Sister Mary Lawrence, Notre Dame Nun at Saint Peter and Paul Catholic grade school, my summer school teacher, told me our family was blessed to have Bones in our lives. I totally agreed with her. "He's one of God's creatures, meant to give you enjoyment," she said.
"I certainly enjoy him. So does everyone else," I said.
No matter what kid was playing with Bones, and we all did, Bones was more than pleased to lie on his back so we could scratch and tickle his stomach. Of course, he didn't giggle—dogs can't snicker even though Doc said he could—but you knew he enjoyed getting tickled. I could easily see that just by the way he wouldn't move or roll over and get back up on all fours.
Many times during the day and also during the night before we'd go to sleep, Bones approached us and offered his head so we could scratch it. It was like he was begging to get it scratched. And, boy, did he like it when we did what he wanted. Once we started petting and scratching around his head and ears, he didn't move a lick.
He didn't mind getting his neck scratched, either. Whenever we'd scratch the area just above one of his hind legs, the leg popped up and down like old men's legs hopped up and down as they danced the polka.
Plenty of times, Bones ran ahead of us as if we were playing a game of tag. He was too quick. Not a one of us could catch him if he didn't want to be caught. Finally, he stopped. Most of the time, it was a trick. When we were just about ready to pet him or grab him or hug him, he'd take off like a beagle chasing after a rabbit. No doubt about it, Bones enjoyed us. And we enjoyed him.
Paul and Glen Peterson and Jimmy and Bobby Kell liked our dog very much although Paul said, "He's a Sooner Dog.""
"A what?" I asked.
"Sooner," said Paul. "He'd sooner eat and sleep than hunt."
"No big deal," I said.
"Why?"
"Hoffmans don't hunt."
"Doc, the Third, does."
'Yeah, but he's the only Hoffman who does."
Also, it didn't take Bones a lot of time to put on weight. It didn't matter if we saw his rib cage anymore, or not; we still called him Bones. Heck, we couldn't change his name to Fatso. Now, could we?
Bones ate and ate and ate from his bowl on the kitchen floor even after all the food was gone. He'd continue to lick the empty bowl until he discovered there was no taste left
Then, tragedy took place. During our lunch time. When the whole family was there.
Crazy Annie got up from the kitchen table and walked over to where Bones was eating. She reached down to pet him. Totally unlike him, the pup stiffened, growled, and snapped at Annie. It scared the daylights out of her and just about everyone else in the kitchen. Me, included. Wow, I thought, we had a pet alligator covered in black hair instead of a cuddly pet puppy. Crazy Annie cried. Which was normal.
Doc stopped cutting his noon steak into pieces. "That does it," he said. He dropped knife and fork and got up from his chair and hurried out to the parlor. "No dog in this house is going to get away with biting my kids." In the parlor, Doc grabbed yesterday’s Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune newspaper. Once back in the kitchen, he rolled up the Tribune. Bones had already returned to chomping away at his food.
Doc made believe he was going to pet Bones. Bones stiffened and growled. "No," yelled Doc as he swung the rolled up newspaper at the dog's rear end as hard as Joe DiMaggio hits balls out of Yankee stadium. Bones squealed. He backed away. He seemed confused. At least, to me. He eyeballed Doc with a questioning look. "Why'd you do that?" he seemed to be asking. The next thing you know, Bones returned to his eating. I guess that's what happens to a dog that in his early life nearly starved to death. It's eat, eat, and eat all the time. And don't let anyone bother his eating. At least, that was the case for Bones.
Once again, Doc made believe he was going to pet Bones. The dog snarled. "Whack" went the rolled up newspaper as it struck Bones pretty darned hard. This time, the dog cried and yipped plenty. No matter, it didn't take him long to lick his chops and return to his bowl.
"Don't hit him anymore," pleaded Crazy Annie.
Doc approached her and knelt in order to be just a little bit shorter than Annie who sat on a chair. He spoke awfully gently to her. "I'm trying to teach him not to bite anyone when he's eating. Is that okay?"
"Yes," said Crazy Annie, still blubbering. "Anyway, I think so."
Doc rose. Annie and everyone else watched as Doc made another move for the dog. Sounds like a dirty joke, doesn't it? Three times. And then end of joke. Well, this time Bones didn't stiffen or snarl or bite. Instead, he stopped eating, backed off, wagged his tail, and let Doc pat him on the head.
Bones seemed to be saying, "You don't have to worry about me, anymore. I learned my lesson."
"Good boy," said Doc. "Good boy. You can eat now.”
As if the dang dog understood each word Doc spoke, Bones returned to his bowl.
"Annie," said Doc, "why don't you pet Bones now?"
She put a finger to a lip. "I don't—"
"Go ahead," said Doc. "I don't think he'll bite you anymore."
Annie got off her chair. Bones stiffened. And snarled. Maybe Bones was more like Dork than I had thought, dumb as all get out.
Doc started rolling up the newspaper. That noise—just the sound—changed Bones' mind. In an awful hurry.
When Crazy Annie reached down to pet Bones again, the dog didn't pay attention to Annie but eyeballed Doc with mournful eyes that seemed to say, "Please, pretty please, don't hit me. I promise I'll be a good boy from now on."
After that, Bones never, ever again stiffened or growled or snapped at anyone who talked to him or came near him or pet him while he ate.
That darned dog still had other problems, though. Plenty of them.
He sometimes pooped or peed on the kitchen floor during the night when everyone else was asleep. And he didn't do it on the newspaper Mother laid out for that purpose. Lord help Bones if she was the first person in the kitchen that morning. She started screaming, "Bad dog. Bad dog."
Hearing her, I woke up, made my way to the kitchen, and saw her pick up the dog, grind his nose into his poop like she ground my face into my wet sheet. Next, she hit him as hard as she could before tossing him, squealing in pain, out the back door.
I'll say this: It didn't take too many of her "lessons" for Bones to learn he had to do his duty outdoors, not indoors. He'd better wait. Or else poop was going to be up his nose and in his mouth.
When she thought it was time for him to come back into the house, he wouldn't because he was scared. She'd come to my bedroom. "Wake up, Gordy. I want you to get dressed and catch Bones.”
I was hardly awake but I told her, "He doesn't always."
"Doesn't always what?"
"Come for me when I call him."
"Did you piss the bed?"
"Yeah."
Honest to gosh, she didn't try to drown me in the urine that morning. She didn't do anything. Saved by Bones.
I wished I learned as fast as Bones. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop. It was a miracle when I didn't pee the bed. That day, I tried to copy what I did the previous day. I wouldn't drink any water after six O'clock in the evening. But the next morning, disaster. Honestly, I hated having my face ground on that stinky, wet sheet. Yet, I continued to wet the bed. That's what a guy gets for being a reject.
After she told me to go outside and catch Bones and bring him back indoors without nearly killing me, I went outdoors and called Bones. He thought I was playing "our game." He'd come toward me and then suddenly stop and run in the other direction. Darn that dog.
A lot of times, when anyone except Mother, that is, opened the rear screen door, Bones would scoot by and run outdoors. He ran around like he'd been in Waupun prison for first degree murder and this was his first day of freedom after thirty five years. He loved freedom. We'd call to him but he thought we were playing games. He'd come toward us as if he was willing to have us pick him up and take him inside. Instead, he put on the brakes, made a beeline, right or left, or even in the opposite direction. Then, he'd wait for a few seconds and make his way toward us. Good, we'd think. Except that darned dog took off again.
He'd often go over to Mrs. Hahn's yard. If a chicken escaped from the fenced-in chicken yard, Bones had a lot of fun. Not the chicken, though. White Feathers ran and jumped and flew and squawked like mad. Bones chased after that bird, yipping. It was then that I agreed with Doc. That dog of ours was grinning. That's for certain. He scooted this way and that, chasing the hen that probably thought Bones was going to eat it. So, it went nuts—as scared chickens will.
Mrs. Hahn was nearing a hundred years old and she said she was as mad as all get out whenever Bones came into her yard. But then she smiled. "Dogs will be dogs, Gordy. Don't fret. It was that durned chicken's fault." (That's how she pronounced darned). "It shouldn't have been out in the yard."
Mrs. Hahn was nice. The neighbors just to the north of Mrs. Hahn and directly to the west of us were old man and old lady Fahl. Although they were our neighbors, they weren't neighborly. At all. In fact, they were bad people. I'll tell you more about them later.
Mister Fahl drove a coal truck. He delivered little chunks for stoker furnaces, briquettes for small furnaces like ours that heated water that made radiators hot to touch in the winter time, and then, of course, big chunks for regular hot air "octopus" furnaces.
Old Mr. Fahl delivered coal to most houses in town because he worked for Cavalier Coal and Oil Co., the only coal company in town, located right next to the Green Bay and Western railroad tracks, east of Preway Stove Company. Everything there was black. The ground. The fence. The road. The railroad's cars filled with coal would dump tons and tons in Cavalier's coal yard.
Back to Bones. That dog had other problems that Doc or anyone else in our family couldn't fix—even with a rolled up newspaper.
For one, barking.
Barking is normal for dogs. It's just like people talking. But dogs can't talk. Which is why they bark. We don't understand barks. But dogs understand our words. So, dogs must be smarter than people. Except for Bones. Sometimes, he was kind of dumb. Bones didn't like being tied up in our back yard. So, he'd bark and bark until some Hoffman paid him some attention.
We live in a small city with rules and regulations and laws and such. So, we couldn't allow Bones to go outdoors unless he was tied up, or else we clipped a leash to his collar so we kids could let him walk in front of us. Actually, we ran. He pulled hard, I tell you.
Doc, the Third, rigged up a pulley system, using Mother's clothesline. Bones ran around and round the clothesline pole until he couldn't anymore. He didn't know he had to go in the opposite direction in order to be free again. And then he'd bark. And bark. And bark some more. "Maybe, he is dumber than Dork," I thought.
And another thing. Mr. and Mrs. Fahl had a garden only inches from our property line, right next to our garage. I don't know why but Bones liked to go in that garden. He didn't eat any vegetables or strawberries or raspberries, but he dug holes.
That’s when Old lady Fahl would try to telephone us. And since Doc was a real medical doctor, our telephone wasn't on a party line like hers. So, if somebody was on the phone in our house, which normally meant Doc, the Third, who was usually whispering lovey-dovey things to his girlfriend, Eunice Bankenbush. Really, that was her name. I'd rather be a Hoffman than Bankenbush. Maybe that's why she liked Doc, the Third. She'd get to change her last name to Hoffman when they'd marry.
As I said, Doc, the Third, was always on the phone talking lovey-dovey stuff to Eunice. And I suppose she liked lovey-dovey stuff. Yuck.
All their whispering on the phone upset Mrs. Fahl because she couldn't just lift the phone and yell at Doc, the Third, for letting Bones dig holes in her garden. So, instead, she called the police department.
Each time, Officer Exner, Chief Exner's brother, knocked on our front door. And everyone in the house knew why. Mrs. Fahl. Bones. Again.
"I certainly enjoy him. So does everyone else," I said.
No matter what kid was playing with Bones, and we all did, Bones was more than pleased to lie on his back so we could scratch and tickle his stomach. Of course, he didn't giggle—dogs can't snicker even though Doc said he could—but you knew he enjoyed getting tickled. I could easily see that just by the way he wouldn't move or roll over and get back up on all fours.
Many times during the day and also during the night before we'd go to sleep, Bones approached us and offered his head so we could scratch it. It was like he was begging to get it scratched. And, boy, did he like it when we did what he wanted. Once we started petting and scratching around his head and ears, he didn't move a lick.
He didn't mind getting his neck scratched, either. Whenever we'd scratch the area just above one of his hind legs, the leg popped up and down like old men's legs hopped up and down as they danced the polka.
Plenty of times, Bones ran ahead of us as if we were playing a game of tag. He was too quick. Not a one of us could catch him if he didn't want to be caught. Finally, he stopped. Most of the time, it was a trick. When we were just about ready to pet him or grab him or hug him, he'd take off like a beagle chasing after a rabbit. No doubt about it, Bones enjoyed us. And we enjoyed him.
Paul and Glen Peterson and Jimmy and Bobby Kell liked our dog very much although Paul said, "He's a Sooner Dog.""
"A what?" I asked.
"Sooner," said Paul. "He'd sooner eat and sleep than hunt."
"No big deal," I said.
"Why?"
"Hoffmans don't hunt."
"Doc, the Third, does."
'Yeah, but he's the only Hoffman who does."
Also, it didn't take Bones a lot of time to put on weight. It didn't matter if we saw his rib cage anymore, or not; we still called him Bones. Heck, we couldn't change his name to Fatso. Now, could we?
Bones ate and ate and ate from his bowl on the kitchen floor even after all the food was gone. He'd continue to lick the empty bowl until he discovered there was no taste left
Then, tragedy took place. During our lunch time. When the whole family was there.
Crazy Annie got up from the kitchen table and walked over to where Bones was eating. She reached down to pet him. Totally unlike him, the pup stiffened, growled, and snapped at Annie. It scared the daylights out of her and just about everyone else in the kitchen. Me, included. Wow, I thought, we had a pet alligator covered in black hair instead of a cuddly pet puppy. Crazy Annie cried. Which was normal.
Doc stopped cutting his noon steak into pieces. "That does it," he said. He dropped knife and fork and got up from his chair and hurried out to the parlor. "No dog in this house is going to get away with biting my kids." In the parlor, Doc grabbed yesterday’s Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune newspaper. Once back in the kitchen, he rolled up the Tribune. Bones had already returned to chomping away at his food.
Doc made believe he was going to pet Bones. Bones stiffened and growled. "No," yelled Doc as he swung the rolled up newspaper at the dog's rear end as hard as Joe DiMaggio hits balls out of Yankee stadium. Bones squealed. He backed away. He seemed confused. At least, to me. He eyeballed Doc with a questioning look. "Why'd you do that?" he seemed to be asking. The next thing you know, Bones returned to his eating. I guess that's what happens to a dog that in his early life nearly starved to death. It's eat, eat, and eat all the time. And don't let anyone bother his eating. At least, that was the case for Bones.
Once again, Doc made believe he was going to pet Bones. The dog snarled. "Whack" went the rolled up newspaper as it struck Bones pretty darned hard. This time, the dog cried and yipped plenty. No matter, it didn't take him long to lick his chops and return to his bowl.
"Don't hit him anymore," pleaded Crazy Annie.
Doc approached her and knelt in order to be just a little bit shorter than Annie who sat on a chair. He spoke awfully gently to her. "I'm trying to teach him not to bite anyone when he's eating. Is that okay?"
"Yes," said Crazy Annie, still blubbering. "Anyway, I think so."
Doc rose. Annie and everyone else watched as Doc made another move for the dog. Sounds like a dirty joke, doesn't it? Three times. And then end of joke. Well, this time Bones didn't stiffen or snarl or bite. Instead, he stopped eating, backed off, wagged his tail, and let Doc pat him on the head.
Bones seemed to be saying, "You don't have to worry about me, anymore. I learned my lesson."
"Good boy," said Doc. "Good boy. You can eat now.”
As if the dang dog understood each word Doc spoke, Bones returned to his bowl.
"Annie," said Doc, "why don't you pet Bones now?"
She put a finger to a lip. "I don't—"
"Go ahead," said Doc. "I don't think he'll bite you anymore."
Annie got off her chair. Bones stiffened. And snarled. Maybe Bones was more like Dork than I had thought, dumb as all get out.
Doc started rolling up the newspaper. That noise—just the sound—changed Bones' mind. In an awful hurry.
When Crazy Annie reached down to pet Bones again, the dog didn't pay attention to Annie but eyeballed Doc with mournful eyes that seemed to say, "Please, pretty please, don't hit me. I promise I'll be a good boy from now on."
After that, Bones never, ever again stiffened or growled or snapped at anyone who talked to him or came near him or pet him while he ate.
That darned dog still had other problems, though. Plenty of them.
He sometimes pooped or peed on the kitchen floor during the night when everyone else was asleep. And he didn't do it on the newspaper Mother laid out for that purpose. Lord help Bones if she was the first person in the kitchen that morning. She started screaming, "Bad dog. Bad dog."
Hearing her, I woke up, made my way to the kitchen, and saw her pick up the dog, grind his nose into his poop like she ground my face into my wet sheet. Next, she hit him as hard as she could before tossing him, squealing in pain, out the back door.
I'll say this: It didn't take too many of her "lessons" for Bones to learn he had to do his duty outdoors, not indoors. He'd better wait. Or else poop was going to be up his nose and in his mouth.
When she thought it was time for him to come back into the house, he wouldn't because he was scared. She'd come to my bedroom. "Wake up, Gordy. I want you to get dressed and catch Bones.”
I was hardly awake but I told her, "He doesn't always."
"Doesn't always what?"
"Come for me when I call him."
"Did you piss the bed?"
"Yeah."
Honest to gosh, she didn't try to drown me in the urine that morning. She didn't do anything. Saved by Bones.
I wished I learned as fast as Bones. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop. It was a miracle when I didn't pee the bed. That day, I tried to copy what I did the previous day. I wouldn't drink any water after six O'clock in the evening. But the next morning, disaster. Honestly, I hated having my face ground on that stinky, wet sheet. Yet, I continued to wet the bed. That's what a guy gets for being a reject.
After she told me to go outside and catch Bones and bring him back indoors without nearly killing me, I went outdoors and called Bones. He thought I was playing "our game." He'd come toward me and then suddenly stop and run in the other direction. Darn that dog.
A lot of times, when anyone except Mother, that is, opened the rear screen door, Bones would scoot by and run outdoors. He ran around like he'd been in Waupun prison for first degree murder and this was his first day of freedom after thirty five years. He loved freedom. We'd call to him but he thought we were playing games. He'd come toward us as if he was willing to have us pick him up and take him inside. Instead, he put on the brakes, made a beeline, right or left, or even in the opposite direction. Then, he'd wait for a few seconds and make his way toward us. Good, we'd think. Except that darned dog took off again.
He'd often go over to Mrs. Hahn's yard. If a chicken escaped from the fenced-in chicken yard, Bones had a lot of fun. Not the chicken, though. White Feathers ran and jumped and flew and squawked like mad. Bones chased after that bird, yipping. It was then that I agreed with Doc. That dog of ours was grinning. That's for certain. He scooted this way and that, chasing the hen that probably thought Bones was going to eat it. So, it went nuts—as scared chickens will.
Mrs. Hahn was nearing a hundred years old and she said she was as mad as all get out whenever Bones came into her yard. But then she smiled. "Dogs will be dogs, Gordy. Don't fret. It was that durned chicken's fault." (That's how she pronounced darned). "It shouldn't have been out in the yard."
Mrs. Hahn was nice. The neighbors just to the north of Mrs. Hahn and directly to the west of us were old man and old lady Fahl. Although they were our neighbors, they weren't neighborly. At all. In fact, they were bad people. I'll tell you more about them later.
Mister Fahl drove a coal truck. He delivered little chunks for stoker furnaces, briquettes for small furnaces like ours that heated water that made radiators hot to touch in the winter time, and then, of course, big chunks for regular hot air "octopus" furnaces.
Old Mr. Fahl delivered coal to most houses in town because he worked for Cavalier Coal and Oil Co., the only coal company in town, located right next to the Green Bay and Western railroad tracks, east of Preway Stove Company. Everything there was black. The ground. The fence. The road. The railroad's cars filled with coal would dump tons and tons in Cavalier's coal yard.
Back to Bones. That dog had other problems that Doc or anyone else in our family couldn't fix—even with a rolled up newspaper.
For one, barking.
Barking is normal for dogs. It's just like people talking. But dogs can't talk. Which is why they bark. We don't understand barks. But dogs understand our words. So, dogs must be smarter than people. Except for Bones. Sometimes, he was kind of dumb. Bones didn't like being tied up in our back yard. So, he'd bark and bark until some Hoffman paid him some attention.
We live in a small city with rules and regulations and laws and such. So, we couldn't allow Bones to go outdoors unless he was tied up, or else we clipped a leash to his collar so we kids could let him walk in front of us. Actually, we ran. He pulled hard, I tell you.
Doc, the Third, rigged up a pulley system, using Mother's clothesline. Bones ran around and round the clothesline pole until he couldn't anymore. He didn't know he had to go in the opposite direction in order to be free again. And then he'd bark. And bark. And bark some more. "Maybe, he is dumber than Dork," I thought.
And another thing. Mr. and Mrs. Fahl had a garden only inches from our property line, right next to our garage. I don't know why but Bones liked to go in that garden. He didn't eat any vegetables or strawberries or raspberries, but he dug holes.
That’s when Old lady Fahl would try to telephone us. And since Doc was a real medical doctor, our telephone wasn't on a party line like hers. So, if somebody was on the phone in our house, which normally meant Doc, the Third, who was usually whispering lovey-dovey things to his girlfriend, Eunice Bankenbush. Really, that was her name. I'd rather be a Hoffman than Bankenbush. Maybe that's why she liked Doc, the Third. She'd get to change her last name to Hoffman when they'd marry.
As I said, Doc, the Third, was always on the phone talking lovey-dovey stuff to Eunice. And I suppose she liked lovey-dovey stuff. Yuck.
All their whispering on the phone upset Mrs. Fahl because she couldn't just lift the phone and yell at Doc, the Third, for letting Bones dig holes in her garden. So, instead, she called the police department.
Each time, Officer Exner, Chief Exner's brother, knocked on our front door. And everyone in the house knew why. Mrs. Fahl. Bones. Again.