A Dog Story

The Stinky Pond

I wanted to try my hand at writing a dog story. First, I needed to get a dog. What kind of dog? A collie. But why stop there? I told my wife that we needed a second collie. “Two are as easy as one,” I lied, “and they’ll always keep each other company.” The second clause anyway proved true enough.

So why collies? Because I had a collie when I was a kid. In those days I was obsessed with the writings of Albert Payson Terhune because he wrote about collies. His books Lad: A Dog, Wolf, and Gray Dawn not only enhanced my love for the breed, they made me want to be a writer. That was a half century ago. I’m only now getting around to writing a dog story.

To prepare for this endeavor, I consulted the Master. In 1937 Terhune wrote an essay with the daunting title: “Why You Can’t Write Dog Stories.” He offers this professional advice: “In order to write a salable dog story, the author must have studied dogs closely—particularly the breed whereof he is writing—for many years; and must have profited by his study.” Don’t think you understand dogs, he warns, because even a lifetime of observing canines is insufficient to know them truly. A dog’s freedom is known only to a dog—so don’t make up things about them. Okay. To the best of my memory, what follows is true.

*          *          *

My wife and I take our two collies for a walk in our woods on Paradise Hill. We do this every day. At a certain point, Big Collie takes off by himself and makes a beeline for the Stinky Pond. He does this every day. When he arrives at the oozy shore, he plops himself down and enjoys a mud spa. He prefers to do this all by himself. It’s his alone time. The rest of us—my wife, myself, and Little Collie—continue walking along the trail. “He’ll come back soon,” we always say.

Time passes. No sign of Big Collie. Little Collie is looking worried. She gives us a puppy head-tilt as if to say: “What’s up? Where’s Big Collie?” That’s when it happens. Our tranquility is shattered. A panicky barking erupts on the far side of Paradise Hill. It’s Big Collie! What has he gotten into?

Little Collie takes off in the direction of the barking. I take off after Little Collie. My wife takes off after me.

Big Collie’s ruckus continues. He’s never done this before. He must be in big trouble! We all run through the woods as fast as we can. We run and we run and we run. Big Collie keeps barking, barking, barking. We lose sight of Little Collie. I’m getting winded. We’ve come a long way through the woods and I’m a long way from my marathon days. The barking abruptly ceases. Now where’s Little Collie?

We spot her standing next to the tumbling ruins of the Haunted Springhouse. I don’t know how that place got its name. At this moment my nerves are better off for not knowing. We approach Little Collie and turn the corner of the derelict structure. I peer through the empty doorframe into the shadowy depths of the well within. There’s Big Collie in the dark water looking up at me! How’d he get into this predicament? He’s okay but he can’t get out on his own. The look on his face is that of the Favorite having just lost the big match to the Underdog. “He needs help,” my wife says by way of suggestion.

I roll up my pant legs and lower myself into the cold and murky waters. At first I’m in it up to my knees, but when I begin to lift him up I sink another foot into the primordial ooze. I give him a boost up the crumbling wall of the well till he’s able to scoot his way out. Rescue complete. Big Collie is so happy to be out of the watery entrapment that he shakes off the mud into my face as I’m clawing my way out of the Haunted Springhouse. Before I can stand up, he is off and running, barking with joy through the woods—barking, barking, barking. Little Collie gives me a puppy head-tilt that says: “And they say Timmy fell in the well. Hmmf!”

The next day I’m away on business. It’s just my wife and the two collies on this morning’s walk around Paradise Hill. Big Collie—still licking the wounds to his self-esteem from yesterday’s mishap at the Haunted Springhouse—needs his alone time. Off he goes toward the Stinky Pond. Nothing like a good mud spa to salve a collie’s injured pride.

My wife and Little Collie continue their peaceful stroll through the woods. A good half hour passes and Big Collie has not returned. “He’ll come back soon,” my wife says to Little Collie. For a change of pace, they decide to take a lesser-used path that runs along the steep side of the hill, through the ledges that crop out in the sun-flecked shade of dying hemlocks. Some of the biggest trees on Paradise Hill are found here. Also some of the biggest bears, who leave some of the biggest scats you’ll ever come upon in the woods. If you’re unable to find one for yourself, don’t worry, Little Collie will happily guide you. She has a most excellent nose for such things. And wouldn’t you know it, this morning she puts that nose to good use. Look at that! She has sniffed out a nice big, fresh, steaming pile of bear poop!

She plops down next to it and throws her shoulder into it, rolling and rolling and rolling, until she’s thoroughly swaddled in the unsavory mass. What fun! This is way better than a mud spa! The only thing that could top this would be a chance to tangle with the bear itself.

Oh wait! This is Little Collie’s lucky day! That big ole bear is right over there, not more than a hundred feet away, fresh from having taken its innocent crap. Little Collie jumps up and is charging straight for the bear, barking a pipsqueak bark that wouldn’t scare a songbird much less this big fellow just disturbed from his toilet.

The bear glares at Little Collie who is hurtling his way. He assesses the threat. Is that a puppy head-tilt he’s doing? No matter, he lets loose with a ferocious growl and begins a counter-charge. Little Collie—no dummy—turns tail and flees at top speed back toward my wife, who—Little Collie figures—surely can fix this little problem. For her part, my wife stands there considering her options as this unusual doom barrels down on her.

This dog story might not be ending well—were it not for the return of a champion.

Out of nowhere—or more likely, from the Stinky Pond—Big Collie comes bursting upon the scene from the hemlock shadows—barking, barking, barking—charging straight for the oncoming bear!

The big bruin assesses this new threat. It has a much deeper and more fearsome battle cry than that little one. Now it’s the bear’s turn to spin on his heels and flee. Big Collie keeps right after him—barking, barking, barking—across the ledges and over fallen trees until the chase concludes with the bear scooting up a towering sugar maple and lodges himself in the safety of the leafy canopy. Big Collie stops at the base of the tree, gazes up intently for a moment, and reckons his work here is done.

He gives one final bark and trots back—smiling triumphant—to those awaiting their hero.

Ruins of the Haunted Springhouse

©John P. O’Grady
Originally appeared in The Mountain Eagle on April 9, 2021