gifts might be expected, such as Christmas or birthdays. Dad never even made it seem like Brownie was a gift, but it worked out that way after all.
Sometimes our best companions and teachers have four legs. Such was the case for me between the approximate ages of seven or eight to thirteen. My time with Brownie, though seemingly too short, taught me a lot about life and friendship.
Brownie seemed to come along just when I needed a friend the most. We hit it off immediately. Brownie responded to me in a just-so-special way, and I loved him back and respected him for his intelligence.
Brownie was always there at the end of the day when I came home from school. I knew I could depend on him to brighten the day. When I was in sixth grade, I enlisted my mother’s help to bake a skillet of cornbread for the 4-H bread baking contest.
I had grand visions of “turning out” the most beautiful, tasty pone ever baked. Alas! Somehow, when my finished product emerged from the oven, the top looked exactly like the wrinkles on the face of the oldest man imaginable.
I was ashamed of its looks, but I entered the contest anyway and received the expected green participation ribbon for my one and only bread baking contest entry.
I knew my dog Brownie, if no one else, would consider my “trick” a “treat.” After all, Brownie was not only man’s best friend, he was definitely my best friend as well.
Brownie would never let a stray cat come into our yard, though he wouldn’t hurt it. We had several cats throughout the years, as they seemed to be constantly getting run over.
Each time we got a new cat, all Mother had to do was carry it to Brownie and say, “Brownie, this is our new cat. Don’t you bother it.”
Brownie spent many nights in the corner of the back porch sharing his cardboard box bed with our various cats.
Brownie was smart, and he knew how to stay out of the road. Brownie was usually fearless, but thunder frightened him. Dad would let him come inside during a storm, and he would lay on the floor between the two front doors until the storm passed.
There was only one time he entered the house otherwise.
My niece was lying on the bed in the living room when she was a baby, crying loudly, and no one was paying her any mind. Brownie was very protective of our family, so he broke through the screen door to see what was wrong.
He had his paws on the bed, one on either side of my niece, and was looking at the crying child when Dad caught him and swatted him with a broom, chasing him back out through the same hole in the screen through which he had entered.
Later, when Dad figured out that Brownie was only worried about the baby, he bragged to anyone that would listen about what a smart dog Brownie was.
On another occasion Pearl Hodge, a frequent walker on the road past our house, stopped at the hedge to talk to Mother. In the course of conversation Pearl put her hand on Mother’s shoulder. Brownie obviously thought Pearl meant harm, and though he didn’t hurt Pearl, he made his point that she had better keep hands off his people!
Brownie seemed almost human through his interactions with this pre-adolescent boy, but he sometimes proved very much dog. Brownie would occasionally, in the middle of the night, bark in chorus with other dogs close by.
Dad would holler from bed, “Dry that up, Brownie!” That usually sufficed.
Once, Brownie came home with a huge gash above his right “eyebrow.” The gash was so deep that I could see the “meat” that covered his skull. Apparently he had been in a fight, I always imagined with another dog, over courtship of a prize female. At least, for Brownie’s sake, I hope it was pleasant, and that the other dog looked worse. At any rate, Brownie healed, and all was well.
Unfortunately, Brownie later caught “the mange.” In despair, Dad took Brownie several miles away and abandoned him. That might seem cruel, but Dad couldn’t bring himself to shoot the faithful beast, and he couldn’t allow a dog with mange to be around the house for health reasons. In those days of half a century ago, there was no animal shelter in Union County.
After Dad took Brownie “off,” Jack Warwick, our landlord, told Dad that Happy Jack mange medicine was a “sure-fire” cure for “the mange.” Dad went and retrieved a very happy Brownie and brought him back home.
A couple of times a week, Dad would put on his rubber gloves “up to the elbow,” chain Brownie, and rub him down with Happy Jack. That medicine was almost pure sulphur, and Brownie hated it. When released, Brownie would run to the hill across the creek and roll down it over and over, trying to remove the offensive medicine. After a few weeks, Brownie made a complete recovery.
Though I don’t remember exactly when Brownie entered our family, I remember all too well when he left. It seemed to happen at a time I needed him most.
I had just transitioned from elementary to the eighth grade at the high school. Brownie developed a cough that worsened daily. Dad took him to the vet, only to discover that Brownie had distemper. Not wanting him to suffer, Dad had him “put to sleep.”
Dad never told me about Brownie’s death. He let me think Brownie had “run off.” Not telling me the painful truth was one of the sweetest things Dad ever did for me. I suppose he was trying to protect me as long as possible from the harshness of the world’s realities. It showed that Dad, for all the faults that accompanied his alcoholism, had a real soft heart.
But even as a pre-teen I had the makings of a detective. I accidentally found Brownie’s chain in Dad’s coat pocket. I didn’t have the nerve to ask Dad, but Mother told me how Brownie died. Dad thought as long as he lived that I believed Brownie wandered away.
The only thing left of Brownie after almost half a century are my memories and one picture. Veda Moore brought Mother and me home from church one Sunday morning, and she took a Polaroid picture of us standing in the front yard. In the lower left corner sits Brownie, scratching his right ear, his back slightly turned toward the camera.
Brownie came along at just that special time in life when everything was fresh to a boy who needed a four-legged friend. He made life so exciting and enjoyable. I’ve lived more of my life without Brownie than with him, and I miss him as much today as ever. I wish for every boy his very own special “Brownie.”
I leave you with a few tidbits of email wisdom.
Things you will never hear a true southern boy say:
“You can't feed that to the dog.”
“Honey, we don't need another dog.”
But a true southern boy might very well say “I double-dog dare ya!”
In the Old South, nobody owned a purebred dog.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to the age of eleven: $16,400
Back in the olden days, life used to be swell, but when's the last time anything was swell?
Swell has gone the way of beehives, pageboys, spats, knickers, fedoras, poodle skirts, saddle shoes and pedal pushers.
The sentence “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog” uses every letter of the alphabet.
If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.
From the original Hollywood Squares game show:
Q. When you pat a dog on its head he will wag his tail. What will a goose do?
A. Paul Lynde: Make him bark?