Dog Days

In July after our arrival in February, our “family” increased by three. Our Beagles arrived from Sarasota. In honor of their appearance, the long-promised picket fence was erected. However, the dog pen under the house was not finished in time. We kept the dogs on the screened porch for a day while their enclosure was completed. This suited all of us, dogs and humans alike, because we were so delighted to be reunited.

They all looked wonderful…perfect health, shiny coats, and with a friendliness that showed that they must have had a certain amount of affection as well as pure professional care during their five months at the vet’s.

The senior female, Eagle, was Alex’s christening present from his Godfather, Louis Bondurant, a long-time Atlanta friend. Alex was two by the time Louis found the promised puppy; Georgia Beagle owners were reluctant to part with their dogs.

The name was little Alex’s own: “Beagle name Eagle.” That was not acceptable to the American Kennel Club so we registered her as “Mr. Alex’s Eagle.” When he was small, our son was called Mister Alex or just Mister almost as much as he was called Alex. The usage originated to differentiate him from his grandfather, for whom he was named, Georgia Tech’s famed “Coach Alex” (William Alexander).

The other two dogs were Eagle’s puppies. “Caril’s Uncle Louis” was a handsome dog, perfectly marked, with a loving disposition and an utter lack of brains. Courage was not his middle name.

“Kate’s Miss Minx” was the puppy I had insisted on keeping though Bucher and I had agreed to keep only Louis. She was a sassy thing, as adventurous as Caril’s Louis was timid, and I fell in love with her. Carli, age about two-and-a-half, insisted that she and I trade dogs. She adored Miss Minx on sight and said that I could have Louis.

As it happened, I “had” all three dogs. Not only was I the one responsible for feeding, bathing, and training, but I would have fought any of the family for the privilege. Bucher and the children were perfectly content to bask in the dogs’ enthusiastic affection and let me take care of details.

 

Louis had one quaint habit that drove me crazy. He would get into the dogs’ water pan (which was the size and shape often used as a baby’s bath pan) with all four feet and dig as if he were in dirt. Of course, it scattered the water everywhere and left the pan filthy. When he tired of that, he would get Miss Minx on his team, and they would play tug-of-war with the pan all over their pen.

 

Bucher bought a ton each of rock and sand to surface the dogs’ pen, which was a mire of mud. The rock came from the government quarry where it was broken up by prisoners. The sand was dug from the bar at the Sibun River mouth, loaded into heavily built lighters, and sailed back to be unloaded shovelful by shovelful over the city seawall.

After the rock was dumped into place, I took a rake and started trying to spread it. The rock was too heavy for me to shovel and I barely could rake it. After exhausting myself doing about two-thirds of the job, I sat down on the highest pile of rock, surrounded by the dogs, and began tossing rocks lightly to the far side of the pen. It was slow work, but restful. I sang as I worked and it was only later that I realized I was sitting on the rocks, lustily singing:

If I had the wings of an angel,
Over these prison walls I would fly…

 

Eagle, who had been impossible on a leash in the States, apparently looked over the situation in Belize and decided that her only chance to leave the yard was to behave. Without training, she began to “heel” as if she had been doing it her entire life.

The only problem with taking Eagle out was that the puppies howled the entire time she was away. They never had been separated from her and were sure she would not return. It must have been unnerving for the neighbors, but Belize was one place I did not have to worry about that. Nearby yards harbored yapping dogs plus cacophonous roosters, turkeys, ducks, and geese.

One day I took Eagle with me to do a quick errand. The first shop did not have what I needed, nor did the second, third, or fourth. I ended up having to go to almost every shop in town accompanied by my well-behaved dog. I knew that most Belize families kept dogs to protect their property against the rampant petty thievery, but had not realized that a preponderance of people in Belize City were terrified of strange dogs. Crowds on the narrow sidewalks parted in great waves like the Red Sea as I walked by with my innocent Eagle.

 

Someone left the gate open one day. The dogs got out. We searched the neighborhood frantically and fruitlessly. After a time that seemed endless to me but probably brief to the dogs, Eagle returned, tail waving happily, followed by her puppies.

That evening Miss Minx was more quiet than usual and would not leave me. In uncharacteristic fashion, she laid her head in my lap, looking at me lovingly, and refusing the children’s invitations to play. The next morning I found her standing stiff-legged and shuddering in the pen. Belize had no veterinarian back then.

Soon after, Minx died of the poison she apparently had found on her foray outside our protected yard. I was shattered, and Carli, inconsolable.

 

Eagle and Louis laid claim to the rear third of the ranch wagon on our Sunday drives. One weekend we drove up the road to a small creek we had found, a spot far from any signs of habitation. I always was uneasy about turning the dogs loose to run, but my Georgia husband, who had grown up with packs of Beagles, was even more strongly opposed to confining them.

We parked and Bucher opened the tailgate of the ranch wagon. The dogs leaped out and raced in happy tandem across the field to disappear behind a slight rise. Within moments—before we had time to get Alex and Carli out of the car and lock up—the dogs were racing back toward us, chased by a wildly gesticulating man brandishing a stout stick.

Bucher opened the tailgate of the car, allowed the dogs to jump to safety, and turned to soothe their outraged pursuer. I stayed with the children while Bucher walked away with the irate stranger.

He returned after a few minutes with an expression halfway between laughter and sheepishness, five very dead chickens dangling from his hands. Bucher told us that our docile dogs had dashed directly into the poor man’s poultry yard where Eagle slashed to one side, then the other, disabling the helpless birds while Louis followed behind to kill them. Bucher had paid double their value to the outraged farmer, had promised never again to turn the dogs loose in the area, and had been given the scrawny victims.

Bucher and I found that marriage is much happier if you ban the phrase “I told you so.” We all managed to combine laughter with chagrin on the drive home. The dogs were utterly delighted with themselves and disgustingly bloody about their mouths. They obviously could not understand why they were treated as pariahs, rather than heroes.

Back at home the dogs were locked in their pen instead of being brought into the house as they normally were when we all were home. Bucher carried the chickens into the kitchen and without a word from his steely eyed wife, proceeded to draw and clean them so they could be refrigerated overnight.