Dink, my big brother

[DrTriffid]

I recently found this picture in one of the closet boxes that I had been meaning for months to clear out. It was one of those jobs you hate to do — deciding what memories of your parents to keep and what to drop at the street in a black plastic bag.

In the photo are Dink, Dad's first German shepherd, and Mom, Dad's first — and only — wife (he always loved to introduce her to people as his first wife, and as much as she hated the joke, she took it well.)

Dink was about 9 or 10 years old in that shot, and had been living with my grandfather for about five years at that point. Papaw was at the time the caretaker of a church summer camp at the lake right outside of town. For two months out the year, it was a full-time job, but for the other 10, it was little more than wellhouse maintenance, a daily patrol and some light repair. It left him a lot of time for his four favorite activities: hunting, fishing, booze and raising packs of beagles for rabbit hunting. The beagles were highly sought after and made him about as much money as the camp job. Dink didn't have a lot of room to run in town, as the family farm had been mostly sold off into two subdivisons, and the barn wound up fronting on Lake Avenue. Papaw offered to take Dink to the lake with him so he could run, guard and keep the beagles in line for him. Dink was a lot happier there, and he and Papaw were inseparable to the point of becoming bunkmates.

Unfortunately, between the town kids and the church campers, Dink didn't respond well to the constant string of teasing and became a fierce fence fighter. After the third year, Dink had to be leashed or chained when outside during the camp season — the best months of the year for a dog who loved running through the woods and jumping into the lake.

The photo was taken in the spring of 1969, just a couple of months before Mom graduated college and married Dad. I showed up in the spring of 1970, and was Papaw's first grandchild and the bearer of the family name. As such, I was taken to the lake for daily presentations to the Patriarch, who in turn subjected me to the royal treatment. There are plenty of pictures of me as an infant surrounded by beagle puppies, but other than a couple of sniffs here and there, Dink and I had minimal contact — until about a year after that.

By that time, I was quite the crawler. I zipped along like the kid from "Baby's Day Out" and nothing could stop me. During one visit, my parents were so wrapped up in a discussion with Papaw that nobody had noticed that I had scooted about halfway across the yard at full steam — nobody but Dink, that is. He had been sacked out on the porch steps until he spotted the motion. At that point, he bounded down the steps and dashed toward me at full speed (this was a huge yard.) My mother screamed while Dad and Papaw shouted at Dink to stop, but to no avail. Dink closed in on me, opened his big trap and clamped down.

Right on the back straps of my overalls.

He turned me around and picked me up halfway, carrying me back with my feet dragging and my arms flailing. They tell me that I didn't cry a bit as I was lugged back to my parents. Dink deposited me at my mother's feet as he gave her annoyed look — "Lady, you need to keep a handle on that kid of yours" — and returned to his spot on the steps.

Dink stuck around for a couple of years after that, but he and I still weren't that close. The beagles held my attention, and I can't even remember the day we went to the lake and Dink was no longer there. I still can't help but think, though, that somehow Dink was ingrained in my subconcious as the dog who was always there watching over me. To him, I give the credit for the half-dozen other GSDs (and no beagles) that became a part of my life.

[Wild Wolf]

Heart-warming story... Thank you for sharing such an amazing photograph and a very powerful memory.