I Hate Dogs

By Craig Waddell

“I hate dogs.”  I’ve told this to myself and others many times over the years.  I’ve always admitted to liking puppies, and even today would lie down on the ground to allow a litter to joyfully topple over me, but dogs have always been a different story, especially one dog, a black and tan coon hound named Nina.

Nina rode in on the back of a truck one day about 11 years ago.  My grandmother, who was quite feeble, lived across the road.  One of Granny’s caretakers had stopped to fill up her truck with gasoline, and unbeknownst to her, Nina had hitched a ride to our farm.  Mama immediately adopted Nina, and an unspoken friendship and loyalty quickly developed.  Three or four mornings per week, Mama would drive up the road about a half-mile to the home of Mrs. Lora, an elderly lady for whom Mama provided care, and Nina would faithfully make the trek up the road, staying until Mama returned.  Mrs. Lora developed a strong attachment to Nina as well, seemingly looking forward to Nina’s visit even more so than to Mama’s; she would save food scraps from each meal and made sure that only Nina received them.  During those first few years, when Mama returned, one could expect Nina to arrive home within a couple of minutes, but as the years wore on, the time span between the arrivals became increasingly lengthy; a few minutes became 10 and then 15.  Nina was definitely slowing down and the arthritis in her hips was taking its toll.

My feelings for this black and tan were just the opposite.  I did enjoy watching her, especially when she first came to the farm, because she apparently had received some training in treeing raccoons.  I would often see her disappear into my milk room just as I pulled up to begin the morning’s milking, and I could hear her “cleaning house” as I got out of the truck.  In just a few minutes, I could hear her lonesome, eerie baying speedily descending the pasture field hills as she chased the little thieves that had invaded my milk room back to the trees.  I found it amusing to observe her watching my son’s beagle hounds as they tracked rabbits; at first she couldn’t figure out what they were doing, then she began to give in to peer pressure, and finally she became as good or better rabbit dog than the beagles were.  What was my problem with Nina?  On several occasions, just as I was about to herd my cows into the holding pen in order to milk them, she would let out a loud bark from within the pen or just on the other side of it.  The terrified cows would bolt and then stampede back down the hill, refusing to return to the barn for several minutes; there was nothing I could do to persuade them that the ghostly howl had come from a friend and not a source of danger.

I hated that dog.

Or Maybe I Didn’t

A couple of days ago, I told Mama that I was scheduling the vet to come to the farm to treat a cow.  She told me that she had decided to have Nina put down.  I agreed with her decision, seeing as how Nina could barely get out of her bed each morning, she was rapidly loosing weight, and constantly shivered no matter how much heat was provided.  Mama told me she didn’t want to be present when it was done, and just requested that I bury Nina in the woods where we have an unofficial pet cemetery.  When I approached her, I really expected Nina to rise up from her bed, bark as if I was a stranger, and attempt to flee, because I had not petted her in years.  Instead, she simply placed her head under my outstretched hand, and allowed me to hold her as if it were an everyday occurrence.  As the vet inserted the IV and began administering the chemicals, she took it calmly and slowly closed her eyes, laying her head over onto my arm. Then something happened that had never happened before.  I’ve helped put down many animals through the years on our farm, from newborn calves, to the best old pet cows that one could own, but I had never shed a tear.  This time, the tears flowed.  Why?  I have no idea.  I think it surprised the vet when he told me he would return from the truck with a stethoscope to make sure the chemicals had served the intended purpose and all I could do was mouth an, “Okay.”  I told him later that I didn’t understand because “I hated that dog.”

Life has a way of changing us, sometimes so subtly that we don’t even realize it.  I believe that we all have had someone in our life that we thought we “hated”.  Maybe it was a friend of a mutual friend who seemed to be competing for and winning the affection of our “bestie”, so we outwardly tolerated the company of our rival, but secretly “hated” the person.  Maybe it was a coworker or peer who constantly received accolades, promotions, and awards; we regularly associated with them with the ulterior motive of in some small way bettering our own status, but secretly we “hated” the person.  Then one day, that person left, not with the possibility of returning, but with finality, and our tears unexplainably flowed.  We had convinced ourselves that we “hated” that unlovable person.  We tried to convince others that we only tolerated them.  Yet somewhere in the process of time and familiarity, we had developed a love that could not be realized nor appreciated until we experienced, “Goodbye.”

“I hated that dog.”