My Friend Spot

Not long before Christmas when my brother and I were in grade school, our parents took us on a drive to a nearby town. The day was bitterly cold. When we parked at a house unknown to us, my brother and I wondered what was going on. A man whom we had never met before led us to an outbuilding. Inside was a pen filled with yelping fox terrier puppies. The liveliest of the bunch propped his front paws up high on the fencing and joyfully barked a good puppy bark at us. Our father lifted him from the pen and handed him to the breeder, who promptly put him in a cardboard box. “Maybe the box will help keep him warm,” the seller said as he accepted our father’s cash for the dog.

My brother and I crowded against the sides of the box placed between us in the back seat of the Chevrolet. Our mother turned toward us from the front seat and asked, “What are you going to call him?” I had just lifted the lid to peer in wonder at the puppy, and I saw a prominent black oval in the center of his white back. “Spot!” I yelled. Our mother immediately agreed, and he was Spot from that day forward.

On Spot’s first night with us, our mother lay on a couch in front of a heating stove in the kitchen of our farmhouse and kept the puppy next to her under the covers. She said he never whimpered for his littermates or mother. In the morning, he was raring to explore his new home. He was immediately one of us: a full member of our family, another son, another brother. Needless to say, Spot was the greatest Christmas present ever!

Our mother trained him to ask to go outside when needed, and he complied readily. He was so smart! He learned tricks the fastest of any dog in my experience. He shook a paw, he spoke on command, he played dead, and he rolled over, always with his characteristic enthusiasm. He was the happiest creature on earth, and one of the most energetic!

Spot and My Brother

My brother and I romped with Spot endlessly. When I look back on those times, how soon tears of cheerful memory sting my eyes! Spot shared the most jubilant years of my fun-filled childhood!

Spot had one habit that none of us appreciated: if the front gate to our yard were opened the least bit, Spot squeezed through and dashed downtown! Every time he escaped (and he escaped often), a mad chase ensued. My brother and I ran after him until our lungs were aching. Our father jumped in the car and drove after Spot with the driver door hanging open. Around the streets of the village we went, while Spot cut through yards, dove under hedges, and sped across sidewalks. We were so agitated that my brother and I were willing to throw ourselves forward to tackle Spot, and, whenever we tried to grab him, he would tuck his tail down and run the harder, with his back legs digging in and kicking him forward. All the while, he had the biggest grin on his face! He loved the game!

Each time, Spot eventually sensed that we were tuckered out. He declared himself the winner and cantered toward the car, slowing down just enough to leap gracefully over our father’s lap and into the passenger’s side. Gasping for breath, my brother and I would slowly seat ourselves in back and slump with such sore muscles!

During the chases, we usually kept Spot in view, but, occasionally, he ran too fast and lost us for a minute or two. Once, after he had been out of sight, he ran back to us with a gash on his side. Maybe a vehicle struck him slightly or maybe he caught his skin on something sharp. Anyway, we took him straight to the vet, who gave him a few stitches. That evening and for the next several days, we pampered him. He was already spoiled, but we treated him as if he were an injured king. Of course, he adored all the attention!

When we moved a few miles into the country, Spot encountered a gate that he could not slip through, but he gave no sign of feeling trapped. Besides, we hauled him everywhere in the car and the pickup truck. He was outside the yard with us more often than he was inside the yard of our new home.

Our mother insisted that Spot not sleep on the beds; his bed was a blanket beneath our parents’ bed. Whenever he was sure that our parents were sound asleep, he quietly came to my room and jumped up on my bed. I groggily pet him, and he snuggled down to a good night’s rest. Just before my father awakened to do his chores, Spot sneaked back to our parents’ room. As far as I know, our parents never knew that Spot slept on my bed for several hours each night.

Throughout his life, Spot never lost his youthful energy and enthusiasm. He hated to see my brother go away to college, and, two years later, he hated to see me do the same. His greatest joy was when we came home for breaks and holidays.

I still remember how shocked I felt when our father called me at college to say that Spot had gone rapidly downhill and had been put to his long sleep. My father’s voice cracked while telling me.

Spot’s death was the first of those that have come to my immediate family, and, as the first, his was particularly melancholy. The passing of many years since that mournful day has softened the sadness to a large degree. Now when I remember Spot, I recall merriment, elation, hilarity, and rejoicing. He made my early life most memorable.