I met Oleo along one of my trap line trails. A fellow trapper, Oleo was way off course by about 30 miles from his own trap line. He was among the Laplanders brought over by the government for an experiment in reindeer or caribou ranching. One of the best bushmen I have ever known, it was for certain he was here for a reason and not because he was lost.
The experiment consisted of sawing off the antlers while they were in the velvet, drying them, grinding them into powder, then selling them to men in the Orient so they would have more lead in their pencils. I personally thought the idea was a little far fetched, since having a place to draw or write seemed to be more problematic than having lead when you needed it. The problem of men and their misplaced manhoods seems to be a self-inflicted malady by men with too much idle time on their hands in tandem with a poor concept of manhood itself. The experiment was a dismal failure and Oleo became a trapper.
Oleo didn’t suffer from the typical problems of cosmopolitan men in search of a masculine identity. He was about 5 foot 8 and very robust. He walked with heavy packs piled several feet above his head and traveled through deep snow on snowshoes faster than most people can walk on a sidewalk. His shirt and jacket were often open on the coldest days and he chewed or ate coffee grounds the whole time he traveled. He was content to sleep out most of the time, regardless of the extreme cold and wind. I often wondered whether he was a throw back to an earlier form of man, because I have never met another one like him.
He told me in his broken English that I had a woman visitor in my North Fork cabin; I was struggling to understand what he was saying in disbelief. Suddenly, he said, “Skook, see you in the later” and with that he turned to leave using his long strided, bow legged, ground covering, walk.
Within a few seconds he had already covered a fair distance, I yelled out, “who is it?”; he turned to wave and disappeared a few seconds later. That was Oleo, he was not one to waste time with idle chit chat.
My trap line was roughly 60 miles by 60 miles, the borders were defined by creeks and rivers so it was difficult to determine exactly how much area it encompassed, but it was roughly 3600 square miles. The trap line or at least the right to trap fur is owned by the trapper, he pays a commission or ‘royalty’ on each fur trapped, that goes to the crown. I don’t know whether the Queen kept an account book for my trap line, but I suppose I sent her enough over the years to buy a new hat and a pair of fancy shoes now and then. As the trapper of a government trap line, I could build a number of cabins and live on the trap line year round if I wanted to improve the trap line. I could apply for grazing permits and with a contract from the outfitter, I could guide hunters and use the cabins for base camps, allowing the hunters to be warm and dry at night. All things considered, I felt like I had a kingdom without people.
I had to change plans now, I had a woman in the cabin on the North Fork. Fur is a curious business. It is best to check your snares and traps every 48 hours or so, because some other cute little fur bearer is likely to eat the animal in the trap or snare. Life in the mountains is a continuous struggle on a thin margin between life and death by starvation or by fang and claw. The idea of predators like the wolf, Grizzly, or mountain lion only hunting the weak, lame, and old is pure baloney; they are all creatures of opportunity, they kill and eat whatever animals that come within range, despite what you have been told by environmentalists and Walt.
This was a strange incident indeed, a visitor might drop in once a year or less, usually it was another trapper or an oil field worker who is lost, once I had a hunter struggle in to a cabin, he was lost and had wandered way off course in near exhaustion, but never a woman.
My curiosity got the best of me, I headed for the North Fork and started setting snares along the way, no need to waste time during the trapping season. For some strange reason, wolves and coyotes were always following my trail and they often paid for it with their lives. If the spiritual world is closer to the native ideas than the Christian view, I might be in big trouble when I cash in my chips. For the wolf and/or coyote is without a doubt my native totem, I have always had an unexplainable ability for catching them and I have known many old trappers who weren’t able to catch one in their entire career. They took special care to boil their snares in natural berry solutions and kept their clothes outside to keep down on the man scent, I did nothing and often caught as many as five in a night. It is possible that the problem relates to my real family name, Casa del Lobos (House of Wolves): I have been worried about the spiritual connection since I was a boy; just because family members changed the name 70 years ago, to live in secrecy, doesn’t mean it’s not your real name.
There lies the dilemma for someone raised in the Christian religion and yet has close ties to the native religion. Growing up on the trap line and relating more to nature than to the church only increases the doubt and wonder.
The Cabin On North Fork
I often used horses on the lines around North Fork, it had excellent meadows for feed with light snowfall, as a rule, but if the heavy snow fell, I could usually leave the horses there all winter to paw through the snow for their feed and snowshoe out. I didn’t believe in gambling, but my whole life and business was a constant gamble. Make a mistake out there and the bears will find you in the spring, it was the same for the horses. They depended on their wits to keep them out of trouble, but when they made a mistake, they knew it was best to wait until I came along to bail them out of trouble. When a horse reaches that point in his career, he is what I consider a “made horse”. They are required to have intelligence, honesty, trust, courage, balance, and common sense; unfortunately, these are attributes that too many humans are lacking. I often hear humans speak in a condescending tone about horses and remark that they are stupid: I look at them with that intense green eyed stare that I am known for and tell them, “we want them to perform in the human world and take the human IQ test; however, if I were to take you in the mountains and ask you to take the horse IQ test, I’ll guarantee you, your scores will make you look stupid.”
While crossing the last valley before the cabin, I noticed a dozen horses feeding in the meadow, several of them were old, low in the back, and sprung in the ribs. I don’t mind if someone pastures on my grass, it is customary to ask first, but what’s a little grass? Since the horses were in the meadow, my visitor must be a horsewoman. I could only think of one that could make it out here; except, she was way too old to be riding out here in the winter. That would be Naomi Seville, she was a wild one that had started from a hovel on the Reservation, dined with millionaires in Europe, and came back to live as a vagabond in the Peace Country.
Beauty In The Trap Cabin
With just a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney, I could surmise that the fire was almost out; however, there was a faint glimmer of light in the window, that meant that someone had a candle burning. Even though it was my cabin, I hailed the person inside, “hello, the cabin”. There was no response. This was a dicey situation. The people who can survive in this country would never intentionally harm me, but if I woke someone up by charging into my cabin unannounced, I might receive a 30-06 round between the running lights for my effort. Trust me, these people are usually in tune with nature and staying alive means being ready for the possibility of a starving Grizzly intrusion.
I stood to the side of the door, opened the latch, and swung the door open; I peeked inside the door opening and saw a beautiful woman in my bed. I was in my mid-twenties and she was in her late sixties, but it was easy to see why Naomi had been considered the singular beauty of the Peace River country. With a frail gesture of her hand she motioned for me to come inside.
I said, “the fire’s almost out, let’s get some heat in here”, I built the fire in the stove I had made from a four foot section of oil field pipe and banked it so that we would have at least 70 degrees for five or six hours. Not a word was said until I was done.
I started the coal oil lantern and a white gas lantern and the trap cabin became a nice little home. I brought one of the two chairs from the table and put it next to Naiomi, sat down in the chair and said, “what’s going on Naiomi?”
She smiled a beautiful and radiant smile and told me that she had come here to die.
Right away, I told her, I could gather up a few of the horses in the meadow and make a travois, pack her out of here and get her to a hospital: she just smiled and said that her time was up and that she was ready to pass over.
I held her hand and she seemed so grateful, but the truth was, I was holding her hand to collect my own courage to face her impending death. This was not some neurotic woman from suburbia, she was a deeply spiritual native woman and if she said she was ready to die, you better believe she was ready to die. I felt the deep throbbing in my chest and fought the urge to cry, for this woman was showing a bravery that I have only seen a few times. I held her hand in silence for twenty minutes or so and asked if she would like for me to rustle up some found.
She smiled once again and asked me to make a moose roast with turnips and corn. I old her that all I had was beans and flour because I wasn’t planning on using the cabin until spring beaver started. With the tiniest voice she said there was good grub in her packs on the porch and to bring in the two sets of paniers. All the fixins were in the paniers and soon I was cooking and talking away, I always enjoy cooking for other people. It was a grand meal, poor Naiomi only ate a few bites, but said her last meal was just as she had dreamed it would be. I wished I had a bottle of Cabernet, for I had a pretty good idea of what was in store for me.
She pointed to a blanket roll in one of the panniers and asked me to get it for her. There was a moose hide blanket and a few pictures of her and a man with horses. There was another smaller moose hide roll that she asked me to open. It was a beautiful native dress trimmed with beaver on the cuffs and lynx over the shoulders, there was also a pair of moose hide moccasins the were trimmed in beaver with a new pair of white cotton socks.
I helped her slip into the dress and put the cotton socks and moccasins on her feet. She seemed to feel much happier when I was finished and she stroked the Lynx fur softly.
“Skook, I need your help and you are the only one I can trust with this request.”
I said nothing as she continued with her weak, frail voice. “I used to pick blueberries and huckleberries with my grandparents in the pasture just beyond the cabin when I was a little girl.” I just nodded my head yes, it was one of the best berry patches in the Peace River country. “There is an old Indian burial ground above the meadow on blueberry mountain.”
I told her I knew the location, but out of respect I had always stayed clear of the area. She then told me that she wanted to spend eternity on blueberry mountain.
I had a sinking feeling at the thought, I would be breaking the law that’s for sure: I had already buried one friend and now someone who was barely an acquaintance was asking me to bury them.
“I want the traditional burial above ground, not the White Man’s burial. You know how the old people made a log bed up in the air and laid their people in a moose hide blanket?” I nodded my head yes, while reviewing this plan in my head. “This is my burial shroud,” she touched the new moose hide blanket with the odor of smoke tanning still clinging to the leather. “I brought an awl and thread, it wont take you long to sew it up. Just put in a few offerings of food and the pictures I have with me and put my saddle and bridle up on the stand. Are you okay with this? I know you can do it I the old way Skook.”
“Yes Naiomi, it wont take me long to sew up the moose hide and I can do it just the way you want it done: this has all hit me kind of sudden, I’m a little bit stunned.”
“When I cross over, I want you to put down my old horses. I have told them that this is the end of the trail and they know you will be there to help them along. They don’t want to live without me, so it is okay with them.” I shook my head yes as the enormity of the situation became even bigger. The rest of the horses are yours, the are all trained like Swiss clocks and there should be two or three foals by Spring. You wont need to buy horses for at least ten years.”
I smiled and said, “Your horses are famous in the Peace River Country, all that goes without saying.”
She looked proud to hear me compliment her horses.
“Skook, I know what you did for Barbwire Johnnie, he was a cousin of mine.” I couldn’t help but wonder how many people knew about Johnny and where he was laid to rest. Your mother was also a cousin of mine, she was a beauty beyond compare, but she had the Indian weakness for the White Man’s evils, tobacco and alcohol.” I didn’t bother to tell her that the tobacco was originally a native vice, but what was the purpose at this stage?
This looked like it was going to be a long night and my curiosity got the best of me, I asked her if it was true that she had eaten with millionaires in Europe. Her eyes twinkled and she said, “yes, indeed, she had not only eaten with millionaires in Europe, but with rich people in Australia, South Africa, Argentina, and Mexico”. “It was all because of the love of my life Skook, Charles Seville. He was a rich polo playing Englishman playboy when he met me in Vancouver: I was just sixteen, attending a special home-ec school for native girls. He swept me off my feet and we had a whirlwind romance for twenty four years, we traveled the world and I lived a life that other girls can only dream about. You might wonder why we never married, it was his family. They threatened to cut him out of the estate if he married beneath his station and that would be the end of our fairy tale life. He was a horseman, Skook, nothing else. If he had to make a living, there was nothing he could do to come close to the money he received as a remittance each month. His family hated me even though they were big time Liberals, always talking Liberal ‘Mucka Mucka’, providing and promoting programs for the ‘White Man’s Burden’, but only up to a point and that point was me.”
“We were playing polo at the Brandywine Polo Club in Delaware and there was a terrible collision on the field, my Chuck died of a broken neck. There is always the chance of injury or death with horses and Charles’ time was up that day. We had never planned for an early death, so I was left with twenty thousand dollars, a string of polo ponies, and a truck and trailer. His family wanted everything including his body, I couldn’t do anything about the body, but I loaded up the horses and headed to the Peace River Country and I have been here ever since. My horses are all from that string, the original stallion was Chuck’s favorite polo pony, Old Hickory.”
He came by his name honestly, we were playing at Oakbrook Polo Club in Chicago and a Pakistani man had a horse that was running off with him from one end of the field to the other, it was completely out of control. Well Chuck was a High Goal player in the same league as your old customer Dell Carrol the eight goal player that had the macho men scared of him and acting like little boys when he rode up behind them, well Chuck was that same kind of horseman. Sad that Dell was killed at Oaklawn galloping one of his stakes horses in the winter of 81-82. That ‘Golden Era’ of Polo has died with those men. Oh but I was telling you about Old Hickory. The man asked Charles if could ride the horse for him. Charles said sure.
He rode the horses and it ran off with him as well, but Charles always said, “a horse isn’t running off with you if you are asking it to go faster.” So he went to the whip and the horse became so frustrated he headed for the bleachers and hit them running flat out. Charles bailed in time to keep from hitting the bleachers, and it was a good thing because there was broken boards everywhere. The horse’s forehead was smashed in about an inch and he was bleeding pretty good. Chuck walked up to the man and told him if the horse lived, he’d like to buy him. All those horses have Old Hickory in them. They aren’t for everyone, they’ll eat your lunch if you aren’t a bona fide horseman, but you’ll get along with them.
I laughed and said I looked forward to breaking the young ones and that I would keep Old Hickory’s seed around for a long time.
I spent the night in the chair, dozing off now and then. I held Naomi’s cold hand, she’d awake now and then and ask if she was still with the living, I’d reassure her and she’d tell me that she was very tired and anxious to pass over. I had hours to think about the Seville family and their sanctimonious expressions of caring. I suppose it made them feel better, but when their son showed up with a woman that rode horses more like an Indian woman than a cultured lady fox hunter, they had to draw the line. Naomi should have been wealthy these last 25 years of her life, but for the false piety of her man’s family: yet she had 24 years of happiness and love, not many people are that lucky and during her self-imposed solitude, she still was not bitter, she enjoyed living the old ways in the land of the ancient people. She had truly led a charmed life.
I remember working on her horses in town when she would give kids lessons down at the pubic stable. I did her horses so cheap that I probably didn’t make a profit, but I enjoyed working for her and she thanked me so profusely, it was embarrassing. Like her, I had already traveled the world, many of the same places; like her, I returned to the Peace Country after seeing what the civilized world had to offer. I would leave the Peace once again in a few years and this time I would become involved in the civilized world and be left dreaming of the rivers and mountains of the Peace Country.
I awoke in the chair in the wee morning hours and Naiomi had crossed over, I used several different methods to ascertain that she was indeed gone. I went outside and fashioned a plywood toboggan with 1×4′s for runners and a rope that I could loop over my shoulders to take Naiomi, her belongings, an ax, some spikes and wire up to the top of Blueberry Mountain.
I sewed Naiomi in her moose hide shroud and made pancakes and coffee before setting off for the mountain. It would be a bit of a job pulling the sled up the mountain, Naiomi didn’t weigh much and the grade wasn’t real steep, but the snow was up to my knees and the trip would take three or four hours.
The Burial Ground
I was in a sweat during the trip up the mountain. The burial ground had probably not been used in at least 30 years. There was the odd rail still in the air and a sense of spirituality and of hallowed ground when I arrived. I would do this right; I don’t do things half way. I looked for three poplars with branches about eight foot in the air,I then found some suitable pine rails about six inches thick and cut them down to make a pie shaped bier. Naomi was already tied to the toboggan so I just stood on the bier and pulled the toboggan up on the platform and left her there tied to the toboggan with food, her saddle and bridle, her rifle, and her beloved Charles’ pictures. I prayed to the Creator to take care of Naiomi’s soul and to watch over her, I told him that she was a good person of the mountains that loved her animals and took excellent care of them. That was the best I could do.
Back at the cabin, I had one more chore to take care of, there were three old horses that expected to travel over with Naiomi. I led the three old horses away and the others just stared without following as they would normally do, I took them deep into a jack pine forest and put three separate piles of oats on the ground. They ate slowly and none of them looked up as I walked from horse to horse and sent them on to be with Naiomi.
Wow, tears man-another gift from you to me-this is the best one yet and you’ve written some beauts-thanks Skookum
Naomi reminds me of my great grandmother. I only visted her a couple of times in my life when I was really young and she lived so far away but she was as sweet and caring. She refused to live in a house with electricity and would get her water from a pump well in her yard. My mother is like that as well so it must run in the family.
Thanks for reminding me of her Skookum.
Peace… Bless you.
You’re 100% correct that the scenery in the Peace Country is some of the best anywhere, especially in autumn. I probably never thawed out from the winters up there.
I was drilling for my favorite people, Westcoast Energy, when we lost a quarter mile of road from a huge rainstorm. Half of the 100 plus rig loads were on the new lease and the other half were on the old lease. I never saw so much rain and the Sakunka River ran black. You know the Tumbler Ridge area. The rig costs must have been out of this world because it took 2 months to complete the rig move. I was paid even though I did rig watch or better called screwing the pooch. Great people around there.
The Sakunka, one of my favorite Rivers. The kids loved to swim in it when it wasn’t in flood. The name always tickled them to say, Sakunka, it may be spelled Sukunka. I miss that country about now, I don’t need to worry about starving up there.
Tumbler Ridge was much better before they put in the road and the mine, but that’s progress, First your money, then your clothes, that’s the way it goes.
Skooks, that area has some of the toughest people around. We had one crew that we called the Coon crew, because they always sported huge black eyes. They would raise hell with the miners,lumberjacks, and Metis types. Hell, even the canaries sang bass in that area!
Thank you, Skookum, for a beautiful story!
. . . . Touching, sensitive, insightful, this is good stuff, but damn Skook, your first couple of segments have some LOL very cleverly funny moments. That pen of yours is imitating a good wine in time. Great work, . . . keep ‘em comin’ Sir.
BTW Skook, my apologies . . . can’t help myself:
Chemical Analysis for Pure Deer Antler Velvet Powder from Southern Cross Velvet
. . . who knew?
My family has been blessed to have women-folk like Naiomi. I can only pray that I pass with such grace.
JR, very interesting chemical analysis of velvet antlers; none the less, I think I will pass on ground velvet, if I were any more healthy, I wouldn’t be able to get along with myself. As it is I only let my wife wear shoes on days when I am home, you never know when they might run off or fly the coop. She’s actually a good runner, but if they’re bare foot, they are easier to track and they don’t run as fast. The old adage about keeping them pregnant and barefoot isn’t practical anymore, kids are too expensive and if you send them to university there’s a good chance they will come back a Liberal.
On a more serious note, thank you my friends for the compliments. It helps me to program my writing efforts and I will continue to try to improve.
I find it reassuring that several of you have had Naiomi types in your family; proof once again that there is good genetics in the conservative pack. I am proud to serve with you.
Skookum–
What a sad but beautiful story. Your description of putting down the horses and them not looking up brought a question to my mind that maybe you could answer. Do animals not have a fear of death the same way humans do?
Several years ago I had to put down a family dog who could no longer get herself up off the floor without help. When the time came, I hauled her up and helped her limp outside – intending to leave our other two dogs in the house so they wouldn’t have to watch as I killed their friend. I couldn’t manage to keep the other two inside, so all three dogs walked with me out to the grave, which I had already dug.
I was bawling like a little girl as I shot the ailing dog and put her in the hole, but the other two acted as if nothing at all had happened and just went about their business. In your much greater experience, is that normal animal behavior?
John I have seen it both ways. (Read Tom and Jeraldine) Animals who spend time on a ranch or farm have a concept of what the rifle means and when it is their time they usually accept their fate without apparent remorse. Some animals grieve for those that are close to them and others act more like the caribou cow that sniffs at her dead calf a couple times and continues the migration.
I have watched pigs and cattle being led to the abattoir floor and I have seen the fear in their eyes. That is one of the reasons I didn’t stick with ranching. I much prefer moose and elk for my table. I am not arguing for vegetarians here, but I know how that steak came to be wrapped in cellophane.
Most animals accept death with minimal grieving, a few will die from grief.
The horses in the story were unique, being on the other side of a rifle blast is a tremendous shock and horses have a very acute sense of hearing; therefore I surmised that they willingly accepted death, since the remaining two normally would have bolted after the first shot.
Did Naiomi really communicate with her horses and tell them about crossing over? If anyone could do it, I’d place my money on her. The horses let me, a stranger, walk up to them, catch them and lead all three away and put them down without the slightest resistance, what do you think?
Many people think I communicate with the horses, but I swear I don’t. I know how to put a visual image in their mind and sometimes can get them to drop a shoulder, throw in a leaping buck, and pile drive a misbehaving rider now and then, but that isn’t really communication. Horses are very social animals and are often looking for a human companion, it is easy to win them over if their human doesn’t measure up, even if it is only for a few fleeting seconds.
I think your younger dogs understand the concept and will be more prepared when it is their time to cross over. You can help by keeping visual images of the events in your head in a pleasant context, at least as pleasant as possible. Remember their ability for vocabulary is probably only twenty or thirty words, so they don’t really understand your thought processes if you clog the image with words. Your own dogs will communicate with you better if you develop this ability and at some point you can try your abilities with strange dogs. If you think about being afraid, they will become bolder towards you; if you think about becoming bitten, there is a good chance that you will get bit: be careful what you wish for.
It works John, and from your comments, I can surmise that you have the sensitivity and intuitiveness to make it work for you. The ability is like a muscle, the more you use it, the stronger it becomes.
We all pass over sooner or later. Skook
Thanks, Skookum. I do know that our dogs have a sixth sense. Somehow they pick up on what we’re thinking or more accurately, feeling. If my wife or I are sick, injured, or worried about something, they’ll stay close to whoever has the problem. When we’re both gone for the day, they won’t eat until we get home. When one of is gone for several days, they know something’s not right and will sit out on the back deck watching the road for hours. It’s uncanny.
It’s true what they say: “The more I learn about people, the more I love my dogs.”
The guy (“Eisen …??) who trained/educated The Littlest Hobo dogs swore that they could handle a vocabulary of 3000 words. One demo he sometimes quoted was to have himself or another in the room complain the light was too bright, or “the illumination is too great”, and his dog would pad over and shut off the light switch. Many more like that.
Are you into the “Whisperer” stuff? Using the horses’ own social genetics and signals to become a friend/reference/leader? I have a relative (young woman) who is apparently an expert at it.
Brian, off hand it seems a bit much to say that animals can recognize several thousand words. To say “it is too bright in here”, and have a dog hit a light switch doesn’t necessarily mean that the dog understands every word of the sentence or that you can mix up the words of complicated sentences and have a dog respond appropriately. In my humble opinion, the dog recognizes the sequence of sounds as one word and responds.
It is easy for animal people to create illusions and have those who are less in tune with animals be amazed at the “magic”.
Dogs are my favorite animal; although, I have spent my life and built my personal wealth, such as it is, with horses. I have logged, driven, worked cattle, outfitted, packed, and worked on horses for over fifty years. Of course working with other people’s horses was the most lucrative and before 9/11, I had an international business.
I have resisted terms like “Whisperer” because I was making a living in the trenches, so to speak, with horses every day and relied only on my own abilities to survive, sometimes working intimately with horses that had already killed people. I did it my way, with no help from anyone else and with no tricks, it was all real. The few times that I was hurt was because I made a mistake or misjudged the situation.
The “Whisperers” have their own discipline, I have never examined or participated in it. My work has all been very practical and mundane, with little fanfare or hype. Those who work with animals and have an unexplainable and relaxed nature or gift with animals tend to look with a critical eye toward the work of others, just as an accomplished English professor will look at my prose with a critical eye. For I know that there are only a handful of men in the world who can do what I do with horses without artificial aids and they are dying off at a steady rate.
The main reason I write these stories, besides to hopefully give me a retirement income, is to provide people and future generations a glimpse into what has been a colorful life and career of an old fashioned horseman in a modern age. There have been millions before me, but most of them weren’t literate.
John, my Catahoula/Pit cross, my favorite kind of dogs group, was just a pup when I came home with a fever and laid on the couch for two days without getting up. I was on my back and couldn’t move, she jumped on the couch, a social no no, and laid between my legs and didn’t get up to eat or drink the whole time. I suppose she was ready to die with me if necessary. Thats what I call devotion.
She is now eight years old and still devoted to me. I have been blessed throughout my life with outstanding dogs. I now have a two year old Catahoula that follows me like a shadow, but it will be a devastating day when I lose the older dog, I dread the thought.
I have thousands of friends, most of them have four legs.
Skookum, what can I say? Another brilliant bit of prose from you. You weave a story in such a way that gives the reader a chance to engage with the characters and really care about what happens. That is a rare trait, my friend.
Yeah, I’m no dog ‘spert! But I looked him up; he’s ‘Chuck’ Eisenmann. His claim is that any dog CAN be educated to that level, but it takes a focus on communication etc. to do it. As for word order, he had that down pat — any sequencing was fine; his personal dogs were very persuasive when challenged!! His top dogs were his own breed, now called Shiloh Shepherds, sort of a German with reverse mask, possibly actually a husky cross.
He died at 91 this Sept, I gather. He wrote books, but they’re hard to find now.
My mother’s mother lived most of her life in a house that had no electricity (and there were kinfolk around tha refused to visit certain others because they had That Thing in the house, for heavens sake).
When REA came through she got electricity, even got an electric blanket which she thought was wonderful, an electric water heater, and electric stove(displacing the
kerosenecoal oil stove, but not the wood-burning range) and of course lights.On cold nights, a while before bedtime she would plug in and turn on the blanket and then turn it off and unplug it and go to bed.
People stopped making fun over her after a lightning bolt struck and (among other things) blew the water heater apart.
Skookum, I really loved the story and also the comments about devoted dogs.
Our family was partial to retrievers (all of them were standard poodles, btw).
So, we almost always had one.
One year I gifted my parents with a pup, a pick of the littler after our Benji done good.
Dad and that pup bonded like twins.
Dad was ~ 70 years old when he got Redi, as he named the flame-colored little guy.
About 8 years later dad died between putting on one slipper and the other, on the edge of his bed.
Redi howled.
Mom knew something was wrong, but even with paramedics there in a minute and she used her nursing training there was no pulling dad through.
Redi refused to eat or drink.
He even refused to leave the bedside.
Dad was gone but Redi would just sit on the floor with his head on the edge of the bed.
Within 10 days Redi died, too.
Mom said she considered forcing food and water on him through the vet but thought it would be more cruel so she let Redi go.
I love reading your stories.
They bring back memories I sometimes wish I did not have but cherish just the same.
I have a herd of border collies and they all have their own unique personalities.
I lost one last Christmas names Cera, at eighteen she could not walk anymore. Kelly, my hellion, moped for weeks afterward, it seemed to me she had lost her mentor and knew it.
I miss Cear to this day, camping and hiking are not the same and none has risen to become her replacement.
Keep up the stories, I need them.
It says a lot about you that these people in your past had so much trust in you. Another wonderful piece of you life we appreciate you sharing.
Just got a 3 1/2 pound Chihuahua for the schweiner for Christmas, definately need to fatten him up. His name is Bentley, Rio is thrilled with his new little brother. He looks like this but he doesn’t have the spots, just tan ears. Hubby thinks he looks like a rat.
http://dogs.y2u.co.uk/photo/RN_Dog_Chihuahua%20.jpg
We had a Springer for 15 years that had separation anxiety , the reason I retired. After my mom passed I had to take care of my dad everyday from early in the morning until he went to bed. After the first three days I asked if I could bring the dog, my son was going back to school and she couldn’t be left alone. First day I brought her, when it came time to go home, she wouldn’t leave, she stayed right beside him, only going out to do her stuff. He passed away five months later with the Springer at his side.
She had food allergies and he would give her food off his plate, had to get firm with him and explain what happened when she ate things she shoud not have. Came down with the flu, hubby had to go check on dad, he came home and told me I had to get down there soon and bathe her she smelled really bad! We later found out he had just fed her sauerkraut before hubby got there.
Two years later my brother came live with us after surgery, the surgery did not go well, he never quite recovered but was able to go back to his apartment after a few months. She did the same thing to him, he passed away two months after he moved back to his apartment, didn’t survive an asthma attack. As he was moving back, we all thought he was going to slowly recover, we joked about her staying at his side telling my brother it worried us for awhile. He just said, “you think I wasn’t thinking about that too.”
Then when my mother-in-law was moved into a nursing home hubby’s sister wanted us to have the dog visit because her mom always loved our dog, she thought it would help her. We didn’t do that, we thought if we brought her in that nursing home we’d never get her out of there. At that point my mother-in-law wasn’t capable of even knowing family members.
Our little ones possess instincts that baffle and awe.
Thanks for the heartwarming vignettes and commentary.
Missy, Chihuahuas are fun dogs and it looks like you have a good one that is photogenic as well; however, there are a few things you should be aware of, they are too small to work cattle, especially bulls; they are also of little use hunting mountain lions, wild boar, and bears. It has been done, but the dogs are at risk. It is a dangerous and demanding sport. If you insist, there are kevlar vests and special thick collars to protect the dog; yet, I personally think they are too small and they suffer from the cold and snow. In the final analysis it is your dog and if you and the dog want to hunt and tree big game, have at it, we do live in a free country.
It is more practical to use Catahoulas on game like wild boar.
http://www.ranchosantiago.com/blue_eyes
A great Skook-spoof!
I rarely actually am inspired by posts and comments to “laugh out loud”, but you got me good with those images of Chihuahuas chasing bulls and boars. Scenes from Dumbo, with elephants cowering away from the mouse are now percolating to the top.
Dry and sly you is, Heavy-duty!
Brian, an interesting article on the subject. http://www.foxnews.com/scitech/2010/12/23/worlds-smartest-dog-knows-words/
@Skookum (#5):
I hear another 2.5 bn$ is going in there to upgrade equipment etc.
Including an idiotic 77MW wind farm. The scamboys are out to play!