Furever faithful farm dogs

Stumbling through my computer’s digital archives, I tripped over a photo that is old enough to be classified as pre-historic. 

The snapshot in time was taken when I was five years old, an era when the world was monochrome. At least that’s the impression one gets after viewing photos taken from that time. 

Reflecting on the captured memory, my sister, Janet and I had just taken lunch out to our Dad, who was plowing the field north of our farmstead. The three of us are sitting on the headland of the field. Dad is holding a cup of coffee; next to him is a mason jar wrapped in a dish towel. You know you’re dirt poor when you can’t afford a thermos for your coffee.

Behind us, skulking around like a wolf at the edge of a caveman’s campsite, is our farm dog, Skippy. Anyone who is familiar with dogs can tell what Skippy is thinking: “Is that food? Can I have some? Please?”

Skippy was most likely rewarded for her persistent presence. This is because Dad would always save the last corner of his sandwich for the dog. It was also the corner of the sandwich that Dad had held while eating and was decorated with a grimy yet, artsy thumbprint. All of our farm dogs eagerly accepted similar morsels that were tossed to them. They had the good taste to recognize something that delicious.

Our parents never bought dog food when I was a kid. The dogs lived off the table scraps from our family of ten. Our dogs ate what we ate.

In their later years, my parents had a Blue Heeler. Pepper was Dad’s constant companion, shadowing him as he drove the loader tractor to feed our heifers.

Dad would stop to open the gate and fish a fun-sized Snickers bar from the front pocket of his bib overalls. He would break the bar in two, give half to Pepper and pop the other half into his mouth. Pepper was good for that half candy bar, sitting beside the open gate, stopping any rebellious Holsteins from escaping by delivering lightning nips to their heels.

It’s clear that Pepper understood the bargain that wolves had made with cavemen all those centuries ago: I do something for good you and you do something good for me.

Bella, our current dog, is extraordinarily spoiled compared to my childhood farm dogs. In addition to having unlimited access to all the dog food she wants, she frequently enjoys restaurant-quality people's food. The refrigerator could be where we store our leftovers until we give them to Bella.  

My wife and I often enjoy dining at restaurants. Like many patrons, we often find ourselves dealing with a meal that stretches our bellies like a pelican’s throat pouch. In these situations, my wife will request a container for the leftovers. We call this the Bella box.

It has gotten so that my wife will peruse a restaurant’s menu and mutter, “Hmm, I wonder what Bella would like.”

However, this is a silly question. Bella likes everything, especially restaurant food.

One of our favorite eateries offers smoked tater tots as part of its weekend brunch. I don’t know how to smoke a tater tot; they must be incredibly hard to keep lit.

Bella will inevitably enjoy some smoked tater tots which, on a per-pound basis, probably cost as much as caviar. This is what I mean when I say that Bella is spoiled.

On the plus side, I have discovered that smoked tater tots are excellent training treats. Bella is a tremendously eager student, especially when it involves receiving tater tots as a reward.

I have been able to teach Bella a few tricks, including “sit,” “chill,” “stay,” “roll over,” and the “I’ll just sit here and cock my head and look adorable because I can’t understand what you’re trying to tell me” trick.

Bella repays us by being a faithful companion and a hypervigilant watchdog that often wakes us at night by barking at things that only she can see, smell, or hear. We can never tell what it is. For all we know, she could be woofing at something as large as a saber-toothed tiger or as small as a single off-kilter atmospheric oxygen molecule.  

I will go to the door and tell her to be quiet. She will look at me with an expression that says, “Those bunny slippers are adorable, but why can’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you?” 

Oh, Bella. I wish I could, but for now, “Just pipe down. Here, have a tater tot,” I say as I return to bed.