One of the saddest days of my life occurred on a hot summer Monday at Elk River in Missouri when I about ten years old. Our family had enjoyed a relaxing day of swimming, light fishing, meals of campfire hot dogs covered in mustard and relish, and baloney sandwiches with dessert of roasted marshmallows on gram crackers (the chocolate Hersey bars never lasted till evening). My sister and I had spent hours in the cold waters of Elk River trying to catch perch in our summer sand buckets. Oh, those wise parents of ours, who convinced us that we could catch them in tiny little buckets! What we caught, in the end, was a good night's sleep. Our little dog Ticky accompanied us on our Monday outings and never strayed far from our campgrounds. Late in the afternoon with the campfire roaring and sticks ready to grill the hot dogs our little dog failed to appear.
Ticky, our pet, had found us one summer evening a few years before, and I knew in my child's heart he'd find us again. This stubby short brown haired dog with the face of a pug that had been pushed out from the inside appeared in our backyard one night on E st SW about the time Dad hauled out the homemade trash barrel BBQ grill. The grill must have smelled like a dozen nights of steak and hamburger drippings. This nameless stray dog plopped himself down by the grill and watched Dad's every move.
Mother reached down to pet the little stray just as I picked him up. Then I heard her screech, "Ticks." Too late. I carried the dog in my arms over to my dad, who was now seated in a lawn chair with a beer in hand. On the ground beside my father I placed the little dog like an offering to a God, all the while my mother screeched in the background, "He's covered in ticks, let him go." At my dad's feet, this little dog began to scratch his belly and with his bucky teeth tried to clean himself before the man who might have a hand out. Even dad's hand jerked away when he saw the revolting ticks on the dogs back. Then we realized the poor little dog was covered head to toe in ticks.
Dinner was delayed that night as a team of surgeons went to work on the dog. Dad put some gasoline in the bottom of a coffee can, then Jonya, Dad, and I sat down and pulled ticks off and dropped them in the can. The fat ugly ticks squirmed in the gas until at last they sunk to the bottom, dead! Mother stayed in the kitchen. The stray little dog waited and wiggled patiently as we worked to clean him up. At long last the poor dog was somewhat presentable to mother. When at last dinner was served the little dog was rewarded with table scraps of hamburger and a steak bone, and our little dog, Ticky, had found a home.
But now time was ticking away for our lost little dog.
But
now time was ticking away for our lost little dog. Mother and my
sister, Jonya, who had the melodramatic voice of a heroine tied to the
railroad tracks, yelled for Ticky, while dad and i walked to every
camped area asking and calling for our ever faithful companion. It
wasn't like Ticky to leave Dad's side, he was a daddy's dog. The four
of us choked down our hot dogs that night between tears. After dark
we'd given up hope, and I saw tears stream down my dad's face as we
packed the station wagon for home.
We
all gave one last tearful call for Ticky and then two little girls,
crying their hearts out, were loaded into the station wagon. With
windows down we screamed, "Ticky, Ticky, Ticky," all the way to the
highway. Just as the dirt road stopped at the paved highway, the
headlights of the car spotted a little brown dog sitting off to the side
of the road watching every pair of headlights driving by. I've never
seen my father so jubilant and teary eyed as he jumped from the car,
nearly forgetting to put it in park, and picked up that forlorn little
brown dog with dark woeful eyes. Happiness flooded our car that night
as we sang "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window," and every other
happy song my mother could remember. Truly that was one of the happiest
moments of my life.
Letty Stapp Watt
storyteller and historian
