Can't Change His Name 'Cause It's A True Story

I am thinking about including this story in my next book  A Scattering O Memories. Let me know what you think....

                                    Can't Change His Name 'Cause It's A True Story

                                                                        By Terry Beck

I don't remember a lot about living in Farmington, New Mexico. I can remember the cold snow and I can remember  the Indians that would walk down from the Indian Reservation, across our yard and fetch water from the irrigation ditch that ran down the length of our property.  I'm not sure of my age, probably three or four years old, but my memory of this part of my life is fuzzy at best.

        

 I can remember the deep, deep snow, coming up to my knees as I would run here and there in the front yard making it look like fifty kids had been there trampling the snow. I remember the Indians bringing me trinkets and gifts and letting me ride on their shoulders. I know now that the Indians scared my mother to death as she would stand at the kitchen window watching me talk to and play with them. I remember the day I borrowed one of my dad's hammers and showed one of the little neighbor kids how my dad repaired cars in his body shop by breaking out the taillights of dad's brand new Studebaker parked in the driveway. I can remember getting my first dog and naming him Pooty. I really don't remember why I gave him that name, I can only imagine, but that was the name I gave him and it stuck.

         

Pooty was just a pup when my dad brought him home. He was a bird dog of some sort. He was short haired, mostly white, with reddish brown spots. There weren't that many kids my age, so Pooty became more than my first pet, he became my first buddy. Mom and dad wouldn't let him come in the house much, seems like back then there weren't many house dogs, so I spent most of my time outside with him. We didn't live in Farmington long. It seems like we moved around pretty regularly for a while and so I didn't befriend many kids along the way, but I had Pooty and I don't remember anything but happiness and contentment as me and my buddy scampered our way from day to day, never worrying about tomorrow.

         

We finally moved to Brownwood, Texas and  Dad bought a small house in the Woodland Heights area. Somewhere along the way my younger brother Danny joined the family, but he was too small to be any fun so me and my best bud, Pooty, were off to explore our new horizons. Woodland Heights was a really neat place to enhance our skills. There were numerous vacant lots filled with trees to climb, pastures to explore and wild varmints to hunt. I would walk miles every day with Pooty faithfully at my heel. We did everything together, including me going outside and sharing my meals with him if mom was in a good mood.

         

At the end of a hard day, with miles of wear pounded into our feet and paws, we would adjourn to our favorite spot which was located on the west end of the house below my bedroom window. It was always out of the wind, it was especially warm in the cooler months and it was peaceful. Pooty always slept under that window and I would lay in bed at night in the warmer time of year with the window open. That's also the spot we would go to when I was in trouble to hide or just get away for a while and when Pooty thought he was in trouble it was also his special spot.

         

Pooty grew into a big beautiful dog. We became accustomed to the neighborhood and the neighborhood became accustomed to us. The area began to grow with more people moving in and I began making friends with the many kids that were a part of that magical neighborhood. Pooty would still start the mornings at my side, but as my friends and I began new things, riding bikes, playing games, building forts and going about the business of being kids, he would usually be left behind and go home or do his own thing. However, at the end of every day, he would always meet me as I came home and I would  fix his food and water and the rest of the evening was ours.

         

I don't remember the day of the week, maybe it was Saturday, because Mom, Dad, Danny and I were all sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch together when there was a firm knock at the front door, firm enough that we knew it wasn't any of my little neighborhood friends. Dad got up from the table and went to the door. I could hear a man's deep voice along with my dad's, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. Then Dad called me to the front door and I walked to the door with Mom right behind me. There on the front porch standing with Dad was a big man dressed in jeans, boots, red flannel shirt and cowboy hat. As I walked on the porch to join them, I noticed that neither my dad or the man was smiling. I remember the man telling me his name, though I can't tell you what it was, But I can remember him offering me his hand and feeling it's strength and roughness as he shook my hand. Then Dad said, "Son, were is Pooty?".

        

 I knew then that this didn't feel good and asked why he wanted to know. That's when the man said, "Because your dog has been running with a pack of dogs that have been killing my sheep! I followed him back to this house!"

        

 I recall Dad turning and getting between me and the man and telling him that he thought he was mistaken, that our dog wouldn't do something like that. Dad then tuned to me again and asked were Pooty was. I pointed toward the west end of the house but couldn't speak because of the huge knot in my throat. As they started walking that direction, Mom grabbed my hand and told me to come in the house with her. That's when Dad said, "No, he needs to go with us," as he reached down, took my hand and told the man, "The dog's around here," and we walked around the corner of the house.

      

 As we walked around the corner my heart stopped, there lay Pooty below my bedroom window and as he saw me and stood, I could see swaths of blood on his jaws and neck. He slowly walked toward me with his head lowered then stopped at my feet and sat. Dad again took my hand and squeezed it, then turned to the man and said that he was sorry, that it appeared he was right about the dog. The man said he was also sorry and then said that there was only one thing you could do to a dog once they had killed live stock. Dad squeezed my hand again and told the man that the understood and that we would take care of the dog. That's when the man walked over to me, placed his hand on my head and told Dad that he would take care of the matter if we wished.

         

Dad told him that he would appreciate it and the old farmer went to his truck and got a rope and tied it to Pooty's collar. I put my arms around Pooty's neck, he licked my face and we said goodbye. As he was being led to the truck he turned toward me a couple of times and then they were gone and I cried. I had never felt anything like that before, I was hurt, I was lost, I was five years old.

       

I don't think Dad thought I was old enough to know what had happened and what the results of that happening would be. But, I knew. I also think that Dad thought he had hidden his tears from me. But, he hadn't. You know, at the time, I thought his tears, like mine, were for Pooty. But now, having lived most of my life, I think I know for whom those tears fell.