The Licorice Lummox (and other dogs)

by Brad Nelson

Dogs are like people, in that no two of them are the same. Leo had a beagle named Susie. He brought her with him in the hay truck every now and again. Said he did it to remind himself why he never took her with him in the truck. A beagle is a hound, and the nature of a hound is to think that the world is theirs, and the world should make way for every whim of the beagle.

Leo told of Susie getting a sticker in her paw. After some effort, Leo and his family got hold of the rascal, held her down and removed the sticker. They then doctored the wound, and let Susie go. She ran out into the middle of the pasture, and from that safe vantage point, told Leo and the whole world about her mistreatment. Leo swore she stayed out there and howled at them for a good half hour.

The only dog with a more distinctive sound to its baying is a basset hound. Closely related to the beagle, larger, but thanks to Snoopy, not as well known or popular. Charles Schultz does an excellent job of portraying the personality of a beagle. I know. I was the proud (embarrassed?) owner of one for a time. The family picked him up at the used dog and cat store. You know the place. You pay an adoption fee; then you have to take it back and have it “fixed.” I didn’t think he was “broken.” (The dog didn’t either.) Then came the battle of wills. “Snoopy” must have been the spoiled pet of a pair of little old ladies who pampered him shamelessly. Stay off the furniture? Go potty outside? He seemed to be saying, “This is my world, it is now my house, and thank you, I’ll lay where I want, and go potty anywhere I please!” Most of the time I was able to keep from getting caught between the beagle and Elli. I was regularly in trouble for not being able to hold a straight face as the battle of wills went on.

“Tip” was black and white. He got his name from the inch-long tuft of white fur on the end of his tail. I remember holding him on my lap all the way home. What I can’t remember is if it was when we went and got him, or if it was on the way home from the vet’s, after Tip learned that cars have the right-of-way. Tip couldn’t be coaxed into the house. After the move from Mink Creek, in southeast Idaho, to Parma, in western Idaho, I remember more of the antics of Tip. Dad had an 80-acre farm, and worked to get some suitable pasture going for his milk cows. At chore time, Dad would send Tip to go get the cows. Tip would go by himself to the end of the pasture and bring the whole herd to the barn. Every now and again he’d miss one, and Dad would send him back for the stray. Tip would hang his head in shame, and go back after the wayward heifer. In cold weather, Tip would go into the corral and sleep next to one of the cows. I mean, snuggled up tight against the cow.

The milk was shipped in ten-gallon cans. Val Feller was the milk truck driver at the time. The custom was for the creamery to send the monthly milk checks with the milk haulers. Tip rather liked Val Feller, and made it a point to get petted by him every day when he picked up our milk. One milk check day, for whatever the reason, no one was home when Val came. The weather was threatening a heavy rain, and Val thought it better to leave the check on the table inside the house rather that the usual place, wedged under the lid of one of the empty milk cans. He told Dad later that Tip wouldn’t let him near the door of the house.

When we left the farm in 1956, Dad had a neighbor inquire about Tip. Rather than try to make a city dog out of him, Dad gave Tip a new home. I remember asking Dad if he got any money for Tip. He looked at me in amazement, and stated that you don’t sell friends.

Sour Mash was the dog that caused Elli to require anyone wanting to name a dog to stand on the porch and shout the name at least ten times before bestowing it on the canine. My brother Galen had a motorcycle, I believe a Honda 305 Scrambler. Galen picked Sour Mash up, perched him on the fuel tank, and gave him a ride. Soon the dog lived for Galen to show up on the Honda. This was a sight to behold, the dog on the fuel tank with ears waving wildly in the wind as they went for the customary ride. To the chagrin of anyone else who showed up on a motorcycle, Sour Mash thought they should give him a ride, too. Their first thoughts were always that this crazy mutt was going to eat them.

John Powell gave us Smokey, named after his father. (The dog’s father, not John’s father.) It was three months after we left the dairy that we discovered that Smokey had white feet. One day while Smokey was in the yard with the family, a Doberman from up the street came into the area. Smokey headed over to investigate, and when we called him to come back, he understood “Sic ‘em!” ... I thought for a minute that our little gray cow dog was going to be eaten alive. When the dust settled, the Doberman was heading for home at a high rate of speed. Smokey was prancing back toward us. Head held high, actually smiling, and lifting his feet almost shoulder-height with each step!

Bear came from a working sheep ranch at Howe, Idaho. Nikki played hooky one day to help me bring him home. We stopped at the rest area by the junction of highway 26 and the Sun Valley highway, whichever one that is. It was about March, and we were in one of the last spats of winter weather. We unloaded from the truck, put Bear down in the snowstorm, thinking he for sure had a full bladder by now. No, thank you, he wanted back inside Nikki’s coat, where it was warm. His other name is Underfoot. Someone taught him to bring back a ball, and fetch is all he wants to do.

Son Ryan fell for a stray that he named Bandit. He seems to have lots of black lab in him. I teased the grandson, Johnathan, that this was not a dog, but a lummox. The proof was that the “lummox” had black lips. Anyone knows that a lummox will always have black lips. Bandit shows no interest in chasing the ball with Bear, but protests with vigor when I bounce the tennis ball off of his body for Bear to catch. Ryan did well teaching this big dog manners. Only thing is, as he goes on his merry way, that tail of his uproots small trees and tips over Volkswagens. When the usual question of, “Does he bite?” comes up, the answer is, “No, but he’ll break your legs with his tail.”

Some time back, at the birthday party for grandson Johnathan, among the guests were one of Bethany’s high school friends, and her friend Rick. (Bethany is my daughter-in-law, Ryan’s wife.) I entered the room to the scene of Rick sitting on the floor, with Bandit sitting in front of him. Rick was petting Bandit, who was leaning closer to Rick, obviously in dog heaven. Rick said to Ryan, “Look at this! I’ve never seen a dog like this before.” Then, with one hand on Bandit, he pointed toward his girl friend with the other and said to Ryan, “I’ll trade you?” If looks could kill! She seems to have forgiven him, as I understand that Rick has married the girl he tried to trade for the Licorice Lummox. PD

To contact Brad Nelson,
e-mail him at
bnelson@smwireless.net.