My Sister, My Dog and the Rooster
By Gene Helsel
In 1975 my family moved onto an orchard in rural Eastern Washington. Soon
after we moved there my brother Ken and I got a couple of good-sized dogs. Ken
got an Australian Shepherd and Lab mix and named him "Buck". I
purchased a German Shorthair and named him "Blue". The dogs were great
companions as we worked around the orchard, and the source of many laughs and
not a few adventures.
I began training Blue as a pup. Having recently returned from Korea, I
decided to train him with Korean commands. Blue was an extremely intelligent dog
and very soon he would come when I said "eel-a-wah", and sit when I
said "ahn-jeh-say-oh". Because he was a hunting dog, Blue loved to
work. He was never happier than when learning new commands or demonstrating his
mastery of the old ones. I worked with him almost every day and our love and
affection for one another steadily grew.
Everyone liked Blue. He was a delightful dog to be around, and for the most
part very well behaved. That is, until I went off to college.
As soon as I left for school there was no one around to work with Blue on a
regular basis. Blue needed a certain amount of challenge in his life, and
in the absence of our regular work-outs he decided to created his own
"intellectual stimulation". Fortunately (for him) he did not
have far to look. Our neighbors to the north had a small (soon to be smaller)
chicken farm. Blue began to make regular "visits" during which he
would chase one of the chickens, grab it by the neck and shake it until it was
dead. He would then bring the ex-chicken back to our house and deposit it very
ceremoniously up on our front porch. Apparently it was his perception that he
was performing a much needed service for our family, because he would always
back away from the porch with a kind of "Don’t thank me now. I’m just
doing my job. I’ll get another one tomorrow" expression on his canine
countenance.
My father tried valiantly and vociferously to communicate my family’s
preference for store-bought chicken, however, Blue could not be dissuaded from
his daily "hunt". As our neighbors grew increasingly upset, my father
tried different combinations of scoldings and beatings to convince the dog of
our non-existent need for fresh chicken meat. Finally in desperation my father
called me at school, seeking permission to sell Blue. Reluctant to sell
"one of the family", I asked if there was any thing else we could try
first. It was then that my father hesitantly shared an "old farm
remedy" that he said "might work." Given the alternative,
I was ready to try anything. So I gave him the green light.
My father took the very next rooster that Blue brought home and attached it
to his neck with some baling wire. The idea was something like this: "If
you like chickens so much, let’s see how you like this one for the next two
months as it rots off your neck." The sight and smell of that rooster had a
rather negative impact on Blue’s popularity. And if you have ever smelled
decaying flesh, you know exactly why. For me (and all but the most aromatically
challenged) it generally triggers an automatic gag reflex. After a few days the
rooster was equally hard on the eyes. Feathers began to fall off to reveal
splotches of congealed blood, and soon the intestines fell inside-out and drug
along the ground. Blue was not a pretty sight to behold and my family did all
they could to avoid even the least contact with him.
My younger sister Sylvia now faced the near impossible task of daily making
it from the door of her school bus to the door of our house without getting
anywhere near "Mr. Germ-bag". She actually got quite good at
stealthily creeping from tree to tree in the orchard, and then dashing across
our lawn with adrenaline-charged strides to the safety of our house. But once
inside the house she had yet another problem. Our mailbox was located about
thirty yards south of our house. Sylvia, being a prolific letter writer (and
getter), couldn’t wait for someone else to retrieve the mail. Strolling out to
the mailbox spelled certain hygienic disaster, so she developed a very clever
strategy to detain Blue long enough for her to get the mail. Sylvia would walk
through the garage and open the side door and yell "BLUE, Oh BLUE!" As
soon as she heard "Decomposition Dog" approaching the door she would
quietly shut it, and hurry to the door on the other side of the house. Silently
and swiftly she would scurry out to the mailbox and back before Blue would give
up looking for her at the garage side-door.
Sylvia’s little plan worked great, and she used it quite successfully for
several days in a row. But each day Blue was more frustrated at not being able
to locate and "be with" her. She was (apparently) the only person who
still wished to associate and perhaps even play with him. Each day the rooster
decreased in plumage and increased in smellage. Like a B-grade Hollywood
disaster movie, all the characters were in place and blindly careening towards
each other for the inevitable head-on collision.
D-Day: Sylvia got off the bus as usual, but this time she had her friend,
Therese, with her. Together they crept through the orchard and into the house.
Once they were in the house, Sylvia demonstrated her clever little operation.
Blue was once again called to the side-door, and once again Sylvia slipped
silently out to the mailbox. Silently that is, until she arrived at the mailbox
and began talking with Therese. If you know anything about dogs, you know that
their hearing is very sensitive. From the other side of the house, Blue
heard a voice. Not just any old voice. It was the voice. The voice
that had been trying for days to get together with him. The only voice that
wanted to be with him. He quickly determined two things: Voice near mailbox. Run
to voice.
My sister was just pulling the mail out of the box when she heard Blue round
the corner of the garage. He took the corner so fast that the gravel literally
"sprayed" out from beneath his paws. She quickly shoved the mail back
in the box and momentarily froze at the sight of eighty-five pounds of bird-dog
running directly towards her; bloody, gutty, rooster flapping in the breeze.
After a few rapid heart beats, all of her maggot-avoidance-systems kicked into
high gear and began pumping gallons of high-octane adrenaline directly into her
blood stream. Her fear-crazed mind could only provide one escape plan: Out-run
the dog in the orchard! (I never said it was a good plan.) And, off she
went.
When Blue heard Sylvia’s scream and saw her run into the orchard he
mistakenly read her actions as the "starting gun" for a game that Ken
and I played with the dogs called "Tag". Rejoicing in his good
fortune, he immediately began to chase Sylvia through the trees. Trying
desperately to lose Blue and to get back to the house, Sylvia made a sharp turn
worthy of an NFL running back. However, the irrigation water was on and the
grass beneath her feet was rather slippery. She lost her footing and landed flat
on her back, completely knocking the wind out of her. When Blue rounded the tree
and saw Sylvia on her back, he (again) mistakenly read her pose as the
"starting bell" for another Helsel Brothers game that we called
"Wrestle". Seeing that Sylvia was already in the "pin"
position, Blue ran up her front and began licking her in the face.
The next weekend I went home. I had a chance to talk briefly with Therese who
had witnessed the whole incident. She said, "You know, I’d never seen
anyone in convulsions before". For apparently, Sylvia had not even been
able to use her hands or arms to push Blue away, and had merely writhed on the
ground as Blue licked her and drug the rooster back and forth across her face.
The ol’ farm remedy worked wonders for about a week and then Blue was back
on the daily chicken patrol. So we sold him to some folks who loved to hunt
upland birds, and except for my sister’s occasional nightmares, everyone lived
happily ever after. Ahn-yung-kah-say-oh Blue.
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