Dog Day's of Summer

Short story set in the sixties about spending summers at a cabin on a lake in Northern Idaho.

 

 

By

Judy Getty

 

     An old ratty basket sat upon the small sideboard table in the living room of our cabin.  This table resided beneath a picture window, that looked out upon the screened-in front porch and beyond, to the firs and finally to the lake.  The view ended, once your eyes lit upon the rock wall on the far side of the lake, perhaps a half mile away.

     Inside the basket and scrawling above and over its sides, was the orange feather decoration.  Created, I suppose, to resemble a dried flower arrangement, one of many treasures brought to the cabin.  The cabin was full of discarded old relics -all at one time valued by family members or friends.   These items were brought, and then discarded here, because they were no longer welcome or desired in the homes of loved ones, but a tug on the heart, made it impossible to completely do away with them. So, these objects, resided in the cabin.

     Items such as rocking chairs, old couches, bits of pottery and origami creations.  Other objects were brought, and left, with kindly helpful thoughts, because they were thought of as perhaps somewhat useful; such as old jigsaw puzzles, that when almost completed were discovered to be missing a piece, or toy building sets useful in the construction of miniature houses, but upon nearing completion of a masterpiece; the window pieces would be discovered to be missing. But, the most prolific items left behind were the books.

       Some of the walls of the living room were left unfinished and the open spaces which, in most homes are filled with insulation and covered with sheet rock were discovered to make perfect hollows, in which to fashion shelves, to house books. There were rows and rows of tattered paperbacks, Reader’s Digest Condensed, and novels, that Dad kept meticulously sorted, either by subject or author. His favorites, The Westerns, were stored behind the half doors that led into the kitchen.  An old flat iron, once upon a time heated upon a stove, acted as the door stop.

      These books were often times not the classics, but rather, cheap beach reads, brought by visitors to while a way a summer sun-soaked-day spent upon the dock; an economical entertainment to amuse oneself, while building a summer tan.

     Perhaps Mom wouldn’t have minded. My stealing a few feathers, however, if I had asked, she might have said no.  Better not to chance it, as I needed those feathers. Coast being clear, I had taken what I needed, and beat it out the back door.    

     Mornings were the time of imagination at the lake.  The sun would not raise high enough to touch the dock until mid morning- usually an hour before noon.  That’s when we would go swimming, but until then, my imagination would take over to find ways to amuse myself- a little girl in the sixties. 

     On this day, I had it in mind to play Indians.  My best summer friend, Carol, whose cabin was next door, had gone back to town for the week.  That meant Scamper would have to fill in as my friend, confident and cohort.  Scamper was our dog.  A little girl at the grocery store had put the pup in my Mother’s arms and said, “Do you want a puppy?” She must have been a sweet little girl because Scamper was no cute puppy. But something made my Mom take that dog, her heart melted, and she brought her home.   

     Something we had never understood was my mother’s fondness for poodles, and now she had one. Well, sort of.  For Scamper didn’t look like a poodle.  When you looked at her, you scratched your head and thought, “Well, there’s some poodle in there.”  She didn’t look like the traditional C**k-a-Poo either, which we surmised her to be.  She was born just a few years before that breed became the “IT” dog. 

     Scamper stood a bit taller than a C**k-a-Poo, but not quite as tall as the Standard Poodle.  Her body was long like a Weiner dog but she had curly black hair and her face was much thinner and scruffier.  When people asked, we would explain sheepishly, “Why she’s a C**k-a-Poo,” but they always looked at us kind of funny.   

     One day I came home from school and Mother had company.  A lady was in the living room and she had brought her dog. I thought it strange because the dog wouldn’t leave me alone, but at the same time, I thought it was acting somewhat embarrassed.  After the required visiting time was up I was allowed to excuse myself, and I wandered away to play. 

     Later, I noticed the visitor was gone, but she had left her dog.  I found Mom in the kitchen and asked her why the lady had left her behind.  She looked at me strangely and answered, “Why, that’s Scamper.”  Mother had ruined her.  I ran back to the living room to find her and dropped down on my knees to hug her.  She smelled like cheap dime-store cologne, was shaved like a Paris Poodle, complete with a shoddy pink bow attached to the top of her head, and her nails were painted crimson pink.  Mom finally had her poodle. 

     We had a family vote that night at dinner and Mom had to promise never to have her groomed again.  Poor dog’s ego had suffered badly.  We disqualified Dad’s vote.  His favorite answer throughout the years, especially when the dog needed to be let in or out or to be fed or desired a pat, he would say, “You do it. I didn’t vote for that damn dog.” 

      Scamper was tough.  When she was a puppy, we took a road trip one summer from Portland, Oregon to Detroit Lakes, Minnesota to visit Grandma.  Somewhere in the Dakota’s Scamper had gotten hit by a car and suffered a broken pelvic bone.  The vet fixed her up and we were on our way.  Scamper had to ride in a cage we fashioned out of two laundry baskets. 

     The second basket was inverted on top of the other and dad wired it shut to keep her still. We placed her cage in the middle of the back seat of the yellow rambler, nestled between my brother and my self.  I remember the heat of the badlands, staring out the hot window at prairie dogs and worrying about our dog. She had to wear pampers, which had just been invented- thank you disposable diaper inventor!  Poor dog was again, embarrassed. Although dad paid for the vet bill, the job of changing the diapers was left up to us, as he didn’t vote, don’t you know. 

      That morning at the cabin, feathers in hand, I spied Scamper on the path and she followed me down around to the front of the cabin, through the double doors and into the basement.  I had to jump high to reach the light switch that Dad had rigged up conveniently on the ceiling.  It usually took me three tries, for my finger tips to just brush the switch hard enough to flip it on.  But I was used to it.  He stored the oars and paddles up there too.  I had to perform a kind of hop, run and jump. Then, reach high and shove, to move the oars enough so they would start to slide and tilt over the brackets until I could reach them and finish pulling them down. To put them away I just reversed the order.    

     Dad had all kinds of things in the basement- useful things.  Two kinds of glue, Elmer’s household like we used in school, and the special yellow carpenter’s wood glue. Also, nails and hammers, hand saws and odds and ends of wood.  Old galvanized pails, shovels; bad-mitten’s and c***s lined the shelves. Fishing poles, nets and reels nestled next to our prized water toys and inner tubes.   I knew where everything was and I helped myself to the roll of plastic jute, cutting the lengths of string I needed and back outside we went.

      Finding some branches, I stripped them of their bark and sat down in the bushes to meticulously work at tying the jute to form an archer’s bow.  Shorter twigs were gathered and I sharpened one end of each of them with a butter knife to form pointed arrows.  I struggled to tie the feathers onto the opposite ends.  Scamper was patient and held still while I adorned her in a feather headband matching the one I had made for myself and we were complete, metamorphasized into an Indian boy and his dog, fierce warriors dressed for battle resplendent in orange feathered plumage and yellow jute.

    We spent the morning on the hunt.  On the south side of the cabin it was left to wild.  Untended maple bushes lined the wooded alley between our cabin and the Anderson’s next door. It became our woods- a land unseen before by white men and inhabited by noisy squirrels.  We hunted buffalo and cougar and bear.  Pounding my chest and chanting “Ugh” although quietly as I didn’t want to be discovered by my elder brother, who would surely make fun of me and probably cause irreparable damage to our attire.  Discovering prey, (again the squirrels) I would crouch low, putting arrow to bow, pulling back on the jute, trying to make those arrows fly. 

     “Judy, time to go swimming,” I heard my mother call.  Quickly, I grabbed Scamper before she could take off to find Mother and disrobed her of her plumage.  I stashed our apparel in the bushes, to remain hidden until needed another day.   

     Scamper didn’t always swim with us.  She would play for a while in the water, have a roll in the sand and then plunk herself down in the middle of my mother’s beach towel on the dock.  Mom, swimming in the lake, would holler at the dog to get off her towel.  Scamper, who had the timing down to seconds, would grab the end of the towel in her mouth, growl playfully at mother, then wait until she was on the swim ladder before taking off in a dead run down the dock, up the path and away through the bushes, dirty towel left behind in a heap on the dock. 

     She never wandered far, or so we thought.  While we were busy swimming, she sometimes disappeared, and we assumed she was up at the cabin having a snooze at my dad’s feet, while he sat reading one of his westerns.  It wasn’t long though, before the gig was up and our little dog got busted. 

     One day, Carol and I were swimming and playing our favorite game, which we called, Seahorses.  We would fold our inflated water rings in half and ride them like horses in the water.  Great fun, especially when the waves reached us, created by the ski boats that flew by, dragging skiers behind in their wake.  We would spot a boat, and start to paddle out, knowing that the waves at the end of the dock were a lot bigger than the waves near the shore. 

     “You girls get back closer to shore,” my mom would say.  One day, after she gave us our daily warning, she stood up quickly from the dock and shielded her eyes from the sun as she strained to see down the beach.  She was looking towards the resort.  The resort was 4 cabins down from ours.  It had little cabins placed haphazardly upon a wide expanse of lawn, wandering their way down to the shore and the docks.  The cabins were all painted in the same shade of woodsy brown, but each one had different painted moldings around the windows. Colors of bright pink, baby blue, yellow and red, distinguished each one from the other.   

     Carol and I turned to see what mom was looking at.  Running down the beach towards us, as fast as she could gallop; ran our little black dog, and behind her came a crowd of about 10 people, all running as fast as they could to catch her. 

     “What on earth….,” I remember my mother saying.  She hurried down the dock to the sandy beach to intercept the dog.  Scamper feigned a move to the right and then to the left, like a running back carrying the ball for a touchdown, but mom was too quick for her.  Used to Scampers antics to get away, mom faked a move to the left, then dove right and hooked the dog by the collar.  She reached down and pulled something from the dog’s mouth.  “Uh-oh,” I thought feeling sick as I saw what mom held in her hand.    

     Scamper had stolen a jar of baby food.  The first to reach mother, was a young woman. 

     “Your dog stole my daughter’s baby food,” she said to mom.  Her face looked pretty angry and she stood with her hands on her hips looking at my mom.

     I couldn’t believe what mom said next.

       “She’s not my dog. We’re just watching her.”

      I don’t think the lady believed her, since Scamper was jumping up on mom’s legs and then sat down at her feet and gazed up at her adoringly. 

     “I just want the spoon back,” the lady said, disgustedly.

By now the others had also gathered around.  It looked like a mob was about to form.    

     “Your dog stole the baby food jar from a blanket we had spread out on the lawn for our picnic.”    

    My Mom apologized for our dog’s thieving act, the mob dissipated and wandered back down the beach to the resort to resume their picnic.  Scamper stood on the beach and looked after them, tail wagging slightly.  I’m sure she was wondering what all the fuss was about. 

     Well, Scamper took her scolding like a trooper.  Mom really let her have it, berated her, in true motherly fashion.  That dog sat in front of her on the beach and listened to every word, while mother explained to her quite loudly, that she had never been so embarrassed in her life, and that if she EVER went down to the resort again, she’d wish she hadn’t, etc. etc.  Then, that smart dog tucked her tail between her legs and high tailed it up to the cabin and out of sight for a while, as if realizing mother needed some space. 

     It happened one more time that summer, just a few weeks later, only this time it involved a stolen Hershey Bar, the same scenario as before. The dog running up the beach towards us and three kids were chasing after her.  This time, mom gave them a quarter to go buy themselves a new candy bar at the resort store, and along with the payoff, she suggested they perhaps not mention it to their parents.

     Another favorite pastime at the lake was going for a boat ride.  Our boats weren’t fancy.  We didn’t own a ski boat, dad just didn’t believe in them, much to our regret, but we did have a little rowboat with a motor and a canoe.  Often times we took Scamper with us on our rides.  She loved to go out on the boat.  She would stand in the front with her front feet on the bow and her back paws on the seat, toenails digging into the wood for traction and nose pointed into the wind.  She would bark at dogs she saw on the beach as we raced by, as if to say, “Ha-ha, you sorry land- dogs. Look at me, with my people, out for an adventure.”

     Scamper particularly liked to tease a couple German Shepard’s that resided down the beach from us about a quarter of a mile.  They would race along the shoreline barking furiously at her, and she would look at them for a moment before turning away, a snub- in true dog-like form.

     The only time she wasn’t invited was when we were going fishing.  This was because of fish hooks.  Every year when we first arrived at the cabin, our first chore was to unload the car of our multitude of supplies.  And every year, Mother would say to my brother,

    “Robert, don’t be getting out those fishing supplies yet.  We have to finish unloading the car and unpacking, and if you do, you will get a fish hook in that dog’s nose.” 

     I never could understand how Mother was so sure that this would happen. How she was so certain that if the car wasn’t unloaded firsthand, and if fishing supplies were delved into beforehand, but after five years of summer arrivals, and five years of warnings, it finally did happen. 

     Mother was in the kitchen kneeling before the cabinets and unpacking dishes when Scamper came in and laid her head upon her knee, a shiny treble hook embedded in her nose.  “Oh, for crying out loud,” I remember Mother saying.  I saw my brother freeze, out on the porch, tackle box open on the floor, pole in his hand.     

     Mother wasn’t too happy about it either. Nor was she happy about packing up the dog into the half unloaded Volkswagen Van and driving some twenty miles into Coeur D Alene, to the veterinarian, especially after the 10 hour drive earlier that day from Portland.  Dad stayed at the cabin with us.  He didn’t vote.     

     So, the dog wasn’t invited in the boat, when we went fishing.  This was always a frustration to Scamper, who wasn’t keen on being left behind.  Once we were out on the lake, we could always hear her barking her disappointment, until she would acquiesce and settle down to await our return. 

     On this particular day, we were in the rowboat, working our way out to the Crappie hole, down by the old wooden bridge.  We were full of anticipation as we buzzed along the shoreline parallel to the docks that lined the water’s edge.  Crappies were fun to catch, real fighters and the fish were large this year.  We had our poles, and we had our worms, the sun was starting a slow descent over the west and the conditions were idyllic. 

     We anticipated the early evening fishing, of reaching the hole, setting our anchor and  busying ourselves with the usual bustle of rigging our poles, baiting our hooks and trying to be first to get our line in the water.  So with our minds full of what to come, it took a moment to notice what was going on along the beach.   

     I saw her first.  A little black speck of a pooch; racing down the beach, heading out to the ends of each dock that lined our journey.  She would reach the end of a dock, and realize we were too far away for her to jump and swim so she would turn and head back to shore. She did this on every dock we passed.  Scamper, was following us along the lake, was trying to reach the boat. 

     We laughed at her antics, marveled at her determination and were impressed with her intelligence because we knew she realized that she couldn’t swim that far, that is, until,……..the German Shepard’s appeared…..

       They say that Karma will get you, and I guess that is true for little dogs as well, for these two majestic animals were the same dogs that Scamper had made so much fun of from the boat and now, here she was, smack dab in their turf.  She was on the beach when they appeared, 20 yards away from her.  We had a clear view from the middle of the lake, our horror at what was going to be the fate of our little dog, happening all in front of our eyes and knowing that we were powerless to reach her in time.  Scamper wasted no time in making her move.  She turned, poured on the gas and high-tailed it out the closest dock.  The German’s were right on her tail.  It was a long dock, maybe 50 feet out.  The Germans were gaining on her, bounding behind her, intent on their quarry.  She didn’t even hesitate.  She hit the end of that dock and sailed out into the lake.  The German Shepard’s, braked at the last moment, skidded to the edge and stopped. 

     Our little dog began to swim, heading towards us, a quarter mile away, much too far for her to make it. So, we sent poles flying and tackle boxes overturning in our haste to rescue her. Father swearing, we cut the anchor and started rowing towards our dog, intent on our mission.  It would be too much for all of us to watch her drown right in front of us.    

     We met in the middle and hauled her in, and we were just in time, for she had started to fail in her swim, so tired she was.  It was a joyous reunion, our little brave dog with the heart of a lion, and she sat happily, in a place of honor, like a queen upon her throne, upon my Mother’s lap, all the way back to the cabin.         

    

 

Author's Note

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