TRACKER’S LAST HURRAH! October 31,2012
This
has been a very sad week. We had to put
Tracker, my very old mixed Blue Healer hound, to sleep. I said “we” but actually it was my wife who
turned Tracker over to a very kind veterinarian who sent him to Doggie Heaven
to join Peaches, Tinkerbell, Katy, Zorro,
Drummond, Sarge, Heidi, Ditto, Toughie,
and about 20 other pets that we have had during our 70 years of married
life. I just stayed in our car and cried.
Fortunately, we still have Duke, a 100-pound Gordon Setter, and Goldie, an Australian Healer.
Tracker’s puppy days were spent on the grounds
of the Hidden Pines Country Club where he had been unceremoniously dumped. I met him on a cold and rainy day in the
Fall of 1996. Shirley and Loy Richards,
who were operating the Clubhouse at that time, were feeding him table scraps,
but I wanted to know where he slept.
“Over in that pile of leaves,” said Loy.
“Be careful. He has a broken
leg.”
As I was leaving the Club, I checked on Tracker who was
staring at me with his two big brown eyes.
“Hey,
little fella, I already have two dogs, but if you follow me to my car, I’ll
take you home.” I walked through the
parking lot to my car, and when I got there, Tracker was waiting for me. We then made a short stop to have him
checked by a veterinarian who said that the leg should heal without
splints. The vet also cleaned out his
ears, gave him his shots, and neutered him.
Soon after settling into his new home, Tracker got his
name. Every morning -- after eating his
breakfast -- he would, with nose to the
ground, walk the fence line of our back yard.
His job? To determine what
varmints had dared enter his domain.
That’s why we named him “Tracker.”
He was the smartest dog we had ever
adopted. He knew how to roll over and
play dead, he could go out and get the paper, he could sit and stay and come on
command. However, he flatly refused to
do any of those things. Usually when I
called him, his first reaction was to simply turn around and walk away. On the plus side, he was a great
communicator. When he laid his head in
your lap and stared at you with those big brown eyes, you knew exactly what he
wanted. Food.
When Tracker rode with me in the car, he took his position
in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.
He loved to go with me because I would often visit the bank or the
pharmacy. Not that he had any banking
to do or needed to pick up any
prescriptions but to feast on the doggie treats provided by the young ladies
manning the drive-thru windows.
One of Tracker’s more exciting experiences came in a car
wash. Big mistake to take him. Once that rotating spray started around the
car, he went wild. He stayed right with
it, barking and snarling, and climbing all over me in the process. For weeks afterwards he would bark if I drove
anywhere near that car wash,
I really miss Tracker.
In time we will revisit our well-run Warrensburg Animal Shelter and
select another doggie who would like a good home. But, there will never, ever be another
Tracker.
