deaddog

Jake

My father, after his early retirement, bought a hunting dog named Jake. Jake was a German Shorthair pointer. He was a nervous, handsome dog, and Dad kept him outside in the kennel in our back yard. Dad built the kennel himself. He bought and set the big posts, stapled wire mesh to them and made a doghouse out of plywood which he painted green. He made a gate that he could lock. Jake slept outside spring, summer, fall and winter. Occasionally Dad took him hunting in the fall for pheasants or ducks, but otherwise, he was all alone, out in his kennel. I remember Dad kept a fifty pound bag of dog food in the basement. He fed and watered Jake every day and when he did, Jake would jump up and down and run in circles with excitement. Jake loved Dad but if the truth be told, Jake did not get enough attention, particularly for such an energetic hunting dog.

One day while Dad was cleaning Jake's pen, Jake escaped and ran away down the street. Dad was at a loss and came back to our house to find me so that I could help him catch the dog. We searched all over the neighborhood but Jake was nowhere to be found. But as we were just returning home, having decided that perhaps the dog would find his way back by himself, Jake came trotting proudly up the street carrying something in his mouth. From a distance it was hard to discern his prize, but when he was a few yards away, we were appalled to see that he had caught a Chihuahua. The unfortunate animal was limp and quite dead. Jake dropped the little dog at my father's feet. Dad asked me if I knew who owned the little, dead dog. I was pretty sure that the owner lived only a few doors down the street.

Dad did not waste any time. He picked up the limp bundle and carried it down the street with both hands solemnly outstretched in front of his chest. I followed along in procession. We stepped up to the front door of the house in question. Dad rang the doorbell. The door opened and a somber, gray-haired gentleman peered out through the screen door.

My father said, "Is this your dog? I'm very sorry. My hunting dog got away from me and ran down the street and caught your Chihuahua and killed it."

The gentleman paused, took a long breath and said "Don't worry about it. Your dog has done me a big favor. I've been trying to get rid of that damn dog for years."

The neighbor stepped out on his porch and received the dead Chihuahua from my father. "Thank you", he said and carried the dog over to his tin trash can on one side of his house, rattled the lid and threw the dog in.