Lately there's been an upsurge in the popularity of what's called the "versatile gun dog." The term covers several breeds, all European in origin.
Now, while I'm not knocking any claims about them as such, I'd like to point out that this country has had such a dog for longer than I can remember. It's not really a breed; it's more of a type. I had one when I was a kid and nearly everyone else I knew had one at some time or another. You might call it a "brown dog."
Brown dogs are not really all brown. Some run a little orange in the coat and others have a pronounced grayish, but lackluster cast. Still, common brown is the predominant shade. The hair may be sort of long, though not necessarily, and can be either smooth or rough or in-between. They have a peculiar three-quarter sideways gait as if the front wheels are out of alignment, and they tend to use only one back leg at a time, resting one or the other alternately unless an emergency occurs requiring full power.
No farm can be said to be properly run unless there's a brown dog in some position of authority. They will herd cows and pigs, keep the chickens out of the house garden, and keep the area free from skunks--which accounts, in large measure, for their rather distinct odor. No boy can be properly raised without one.
I think it was Robert Benchley who once remarked, "Every boy should have a dog. It teaches him to turn around three times before lying down." Brown dogs do a great deal more than that. They provide excuses for adventures, teach him how to whistle loud and clear, improve his throwing arm, and, most important, instill in him the incredible responsibility that comes with being loved unquestioningly, totally, and irrevocably.
Brown dogs are famous for their nonchalant, sophisticated attitudes. They have an air of having seen it all before; an attitude of preoccupation. Mine would stop now and then and stare into middle distance, as if pondering some crucial question for a minute or so. Then having resolved it to his satisfaction, he'd shake his head as though wishing he could impart this gem of knowledge to me, but somehow feel it would be wasted or more likely that I simply would not understand its value.
The narrow achievements of ordinary gun dogs--pointers, setters, or retrievers--seem to amuse the all-capable brown dog. Anyone who has owned one knows that they will bring back anything they can carry or drag. They will turn a brush pile inside out for the rabbit hunter, or circle a squirrel tree at precisely the right pace and distance to put the squirrel just where you want him. Pointing birds seems to bore them, but get one working pheasants and he'll herd and flush them your way as easily as he'd run a pasture full of Holsteins back to the barn. For a farm boy who wants results--fried rabbit, or squirrel stew--the brown dog is guaranteed to get the job done.
A brown dog will tolerate a boy's family but will not get too involved. If the boy is absent, say during school days, he will mope around or curl up close to where the master will first appear upon coming home, and wait. If there are things he has to attend to, rounds to make or whatever, never doubt that the sound of the school bus will fall on his ears first and farthest away.
When the owner of a brown dog I know went off to college, the dog would move out to the end of the lane about a day and a half before his pal was due home. How did he know? I haven't the foggiest idea. Since the boy's father didn't know when to expect him home either, it's even more mysterious--except that, if you're a brown dog, you're expected to know such things and it's your job to act on them.
BROWN DOGS ARE NEVER TRAINED in the common usage of words. They just figure out what has to be done and they do it. If you need someone to sit and listen to your problems, they'll lend a most sympathetic ear. If you're bursting with spring, they'll race up and down the brook with you and even walk a little taller when you bring mom the first sprigs of myrtle or watercress. I suspect they like summer best of all because everyone's home. Brown dogs are very fond of parties: swimming hole picnics, hayrides, summer softball games, fireworks, bicycling, fishing trips, and camping out. They make good outfielders and lifeguards, and I wouldn't have dreamed of sleeping on the lawn without my brown dog to watch over me; nor would he have allowed it in the first place.
Most problems with brown dogs stem from their intelligence and unswerving desire to please. Mine went along with me and my first .22 to watch me get rid of a few groundhogs in one of the pastures. I suppose I shot two or three; I forget. But he got the idea that we wanted groundhogs, and nearly every day, all that summer, he brought one home. The problem was that he didn't bring them home immediately, but waited a day or so until they were more impressive--in both size and smell. That little lesson wasn't lost to me either. I learned that there were certain outings to go on alone after that, especially when I was going to shoot snakes in the ice pond or around the place in the brook where we liked to swim. What would have happened if he had decided we wanted water snakes strung out on the porch? It still fills me with pangs of desperation.
One neighbor had to keep a chain around the kitchen icebox door after his brown dog learned to open and close it. It was a mystery where the food was going for a while, since he was smart enough not to take a lot or too big of a piece...just a small snack now and then to tide him over in the evening hours. Another had to tie the dog in the cellar or the barn if he felt he had to spank his son, and even then the dog would snarl a little at him for two or three days, as if to say he knew and didn't like the idea at all.
It's a shame that not everyone has a brown dog to help him over the rough spots, or to share that time of incredible wonder and discovery. A brown dog is a special gift we should have at a certain time of our life to round it out. A brown dog belongs to that time of life which was filled with dreams of what we see today as small things: a hammer .22, slingshots, a first knife of your very own, and hip boots; the little keys that opened the first doors to the outdoor treasures we now prize above price. Somehow brown dogs understand these things, and know how to share them.
I used to think, with pride overflowing, that my brown dog was mine. Now I know better. We never really own a dog as much as he owns us. Where he led I would follow without fear, and even now, remembering how he would curl up with his back against my bedroom door, I know again how it was to feel safe and protected from anything and anyone.
Once when I was very small and very sick my mother put him in bed with me against everyone's advice. "They need each other," she said, and that was that. She understood brown dogs and their peculiar magic.
It's getting about that time for another brown dog to come and live around the place. Sometimes I feel a strange cold draft at night. A brown dog would know just how to curl his back up against the door to keep it from troubling me.
This story originally appeared in Tears & Laughter A Couple of Dozen Dog Stories by Gene Hill. Copyright (c) 1981 Gene Hill. All rights reserved.
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