Skippy's Story- What Happened After The Lamp Post...
In the first column that I wrote for this paper, back in May of 2006, I told about part of my traumatic experience moving from our Pennsylvania home to Lakewood back in 1958. As an only-child country boy, that was a difficult transition, to be sure... but there was even more to that story than made it into print. I guess with any story, there always is...
Out there in the country, I had a dog named Skippy. I'm not sure why my parents named him Skippy, except that his beautiful tan and white coat probably resembled a swirl of peanut butter. He was a mixed-breed animal. You could see some beagle in him, and probably some terrier...and yeah, I think he might have had a bit of bulldog in him, as well. In today's highly charged political atmosphere, he might have been considered "part pit-bull." Those kind of medium-sized mixed-breed toughie-looking dogs had been popular ever since shows like the "Our Gang" and "Buster Brown" series hit the silver screen in the years before WWII. Even the black and white dog from the RCA logo looked a good deal like...well, a medium-sized dog with a big head. Let's face it, back then, a nice medium-sized tough-looking dog was a classically American image.
At that time, I doubt whether anyone gave that "pit-bull" sort of thing a second thought in those halcyon Pennsylvania hills. In those days, a dog was a dog. There may have been people back then downtown who had purebred dogs, but they were unknown out our way. Dogs were big, small, or medium-sized, and that was about it, as far as we knew or cared about. Skippy had been my constant companion ever since I was a baby, and a truer and more loving friend and companion there never was. We grew up together. A story that my dear late mom loved to relate was that she had to potty-train me and Skippy at the same time! Mom used to say that the one and only time Skippy had an accident in the kitchen, she rubbed Skippy's nose into the doo-doo! Skippy was a smart dog and never repeated that behavior again. Growing up together as we did, no skunk, raccoon, or copperhead ever stood a chance of harming me while Skippy was around.
In my first story for you, I wrote about clinging to the lamp post in front of our Pennsylvania home, not wanting to leave the place. The part that was left out of that story was that dogs were not permitted at our new rental home in Lakewood, and, after all, the parents felt a city was no place for a dog...so Skippy, as I did write, would have to stay back in Pennsylvania. He was to stay with the grandparents who, after all, lived next door.
It would be better for the dog anyway...they said. It would be a crime for a dog to be cooped up in a small yard, with no place to run...they said. Skippy will be happier staying with his friend "Boots" anyway...they said.
After all, Skippy's friend Boots lived just over the hill. Boots was about Skippy's size, but was more wire-haired, like a terrier I suppose. Skippy would run to the bank of the hill and bark for Boots. Boots' family would let her out, and up the hill she would run. With a toss of his head, Skippy would direct the adventure for the day, and the two would play together around the old homestead, as country dogs love to do.
Well, here's the end of the story, after I was pried away from that lamp post, and after we hopped into that 1955 Ford and came to Lakewood without Skippy.
And it's not a very pretty one. Stop reading right now, if you get upset easily. I mean it, STOP right now.
Okay, you were warned...
Oh, I guess Skippy was fine for a while. We'd return to Pennsylvania every few months to see the grandparents and Skippy, and it was good. Or so we thought...until we went back to Lakewood one day.
The highway leading out of those Pennsylvania hills started just up the road from the old homestead, and we followed it until we made the turnoff west to Ohio.
Somewhere, before that turnoff, they found Skippy one day. With bloody paws, emaciated, he had tried to follow us to Lakewood. Yeah, somewhere along that highway, they found his dirty, fly-swathed body.
I guess, for me, this was the first of many traumatic shocks I've experienced in my life; as indeed, so do we all...each in our own way. Time passes, we learn to survive, and yes, endure somehow. And if we're lucky, we even learn to smile, and laugh again. Only...maybe not as much, or as often.
The truest and finest friend I ever had over there died trying to follow me to Lakewood.
The collective pulse of our city includes all the humans and animals living in our postage-stamp yards and diminutive green spaces. Maybe the family was right. Maybe City Council's right. Maybe everyone's right...except me and Skippy. Maybe the city was no place for a dog, much less a medium-sized one, that might have been part "pit-bull." Maybe it would have been, too. We'll never know.
Come to think of it, at times, I've even wondered whether a city was the right place for me either. If I'd grown up anywhere other than Lakewood, I think I'd have wanted to go back out to the country.
Anyway, I'm sure that the collective pulse of our particular city will go on beating just fine. Unfortunately, Skippy's pulse did not beat here. But it was not for want of his trying.
Dad and I are planning to make a donation to a local animal rescue service in Skippy's honored memory. A part of him, at least in name, will be coming home at last.
