My Last Dog Love

Woody. The story is I named him that because Toy Story was one of my favorite flicks at the time, and the only character name I could say was Woody's. That just happened to be what I called this slinky-look-alike mutt my Dad's oldest sister brought home for me one day. The kicker was I wasn't allowed to bring it home. I grew up in a culture where all animals had a purpose. They were each bred and used for their instinctive purpose and not a thing more. My Aunt Beth though, didn't always conform to the status quo of concepts and instead went against all the threats of my parents to gift me a companion pup.

I have two very distinct first memories, both of which take place in the same home. I think there is something spiritual about memories. Having the ability to remember specific moments in time, completely unrelated to (or so we often think) of anything significant. Some memories are powerful for what they contain, for where they are, or for who they involve, but sometimes I think that it's the vivid ones that make no sense that after long periods of time and a multitude of life events, you start to see the significance they've played in your life, just from your subconscious.

I'm going to say that I was maybe 3. It was a crisp spring day because I distinctly remember the rich green tree limbs from the large double pane window that lined the fence row. Overlooking the front porch, you could see the single-lane road that dead ends at the last family house in the Cassidy holler. The road cut the property straight down the middle with houses of all the Cassidy daughters and the farm on the other side of the fence. My Mamaw was a Cassidy. She was one of 4 children to be born of Logan and Beulah in Keavy, KY. My Great Papaw Logan passed a few weeks before I was born. My family was a staple in Keavy because of this man. He was a mail carrier who was born in Keavy in 1909. My Granny Beulah was also born in Keavy in 1915 and together they built a life on the ridge. During the Great Depression, my Papaw Logan would save the gas stamps that he got from the federal government for delivering mail, which could also be used at the local grocer to purchase gas, feed, and groceries for families throughout Keavy. He preferred riding the country on horseback anyway, but I'm convinced that he would have walked through a blizzard instead of driving just to use what he was given to care for his people and his community. My Mamaw was of the same breed. She was just like her Pa, caring to a fault, but with a mouth as stark as her mother's, just to keep you guessing.

That same ridge they built they divided and gave to their daughters, which is where I spent my childhood all summer, each Sunday afternoon for family dinner, and all family gatherings until my Mamaw passed in 2004. I remember being outside, stripping a young hosanna tree (that's what I called all of the trees that reminded me of the palms that were used around Easter), and scattering all the individual leaves along the single-lane road. I think it is important to note that this particular tree is also one that provided every single switch used on this property. Helping me with this feat were my cousins from 2 houses up, Mamaw's nieces, and a nephew from her sister Audrey. My Dad, Papaw, Mamaw, Mom and Aunt Beth were all hanging around the garage and chattering on the porch. Woody and a few stray barn cats came and went not paying any mind to us cousins as we continued working tirelessly to cover the entire road before we got called to say goodbye for the day.

Woody was a particular kind of wiener dog. Beautifully brown, playful, and always in the way. I don't remember much, but I do remember carrying him around the house under my right arm pit with only his head and one front paw hanging out the front. Woody also loved the cows across the fence at the farm. While that property wasn't ours, it was still part of the community that was Keavy. Still family, still constant, still ours. This was just a normal day, until it wasn't.

I was in the middle of the road, scattering leaves when I heard it. Howling, yelping, a pup version of a blood-curdling scream. I had no clue what was happening, but I knew I was scared. I took two steps closer to the fence line and I couldn't make out anything except rolling hills of green pasture that were completely empty except for 3 creatures in a distant ball brawling. Rolling, standing on hind legs, picked up, slinging, running, but not fast, yelping, blood... All new, all unfamiliar, all foreign. Then I felt it. My Mom had reached me, picked me off the road and was on mission to get me inside the house and away - away from whatever that was. As we hustled across the uneven yard straight for the large pane windows, I saw my dad. He had a rifle in hand, yelling. I can't hear anything anymore. I can't hear a peep, just see the events like in a silent motion picture. My Papaw Eddie Joe following, now with my dad's youngest sister Lorrie coming out of no where, running. Across the barbed wire fence, they go, still visibly yelling, waving arms, moving.

My memory skips in time, and I end up sitting on an in-house hospital bed with a triangle hand pulled above my head. I was alone, sitting in Mamaw's bed right in front of the window, overlooking the porch, my road work, and waiting for something to appear across the fence. Then a single shot rang out. Then another. One more loud "BOOM" that triggered by hearing back. I sat completely still for what seemed like ages. I think now that was my first state of utter shock. Then my Dad appeared. He had on light-wash denim jeans, the rifle always hung over the garage door flung over his shoulder, and he was now only wearing his white undershirt, but he was carrying his other in his hands. His dark green and cream striped shirt was in a bundle in his hands, covered in blood, lumpy, but just a shirt.

I sat in that bed and watched out the window as the entire family ran to my Dad. They stayed only moments and then scattered into different directions. After a long while, my Mamaw rolled her wheelchair up to the side of her bed I still sat on, but I didn't look at her. She reached up, placed her hand on my leg, waited, and finally uttered, "It happens like this in life sometimes. Your Daddy did everything he could."

I don't remember crying. I don't remember a single tear streaming. I just remember sitting in silence until it was time to leave. Dad in a borrowed shirt, and nothing but silence. I never saw Woody again. We never talked about the events of the day, but I have pieced together from conversations around the Sunday table years later that Woody had a run-in with two coyotes that day. The herd was heading into the barn, and the farmer across the way said that Woody happened to see the coyotes after a calf, and as the massive protector he thought he was, sacrificed himself so the rest could make it to safety. Dad killed both, and the farmer finished with a warning shot for safe measure. Woody was buried in the woods beside my old deer stand.

I still have pictures of me and that dog, but I've never really loved a dog since. I've been around bird dogs, trained hounds for hunting, and dreamed of loving a herding one, but I've never been able to. I'm not sure if the events of that day are somehow subconsciously connected or if I'm just a product of my environment. What I will say, though, is that I believe that there is a reason for remembering events like this. My first memory may not look like an average one, but there is a lot present in that space for me to say, that's all part of the simple I'll miss.