CLARA'S BEST

As some of you know, this series of stories shares the adventures of my great grandma, Clara and her husband, Henry. 

Wee Willie Wallace

Most little dogs exceed their shelf life by the time they've reached fourteen. Henry and I went through several beloved pets. One afternoon Mrs. Jacquier phoned. They'd been unexpectedly blessed with pups, again. The puppies were terriers, mostly. The mother was a terrier. The father preferred to remain anonymous. Having once again found ourselves between dogs, we dropped by to take a look. The puppies were seven weeks old. There were six of them in a variety of eclectic patterns and imaginative color schemes. As we approached the gaggle, five darted under the workbench and observed our approach with obvious skepticism. The sixth of the litter appeared to be the runt. He was a jet-black, bowlegged little rascal, and he instantly made a beeline for Henry. Henry immediately snatched him up and hugged him to his neck. Without a moment's hesitation the pup jammed his cold snoot into Henry's ear, right up to his beady, brown eyes, and proceeded to give Henry's ear an industrious cleaning. No longer confronted by a decision over which, if any, pup to choose, we contributed ten bucks for our pick of the litter and headed home to Smith flat.

   We don't normally consider taking a pup from its mother until it reaches eight weeks old. It's just too early. This time an exception seemed in order. Henry was incapable of setting this puppy down. By the time we arrived home, Henry had named him Wee Willie Wallace, in a nod to the pup's Scottish ancestry, assuming of course, that he had any. Once home we prepared a bed for Wallace, and Henry peeled off a dirty sock to provide the pup with company and an aromatic companion. By the next morning, Wallace had bonded thoroughly with Henry's odiferous offering and with the callused, old foot from whom it achieved its endearing aroma. From that day forward, Henry and Wallace were inseparable.   

As children, we read of “happy endings” and “happily ever after”, and our youthful hearts are full of joy and faith. As adults, we’ve suffered loss, and that leaves us cynical. Eventually little Wallace was fourteen, old for a Scotty. Early one morning during the week of Thanksgiving, Henry set out to do his chores. The familiar rattle of the dry dog food hitting their bowls immediately brought the rest of our menagerie on the run, ravenous as usual. There was no sign of Wallace. Henry called and searched, expecting to find him napping in the sunshine. He is after all getting pretty old. Still no Wallace!

Growing concerned, Henry called more loudly and began searching with a sense of urgency. Eventually He found him behind the chicken house. His head was cocked strangely to one side, his pale eyes glazed over, and he was struggling to stay on his feet. He was partially paralyzed on the right side, evidently by a stroke. Henry gently picked Wallace up and carried him back in the house. The next day he was slightly improved. He still walked with some difficulty, but his eyes were bright, and he was able to get around. But we knew in our hearts Wally's time was growing short.

Suffice it to say, over the next several days, old Wallace was mighty pampered! Following dinner, I frequently go for a walk and generally several of the pets accompany me. Wallace rarely passes our back pond without wading out belly deep and taking a long, refreshing drink. He’s our only dog who enjoys getting wet. Following his stroke, I remarked to Henry it was sad to think of taking a walk without our faithful shadow.

Happily, Wallace continued to improve until he was once again able to attend our evening constitutional. Several days later, I returned hurriedly from another stroll with the dogs and announced it was raining like the dickens, and Wallace had fallen behind. We were hopeful he'd arrive momentarily, and I was to bring him in before I fed the others. Soon after, the sun set, the wind came up; it began pouring rain, and we suddenly realized Wallace was still not home. Over the next several hours, it rained harder and harder, the temperature dropped below freezing, and Henry and I searched frantically for our dog. Eventually all our flashlight batteries were dead, and we came home drenched and gave up for the night. We spent a long, sleepless, guilt-filled night, imagining poor old Wallace, lost, confused, and freezing to death in the rain. It was a long, difficult night. The next day was Sunday. Henry searched briefly before leaving for church, and once home, we continued the search, slowly reconciling ourselves to the inevitable. It was highly unlikely that Wallace had survived the night. That evening one of our sons came for a visit, and following dinner, we took advantage of the last thirty minutes of daylight to stretch our legs. As we walked, although nothing was said, we watched for the rain-soaked remains of wee Willie.

Eventually crossing the pond bank, we passed the spot where Wallace always enjoyed his dip. Scanning the pastures below, I spotted a crumpled, black form, some distance away across the meadow. I pointed this out to Henry, and we walked very hesitantly in that direction, prepared for the worst, and already fighting back tears. Approaching the scene, two ears perked up, a tail began wagging frantically, and old Wee Willie struggled to his feet. He’d been disoriented and waiting patiently for over twenty-four hours, and he was clearly mighty tickled to see us. We carried him home and warmed him up and combed out all his stickers. “Happily, ever after” is a tall order, and little dogs don’t live forever, but hold tight to your faith, life’s full of happy endings.

CLARA'S BEST is now available at Lulu Books

Wee Willie Wallace aka Buster Bud