REMEMBERING DADDY AND FRISKY FOR FATHERS' DAY
I was four years old when Daddy took me down Electric Street to view a litter of puppies at Tamp's house, a few doors east of our home. I saw the mother with her brood of puppies, but could hardly decide which one to pick. Daddy said get this one! He's more frisky than the others . So I did select him and "Frisky" became his name.
We grew up together , Frisky faster than me. Dogs' years equal seven man-years, I was told. Any way, at age eight we moved from Electric Street to Big Bend Boulevard in Kirkwood, near Crestwood, across from Oak Hill Cemetery, next door to Burton's Flower Shop. We lived in a house surrounded by woods, a stream, fields . A great place for kids to play and explore and for a dog to romp unfettered by fences.
One day we noticed that Frisky had not returned home as usual from his daily runabouts. One day grew into two and two into three. On the fourth day, I happened to see Daddy coming from the south across the fallow fields carrying Frisky in his arms. My heart leaped!
Was Frisky dead? I rushed into the backyard to see him. Daddy had found him laying in the field, very badly beaten up, his flopping ears torn off in places; his throat mauled and his white breast blood-stained, and his jet black coat was rent as well. He was barely alive. Daddy took him to a veterinarian. A little while later Frisky was frisky again.
We never knew what in the world had happened to Frisky; whether he had been whipped by a pack of dogs or by a single dog. We went along with the dog park theory as Frisky had been in enough one-on-one dogfights for us to know that he knew how to deport himself in battle. Nor did we ever learn how he had been so badly pummeled.
A little bit later at age twelve, we bought our family home in Rockhill, Missouri , near Steger Junior High School, an area that was black middle class, and distinguished by fenced single family home yards .
Here our attempts to confine Frisky, who was accustomed to unabated freedom proved futile . The mailman would not deliver the mail, because of his fear of being bitten by our family dog, Frisky.
Daddy turned to me and said "Well son. We can have him put down; or we can take him far away and let him loose in the woods . He can eat squirrels and rabbits." I opted for the woods, given the other option.
Next day, me, Daddy and Frisky drove far west of Kirkwood about seventy miles into the woods. We put Frisky out and left him there to do for self. About a week later, Mr. Burton, our former lessor, called to say that Frisky had returned. He asked that we come and get him.
I was happy, sad, and amazed that Frisky could find his way all the way back home from all the woods and traffic! Daddy said dogs had strong homing instincts. Evidently! We fed him. Played with him. Then tried to find a secure way to tie him up, lest he again escape to frighten the mailman. Long story short, it didn't work out. So once again me, Daddy and Frisky piled into the car and headed for the humane society in Maplewood. As Frisky departed the car for a final time, beside Daddy on a leash, he looked back at me crying, stoically. Then soldiered on.
Friday, June 14, 2019
FATHERS' DAY REMEMBRANCES
REMEMBERING DADDY AND FRISKY FOR FATHERS' DAY
I was four years old when Daddy took me down Electric Street to view a litter of puppies at Tamp's house, a few doors east of our home. I saw the mother with her brood of puppies, but could hardly decide which one to pick. Daddy said get this one! He's more frisky than the others . So I did select him and "Frisky" became his name.
We grew up together , Frisky faster than me. Dogs' years equal seven man-years, I was told. Any way, at age eight we moved from Electric Street to Big Bend Boulevard in Kirkwood, near Crestwood, across from Oak Hill Cemetery, next door to Burton's Flower Shop. We lived in a house surrounded by woods, a stream, fields . A great place for kids to play and explore and for a dog to romp unfettered by fences.
One day we noticed that Frisky had not returned home as usual from his daily runabouts. One day grew into two and two into three. On the fourth day, I happened to see Daddy coming from the south across the fallow fields carrying Frisky in his arms. My heart leaped!
Was Frisky dead? I rushed into the backyard to see him. Daddy had found him laying in the field, very badly beaten up, his flopping ears torn off in places; his throat mauled and his white breast blood-stained, and his jet black coat was rent as well. He was barely alive. Daddy took him to a veterinarian. A little while later Frisky was frisky again.
We never knew what in the world had happened to Frisky; whether he had been whipped by a pack of dogs or by a single dog. We went along with the dog park theory as Frisky had been in enough one-on-one dogfights for us to know that he knew how to deport himself in battle. Nor did we ever learn how he had been so badly pummeled.
A little bit later at age twelve, we bought our family home in Rockhill, Missouri , near Steger Junior High School, an area that was black middle class, and distinguished by fenced single family home yards .
Here our attempts to confine Frisky, who was accustomed to unabated freedom proved futile . The mailman would not deliver the mail, because of his fear of being bitten by our family dog, Frisky.
Daddy turned to me and said "Well son. We can have him put down; or we can take him far away and let him loose in the woods . He can eat squirrels and rabbits." I opted for the woods, given the other option.
Next day, me, Daddy and Frisky drove far west of Kirkwood about seventy miles into the woods. We put Frisky out and left him there to do for self. About a week later, Mr. Burton, our former lessor, called to say that Frisky had returned. He asked that we come and get him.
I was happy, sad, and amazed that Frisky could find his way all the way back home from all the woods and traffic! Daddy said dogs had strong homing instincts. Evidently! We fed him. Played with him. Then tried to find a secure way to tie him up, lest he again escape to frighten the mailman. Long story short, it didn't work out. So once again me, Daddy and Frisky piled into the car and headed for the humane society in Maplewood. As Frisky departed the car for a final time, beside Daddy on a leash, he looked back at me crying, stoically. Then soldiered on.
