It's time I talk about Shorty.
Shorty was a purebred, long-haired dachshund. I was given him as a puppy, just before my second birthday, when we lived on Burrows Road. In a way, we grew up together, except of course it took me much longer to grow up than it took Shorty.
Shorty was an outside dog. My mom couldn't handle dog hair in her house. She wasn't a big fan of them under any conditions, but especially couldn't tolerate one in her house. But Shorty was a good dog. He understood and obeyed basic commands and, until we moved to Chevalier Drive, he never tried to get out of our back yard.
When we lived on Chevalier Drive, Shorty figured out how to escape. At first Shorty would just dig under the fence and go off for a night on the town, then return about sunrise the next morning. Oddly, he only did this on Saturday nights. I suspect he locked onto the fact that, very often, we would leave for the weekend on Friday evening and not return until Sunday. This gave him all day Saturday to dig his escape hole.
Eventually Dad lined the base of the fence with rocks and concrete so Shorty had to discover some other way to get out for his Saturday night romps. And he did just that. For about a year, Shorty would vanish out of the yard, about sundown Saturday evening, and then show up on the front porch Sunday morning, wagging his tail. Dad couldn't figure out how he was doing it. The fence was solid and there was no sign of digging.
Late one Saturday evening, Dad saw what Shorty was doing. Our house had a crawl space underneath, and there were vents around the house at various locations. Shorty had discovered that he could lift one of those vents with his nose and get under the house. Then he dug at another vent until he loosened it enough to get out in the side yard that was open to the street. At the time, San Jose was the third largest city in California, and yet Shorty avoided traffic and always made it home before dawn the next morning. He would be there on the front porch all happy and proud of himself.
Wikipedia
Things changed for Shorty when we moved to the old family farm in Kentucky. There were no fences, so his yard was wherever he roamed. Yet oddly enough he kept an aspect of his Saturday night routine, but he added a strange twist to it. He had discovered groundhogs. Every Saturday night he would go out scouting, and every Sunday morning we would have a dead groundhog waiting for us on the front porch. He would make no effort to eat it, as there wouldn't be a scratch on the groundhog. He would catch them by the head and break their necks, most likely in their dens.
This is actually instinctual for long haired dachshunds. The name dachshund is German for badger hound, as they were bred for the purpose of going into badger dens and killing the badgers. The dachshund's long hair and loose skin are hard to grab hold of in a fight, and their long mouth filled with teeth larger than you would expect for such a small dog, are perfect for grabbing a badger by the face.
Shorty was also a natural rabbit hunter. The minute Shorty would see me with my Winchester 22 rifle, he would get all excited, knowing we were going rabbit hunting. He would see which direction I was walking and would run out ahead to scare up a rabbit. He had a great nose and it would take him almost no time to lock onto a scent trail. He would follow it until he jumped a rabbit; then he would chase it, always staying about fifty feet behind, until he brought it into a clearing right in front of me, giving me a good clear shot. As soon as I shot the rabbit he would snatch it up and bring it to me all happy and proud.
Somehow, Shorty knew the difference between my Winchester 22 and my BB gun. I used my BB gun for squirrel hunting, as its silent and you can get more than one kill without completely changing your location. Shorty would see the BB gun and walk right beside me, so we could slowly and silently slip into the woods. We would pick a nice spot and just sit down and be quiet. Sometimes we would sit there for an hour or more. When Shorty would see a squirrel, he would freeze and stare at it until I saw him. When I would shoot it, he would sit silently and wait until I told him to fetch it. Then, he would slowly pick his way to the squirrel and quietly bring it back to me.
Sadly, Shorty picked up the habit of chasing cars when we were on the family farm. All that time in San Jose, he never had a problem with cars. Then, here he was on the farm, where he was convinced that it was his job to chase any car that came near our property. One day while I was at school, a pickup truck hit and killed Shorty. Of course we were all sad, but in a very strange way, I think Shorty's death helped me prepare for what I would face over the course of the next year.
A few months after Shorty's death, one of my cousins who was about my age, was walking down the street in Portsmouth, Ohio when someone passing by threw a soda bottle, or perhaps a beer bottle, out of the window of their car, striking my cousin in the back of the head. It smashed in the back of his skull, killing him within moments. A few weeks after that, someone murdered an older adult cousin of mine, probably over illegal alcohol. Then, after a few months, a beloved uncle of mine died of natural causes. These deaths all happened on my mother's side, the Brown family. I attended all the funerals, as did herds of the massive Brown clan.
Prior to Shorty's death, I had never known any person who died, nor had I owned any pet that died. By the time of my uncle's funeral, I think I was completely prepared for what came next, the death of my Mawmaw. All this happened over one year. I was growing up quick, for better or for worse.
First post & table of contents
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I use the scheduler heavily.
I just have to be careful when making comments to not comment on my own comment,...