Dad wanted to shoot Rusty. Threatened to on more than one occasion. Why? Not because of the heat vents. Dad didn't lie in front of the heat vents. Because Rusty wouldn't listen. My brother, not my brother the racist, my younger brother, is convinced to this day that Dad did have Rusty shot. (The Official Dad Theory as to the sudden disappearance of Rusty, "heart attack," was deemed suspiciously unconvincing.)
Rusty was a perfect house dog. He was older...The way we got Rusty was my younger brother and I decided to go outside one cold, rainy night and look for nightcrawlers to go fishing, it being too dark to go down to the Shit Creek and look for turds and then toilet paper to float by as amusement. We were filling up our pail when along came this skinny, mangy, famished mutt who was so hungry he tried to eat our nightcrawlers. My brother and I were so touched and took him into the house. "Mum!" Probably tears. We were young. What's a parent to do with a scene like that?...So Rusty was older, the perfect size for a house dog and he didn't have that puppy energy that leads to the destruction of furniture. I think he was housebroken, too. He didn't yip and yap. If there was a knock at the door, he'd give one proper, low, dog "woof." Would not go nuts. Rusty knew, he knew he had hit the dog jackpot. "I got the house with the heat vents." He was a PERFECT house dog.
His fatal (perhaps literally) flaw was that Rusty had the Call of the Wild in him. When he was in the house, he was perfectly mannered. But when we took him for walks up in the woods on Red Rock he turned into frigging White Fang. He would be suffocating himself straining at the leash on the walk up and once we took the chain off he was frigging GONE. I'd give him time to burn off energy chasing squirrels or rabbits (Or...see later.) and walk up to Three Springs. There seemed to be another dog up there who Rusty played with because I heard this high-pitched "Yip!" "Yap!" almost every time I took him up there, obviously not Rusty's proper, low, "woof." Coming back, when I got close to where I had taken off his leash I'd begin calling, "RUSS-TEE!" "RUSS-TEE!" He didn't listen sometimes. Sometimes he would but sometimes he wouldn't and I'd trudge on home without him. He usually came, tongue dragging, behind me a little while later.
But one time he didn't. Rusty was MIA for a day or two. We were steady calling him around the house but heard nothing. Then we saw him coming down the hill to our house from the alley that led up to Red Rock. He was almost as bedraggled as when we first took him in when he tried to eat the nightcrawlers. I ran up the hill and picked him up in my arms and tearfully carried my beloved schizoid dog back down. Note: DAD did not pick him up and tearfully carry him back down. Dad may have been putting a call in to Dog Hitmen.
When we let Rusty loose he was a different animal. He would not listen. One time he got loose, I don't remember how, but he was still up on the alley. Dad went out the back door and growled his Dad growl, RUSTYGETDOWNHERE! Dad related Rusty's response: "Ben, he looked right at me and took off." PISSED dad off. "Oughta take that dog out and shoot him."
Another time, it must have been that first occasion when Rusty went MIA, he was gone overnight, maybe a couple of days, and Mum heard that "Yip!, "Yap!" that I had attributed to another dog out in front of our house. She opened the front door and there, in broad daylight, was Rusty chasing a DEER down the street in front of the house! "Oh, Miles!" She called Dad at work. We were in school so I don't know what particular oaths of vengeance dad swore that afternoon, but I have a pretty good idea. It embarrassed our family in front of proper Barnesboro Society. (No, but it was embarrassing and it infuriated Dad.)
Not too long after the Day of the Deer I took Rusty for another walk up to Red Rock and he never came back. This time I was over it. I didn't pine after him and strain my voice calling for him nightly. That was it, the last time any of us saw him, unless Dad did with a 30-06 in his hands.
RIP Rusty, whatever happened to you, boy.
Rusty was a perfect house dog. He was older...The way we got Rusty was my younger brother and I decided to go outside one cold, rainy night and look for nightcrawlers to go fishing, it being too dark to go down to the Shit Creek and look for turds and then toilet paper to float by as amusement. We were filling up our pail when along came this skinny, mangy, famished mutt who was so hungry he tried to eat our nightcrawlers. My brother and I were so touched and took him into the house. "Mum!" Probably tears. We were young. What's a parent to do with a scene like that?...So Rusty was older, the perfect size for a house dog and he didn't have that puppy energy that leads to the destruction of furniture. I think he was housebroken, too. He didn't yip and yap. If there was a knock at the door, he'd give one proper, low, dog "woof." Would not go nuts. Rusty knew, he knew he had hit the dog jackpot. "I got the house with the heat vents." He was a PERFECT house dog.
His fatal (perhaps literally) flaw was that Rusty had the Call of the Wild in him. When he was in the house, he was perfectly mannered. But when we took him for walks up in the woods on Red Rock he turned into frigging White Fang. He would be suffocating himself straining at the leash on the walk up and once we took the chain off he was frigging GONE. I'd give him time to burn off energy chasing squirrels or rabbits (Or...see later.) and walk up to Three Springs. There seemed to be another dog up there who Rusty played with because I heard this high-pitched "Yip!" "Yap!" almost every time I took him up there, obviously not Rusty's proper, low, "woof." Coming back, when I got close to where I had taken off his leash I'd begin calling, "RUSS-TEE!" "RUSS-TEE!" He didn't listen sometimes. Sometimes he would but sometimes he wouldn't and I'd trudge on home without him. He usually came, tongue dragging, behind me a little while later.
But one time he didn't. Rusty was MIA for a day or two. We were steady calling him around the house but heard nothing. Then we saw him coming down the hill to our house from the alley that led up to Red Rock. He was almost as bedraggled as when we first took him in when he tried to eat the nightcrawlers. I ran up the hill and picked him up in my arms and tearfully carried my beloved schizoid dog back down. Note: DAD did not pick him up and tearfully carry him back down. Dad may have been putting a call in to Dog Hitmen.
When we let Rusty loose he was a different animal. He would not listen. One time he got loose, I don't remember how, but he was still up on the alley. Dad went out the back door and growled his Dad growl, RUSTYGETDOWNHERE! Dad related Rusty's response: "Ben, he looked right at me and took off." PISSED dad off. "Oughta take that dog out and shoot him."
Another time, it must have been that first occasion when Rusty went MIA, he was gone overnight, maybe a couple of days, and Mum heard that "Yip!, "Yap!" that I had attributed to another dog out in front of our house. She opened the front door and there, in broad daylight, was Rusty chasing a DEER down the street in front of the house! "Oh, Miles!" She called Dad at work. We were in school so I don't know what particular oaths of vengeance dad swore that afternoon, but I have a pretty good idea. It embarrassed our family in front of proper Barnesboro Society. (No, but it was embarrassing and it infuriated Dad.)
Not too long after the Day of the Deer I took Rusty for another walk up to Red Rock and he never came back. This time I was over it. I didn't pine after him and strain my voice calling for him nightly. That was it, the last time any of us saw him, unless Dad did with a 30-06 in his hands.
RIP Rusty, whatever happened to you, boy.
