Spot

During a major reorganization of my basement in preparation for the installation of a new heat pump, I discovered a large stash of old writing I had done many years ago, some of it actually from my days as an undergrad at Morehead State University.  Part of it good enough, in my opinion, to be used on this blog and one or two pieces, with some major edits or additional work, could probably be fit to submit to actual literary journals.  This is one of the pieces which I think fits into this blog. It is both about the first good dog I ever had and about my development as a human being. 

 

I always loved my dogs.  My youngest sibling was nearly nine years my elder.  Therefore, I grew up virtually as an only child and found much of my companionship with animals.  When I was about ten, my dog Spot was killed by a car driven by the local barber and magistrate.  Unlike most people who run over dogs, the individual who ran over Spot stopped.  

At the time, my mother and I were the only ones home.  The culprit came into our little country store, for his first visit since his last campaign, to inform me my dog was dead.  I ran to the corner of our property where Spot lay bleeding profusely under an apple tree.  The area surrounding my dog was covered with recently fallen apple blossoms, spattered with coagulating blood.  Even I could not deny that my dog was dying.  

Crying uncontrollably, I ran back to my mother for help.  But even she, who usually solved my problems, could not change the situations.  Before leaving, the man apologized and promised faithfully he would find me another puppy.  For reasons which I still cannot fathom, I chose to believe him.  

In an effort to help me deal with my grief, my mother suggested that we make fudge.  She insisted that I do much of the work.  Somehow during this process, I was able to ignore my pain.  I don't remember the taste of the candy.  But I do remember the experience and the lessons I learned from it.

I never became an inveterate candy maker and the man never returned with another dog.  His memories of the incident were probably short lived; mine are indelible.  I have never forgotten how a child feels when told a lie.  I will always remember the caring way my mother helped me deal with the loss.  On many subsequent occasions, I have been able to emulate her ability to heal.  At every opportunity, I strive to avoid repeating that man's mistake.  Without having known, he taught me a lesson for life.  

I am convinced he could never have made an equal impact on me through conscious effort.  I am equally convinced he would have never made that effort.  Yet he stands in my life as proof of the fact that many of our values are learned through experience not observation.  And many of our best teachers never intended to be.  Finally, after thirty-five  years, I am able to thank him for the experience.