A Dog Named Rex

Rex was not the only dog we had on the farm, but he was the longest lived. His mother was a rat terrier named Spot that lived out in the barn. I was five-years-old when Spot delivered two puppies. Somehow a neighbor’s Spitz dog had gotten to her. We weren't allowed out in the barnyard (that didn't happen for me until summer). I begged and begged until Papa brought the two puppies inside for a visit over my mother’s objections. Dogs, according to her, did not belong in the house even if they were six weeks old and we had found a home for the one that resembled Spot.

Of course, Rex did what puppies do. The resulting mess was right there on Mama’s clean kitchen floor.

“You wanted them in here. You clean it up.” She handed me a pail of soapy water and a rag. I promptly vomited adding to the mess. I still remember Mama looking at me with horrified brown eyes moaning, “You’ll never be a nurse,” her ambition for me. She was correct. I’m a terrible nurse and never pursued the profession.

I do not remember too much about that winter or the next. I was dreadfully ill, but I’m not the subject. I remember when I came out of one illness, Rex was only dog. He was as good a rodent catcher as his mother. He couldn't catch the squirrels though and would sit at the foot of the eucalyptus tree and bark for fifteen minutes. If one of my older brothers did not appear with our twenty-two, he went in search of other prey.

We moved the spring I as eight to our own farm. The place had been vacant for a number of months and was overrun with varmints, including skunks. Poor Rex. He learned quickly that that was one rodent he should not attempt to kill. He went down to the creek and came back soaking wet and still reeking. He looked so embarrassed at making a stupid mistake. He would not come near us for a week.

Papa used traps (larger ones from his trapping days) to rid us of the skunks and regular traps for the rats and mice. Rodents were always a problem on the farm.

Rex was about two years old when he began having seizures. Other farmers would have disposed of him and procured another dog. Not Papa and Mama. No one took him to the veterinarian as that profession was to my parents for the animals that worked, those sold for profit, or raised for meat.

Rex turned out to be a roamer and fighter. Neighbors would tell of seeing him, but they couldn't aim well enough to stop him. Rex was not permitted in the house in his early years.

When Rex was about four, Papa brought home a part collie, part beagle mix bitch to someday replace Rex and to help bring in cattle. She was smooth-haired like a beagle, but her features were collie. We, of course, named her Lassie. Rex immediately became the alpha male dog, but Lassie was the alpha female, and she was smart, perhaps one of the smartest dogs we had, but she has her own story.

By the time Lassie was a year old, there were puppies; beautiful puppies. She had them in the barn. Rex made the mistake of getting too close and learned that perhaps he wasn't as alpha as he thought. He looked so disappointed.

About this time there seemed to be an invasion of badgers. Mama worried about Rex being hurt as he backed off from nothing or no animal. My uncle would not get out of his car if we were not home and Uncle had a St. Bernard. Papa saw one of the badgers heading under the corn crib and Rex right behind the creature. Rex would have been no match, but Papa had the pitchfork and pinned the badger. In a few minutes Rex emerged triumphant, but his left ear was torn and somehow a spot on his back.

When Papa repaired the roof over the garage, he left the ladder leaning against it. My brother and/or I would climb up there to read, to see all the land around us, and sometimes just to be out of sight. The first time we went up there, we looked around and Rex appeared and scrambled up on the roof and sat beside us. We thought he was incredibly intelligent.

One day I watched Rex head down to the creek near our windmill. He sat there waiting and looking back at the hill every few minutes. I was up in the cotton tree reading and would glance at him and wonder whether he had something trapped, but he wasn't barking. Three larger dogs came loping down the hill that ran along side of the road and crossed underneath the barb wire fence. Rex stood and they greeted each other as long time companions. Then they stood looking at each other as though they were communicating. I called for Rex to come home. He did look up to where I was, and I swear it looked like he shrugged. Then he took off across the fields with the other dogs running behind him. Any time someone tells me that dogs have no sense of timing and/or not capable of communicating, I tell them of this episode of Rex and his friends.

Somehow over the years, Rex had wormed his way into Mama’s heart and she would let him inside, but no further than the daybed in our dining room. That room actually functioned as a family room. It was right off the kitchen and furnished with a huge round table and chairs, desk, daybed, radio table, Papa’s rocking chair, magazine rack, and her plants and some of her knickknacks on separate stands.

I mentioned the seizures earlier. As Rex aged, the seizures came more frequently. One day he did not come out of it as usual, and Papa used the twenty-two rifle. We buried him by the cherry tree.

His legacy had not ended. Our neighbors upon hearing his demise brought over a male puppy. He was a large sized rat terrier. It seems Rex had visited that farm. Mama immediately named him Tuffy. Tuffy was her dog and somehow had the privilege of being in her house.