Grand Paws

     I was very proud to have such a magnificent dog as Schultz.  In my first grade class, our teacher Mrs. Reed held Show-and-Tell every morning.  I'm not quite sure how I convinced my mom to bring Schultz to school one day so I could show and tell about him.  He calmly walked in with my mother and two little sisters and took his place in the front of the room, sitting next to me.  I told  my classmates about his breed and the circumstances of his adoption.  Then, one by one, each student came up to take a turn petting him.  After the entire class had had a chance to meet him, my mom and sisters took him back home.  What a good mom...and what a good dog!

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     And what a bad dog Schultz was at staying in the yard.  Back in the 1950's, not many people neutered their male dogs, and we were no exception.  Schultz's desire to hunt, combined with his hormonal wander-lust, resulted in a very frustrating time.  Our yard was not fenced in, and in the morning, some family member would let Schultz out, with a whimsical bit of advice:  "Stay in the yard!"  That did about as much good as telling my sister's hamsters not to run in their exercise wheel.  He would go gallivanting off, happy as you please and be gone the whole day.  In our area we had creeks, female dogs in heat, open fields, and the aforementioned Farmer Fleming's pheasant coop:  all paradise for a paw-loose dog on the run.  My mother would go driving around the neighborhood, calling his name, but he usually came back on his own, miraculously unscathed.
 

     One Saturday though, we got a call from Farmer Fleming himself.  He was extremely upset that our dog had gotten into his pheasant pen and had all but killed one.  "Get your dog out of here before I call the Sheriff!"  My dad and I quickly got into the car and went over to fetch him post haste.  There was Schultz tearing around the pen, pheasants and feathers flying everywhere!  Dad grabbed the dog, put him on the leach, and scolded him soundly.  After some introspection, I would have to say that we humans were the ones who needed some training.

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     Growing up in a housing development in-progress in the '50's certainly had some exciting perks.  There was a huge pile of dirt across from our house, bulldozed to make way for the construction of  more new houses.  The dirt pile was at least two-stories high and was a great thing to climb around on, especially with one's own dog.  We played wild horses (inspired by the TV shows Fury and My Friend Flicka.)  This involved much discussion concerning the colors of our hides, manes, and tails (dried cornstalks stuffed into our jeans.)  We also played wild dogs, and my name was always "Renegade," a name which perfectly described my imagined untamed ways.  Sometimes my friends Kathie, Nancy and/or Susan and I would take Schultz across the big street, Latta Road, to the vast fields that were yet undeveloped.  There we would let Schultz run his head off, unencumbered by any leash.  He had a grand time pointing at and then scaring up wild pheasants.  We pretended we were hunting, and lucky for Schultz, and the pheasants, there were no guns involved.
 

     Across Latta Road there was also a beautiful creek where we loved to play.  We were enthralled by the crayfish, polliwogs, and the tiny hand-prints of raccoons.  To this day, I marvel at how much unchaperoned freedom we had as young grade school kids!