Been a little slow, so, for your entertainment...
Dad always had a dog. A dog was something my dad seemed to think was an essential part of a house hold. Trouble was, the dogs dad kept never where pets, they were huntin dogs. They lived in kennels, or runs and didn't provide a lot of companionship to us kids, but still, we loved them and they loved us all the same.
One dog, named Boyd, a big strong English setter was my favorite. Boyd was kept on a long overhead cable that allowed him some movement but not enough to quite reach the alley that ran behind our house. An alley, I might say, that was the regular parade grounds for all the loose dogs in the neighborhood. These dogs, knowing the limits of Boyd's restraint, would tauntingly march past Boyd, an act that would infuriate the big setter to know end. Boyd would stretch that chain like a strand of spaghetti stuck to the side of the plate, never quite being able to reach his tormentors and only being able to give them a piece of his mind with his great loud bark. But of all of Boyd's tormentors, the one Boyd hated the most, the one that could raise the hackles on the back of his neck the most, the one he just wanted to get a piece of the most, was Tinker. Boyd hated Tinker. Tinker lived right next door and was a master of torment. He'd cruise the alley like mister big shot, stopping to mark a fence post right where Boyd could helplessly watch, and always up wind. He might even stop and exchange a few barks with Boyd, always staying just out of reach, knowing full well he was safe, knowing Boyd was well tied up...oh, Tinker did know how to work it. But as often happens, sometimes fate reaches its hand into a situation and makes things right, and in this case, mother fate was not Tinker's friend. Boyd somehow had slipped his collar and was now hatching his plan, his deadly plan...and Tinker was about to become the victim. Boyd waited in his usual place, chin resting on his paws, not showing any signs that anything was different, that anything was up...he just waited, knowing it wouldn't be long before revenge would be his. And then finally, like clockwork, here came Tinker, trottin down the alley, sniffin around, acting all cool, about to take his “what about this Boyd, you poor chump” pee, when Boyd stood...and Tinker froze. Where was the chain?, what's happening here?... and then it was all clear to Tinker, Boyd was loose, and Boyd was pissed! Quick as a cat Tinker was off. Built just like old Willey Coyote, Tinker could run like the wind...and run he did...straight home and right into his doghouse. It didn't last long, probably not as long as Boyd had hoped for, but is was still sweet, and it felt good to Boyd, and it did end...Tinker never left that doghouse again. And Boyd, he simply came home and settled back down under the apple tree with a slight smile on his face and a big shameless sigh of relief.
There were other adventures of Boyd. One time, that big mean German Shepperd that lived down the alley from us got loose. My little brother Paul came face to face with that dog that day and I think literally had to run for his life. Down the alley ran Paul, the shepherd right on his tail, Paul made the turn into our yard running as hard as he could right through Boyd's space. Needless to say, all hell broke out as Boyd bowled the shepherd ass-over-teacup and gave him a good thorough beating as a message to never, he said never, mess with one of my boys! Another time we all went down fishing at Utah lake. Boyd was pretty much still a dumb pup at that time and full of spit and vinegar. We mostly didn't pay any attention to a nearby herd of sheep as we drove up...but not Boyd. The moment Dad opened Boyd's kennel, he was off. Barkin and yippin, Boyd scattered that herd of sheep all over half of Utah county before Dad could get a hand on him. That same trip, after his long frolic with the sheep, Boyd decided he'd take a little swim. The water must of felt pretty good cause Boyd swam clean out of sight. Dad was afraid Boyd had drowned, but sure enough, after about an hour missing, Boyd came paddling back to shore and collapsed at our feet, one tired, wet dog. All in all, Boyd was a good old dog, and like most good things in life, will be remembered for ever.
