The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 7: A Dog Named Duchess

One Saturday when I was in third grade, my family drove to the countryside near Fitchburg where Dad's best friend from the Army, Richard Crawford, raised dogs in backyard kennels. This was the first time Leslie and I learned that Dad planned to buy a dog.

When we arrived, Mom and Leslie went into the house; Dad and I walked around to the kennels. Mr. Crawford, dressed in jeans and Wellington boots, was hosing down the cages and cement runways. He held up his hand in greeting, finished the area he was flushing, and turned off the water. He left the kennel, taking off his gloves to shake hands with Dad.

"Good to see you, Dick. Not the most enjoyable part of breeding dogs."

"I'm the man following the elephants at the end of the parade."

The dogs barked and whined for attention, circling the enclosure, and throwing themselves up against the fence. None of them seemed dangerous, but for now, I was happy they were in cages. Their barking was so loud, I had to block my ears.

I walked toward the cages that had already been hosed down, my shoes squishing in the mud. An overpowering stink came from the enclosure. The odor made me gag and I almost threw up.

"Watch where you're walking, young man." Mr. Crawford called as I picked my way through the muck. "There's dog shit over there." I stopped in my tracks. Now, what do I do?

"Mark, come back before you fall or one of your shoes comes off."

I backed away, wondering if I'd already stepped in dog doo.

Mr. Crawford opened the cages and let out four dogs. Jumping up against him, two of the dogs were big enough to put their paws on his shoulders. "Down, you fool dogs." He was obviously delighted with their affection.

He bent down and picked up two rubber balls which he lobbed toward the trees on the far side of the yard. The dogs immediately raced after the balls, playfully growling and snapping at each other to gain an advantage. They ran back to Mr. Crawford and dropped the balls at his feet.

"Give it a try." He tossed one of the balls to me. A red setter leapt in the air but failed to catch it. When I fumbled the ball, the setter caught it on the bounce and bounded back to me, her chest heaving from the exertion. She dropped the ball. When I bent down to pick it up, she licked my face. Her body was in constant motion, her eyes fixed on my hand. The ball was slimy with saliva.

The dog and I played with the ball for a long time. I finally got used to the slippery surface. When a brown and white dog tried to join our game, the setter growled from deep in her throat and the interloper jumped away.

The Crawford kids and Leslie ran out the back door. The other dogs followed the kids, darting between them, veering away at the last moment, impossible to catch. The Crawford kids, two boys and a girl, chased the dogs and, accustomed to living in the country, yelled at the top of their voices. Running with them, I also shouted with abandon. The freedom to run and run with nothing to stop me was exhilarating. The red setter never left my side.

When we stopped, bent over with hands on our knees to catch our breath, the dogs nudged against us, wanting to lick our faces. Leslie, younger than me, was scared at first, but soon allowed a beagle to come close enough to lick her hand. But if we tried to grab hold of the dogs, they jumped away, barking and looking back at us. The race started again.

I liked the red setter and hoped that she was the dog we'd take home. But when I asked Dad, he said, "No, we're not getting that dog." Instead, he pointed to the white dog with brown spots and a long, thin tail. He said the dog was a pointer. "You take her when you hunt ducks. She points in the direction where the ducks fall."