Fences

He was some kind of hound dog.  Black with white spots.  And jowls that funneled water and half-eaten food out of his mouth and onto the floor or any other surface within a twelve inch diameter from his head.  He found his way to me when he was just a few months old.

It was the mid-seventies, and I worked at an answering service in Little Rock, Arkansas.  I sat in front of a switchboard and answered phones for about fifty businesses, including the local animal shelter.  When some young man called and described the puppy he had found but couldn’t keep, I broke all rules and told him to hold on – I would be over as soon as I got off work.  I hadn’t even been thinking about getting a dog, but fate or karma or the magnetic field of two souls pulled this lanky pup and me together.

We named him Jethro, because there was no name more appropriate for such an easy-going, southern dog with jowls.

I was living in a rental house in a low-income neighborhood with the man I loved.  We had no fence.  And Jethro had no leash.  So when Jethro wasn’t with us in the house, he was free to roam the neighborhood.  Today, I find it hard to believe that not once did the police or animal control or an angry neighbor haul Jethro away or ticket us for not fencing in the dog I considered to be the most wonderful dog in the world.

Jethro used his freedom to perform acts of public service.  The elderly woman next door shared with me that, when she walked to the grocery store – a distance of about four blocks – Jethro would trot by her side and then wait outside the super market door to escort her home.   I know, too, that my sweet hound walked another neighbor to her fence line every time she went home after a visit at our house.  Obviously, it would have created a safety issue if a person of authority had taken Jethro away from his duties.

No one is perfect, though, and Jethro had a little flaw.  He was a kleptomaniac.  He brought home naked dolls, socks, and a cowboy boot.  With no way of finding out who these things belonged to, we started displaying them in the corner of our yard in hopes that their owners would claim them.  But no one ever did.  The thought of some man with one black cowboy boot or a little girl whose doll magically disappeared haunted me for a long time.

Jethro stayed in shape by barking as he did his best to climb trees, enticed by the squirrels twenty feet above his head.  He was smart enough to teach our new German shepherd puppy that peeing in the house was not cool.  Jethro had a mind of his own, and he wasn’t out to please, but that hound dog could teach classes on how to win over even the toughest heart.

Eventually, we moved into a house with a fenced-in backyard.  Living within the confines of a suburban lot, Jethro was no longer allowed the pleasure of caring for the neighbors.  He made do by scraping the bark off a line of elm trees in our backyard while trying to climb up to the squirrels that teased him from the topmost branches.  The people of that neighborhood only knew Jethro by the barking sound that seemed to help propel him higher up the tree.  The hound that people loved so much they cried when they had to say goodbye was now irritating those around who couldn’t get to know him because of a fence.

You know the ending to this story.  Dogs’ lives are short.  They steal our hearts and in return, they teach us how to love.  Then, their passing breaks us wide open. 

When Jethro began to struggle hard just to get up off the floor and he could no longer try to corral the squirrels, I knew it was time for him to go. 

I still miss him.