No Leashes, No Fences

From Uncle Willie's front porch, the view of the sunset was spectacular.  We all laughed watching the dogs tumble about in the tall grass - Lady, the boxer and Fritz, the dachshund were the best of friends - and summers were a time of freedom.  No leashes, no fences.  They spent most days sleeping in the sun outside the back door, snapping lazily at flies and watching the world go by.  My grandmother, not normally much of a dog lover, kept treats in her apron pocket - she denied this vehemently - but we all knew she regularly slipped them scraps in between good natured and often comical scoldings.  Lady, the more active of the two, had a lean and trim build but Fritz was a chubby sausage of a dog, inclined to be sleepy and slow.  They were fine dogs as my daddy told them often and much loved.

The dog days of summer had their ups and downs, of course.  Lady, small for her breed, was an even tempered and submissive animal.  She looked delicate for a boxer and had a definite timid streak - a raised voice would send her scurrying for shelter - she was well behaved and always anxious to please.  Fritz, on the other hand, was independent minded and fearless to the point of snappishness, stubborn to the point of obstinacy, clearly a take charge kind of dog in his stubby, short legged way.  Both were car chasers if either my mother or grandmother drove up the driveway but Lady was faster and more agile.  It was Fritz who my mother struck with the old Lincoln, breaking his back leg in two places and spending all one summer in a stilt-like cast so that he was forced to walk on his front feet and the end of the cast, one small, scruffy paw dangling in mid-air.  It was Fritz who raided the trawl lines and swallowed a fish hook, Fritz who chased - and followed - Old Hat's sheep off the breakwater at high tide.  And it was Fritz who stumbled onto a feral mama cat and her new litter, not quite completely concealed beneath the woodshed, and unexpectedly turned would be serial killer. Nana flew out of the kitchen at the commotion and the mama cat stood her ground to protect her young - the old dachshund was scratched, bitten and lacerated within an inch of his life - even so, one kitten was killed. We buried her in the blackberry patch and I cried for days, not understanding what had driven my dog to do such a dreadful, cruel thing and not certain I would ever forgive him.  I had never witnessed a violent death before and it was a hard lesson.  Sometimes, and it's been more than sixty years, I still dream about it.

Mostly though, the dogs thrived as did we, on sunshine and freedom and salt air.  In the first few days they might run their pads raw and bleeding to keep up with us but they never stayed behind.  My grandmother would patiently clean and disinfect their paws just as she cleaned and disinfected our scrapes and bruises, always beginning with a mild scolding and ending with a hug.

Without leashes or fences, we all ran free.