Letter From America: Keeshond Attack!
Corky the Keeshond is cuddly, affectionate, loyal and easily bribed. However he is also forgetful, as Ronnie Bray reveals in this dog-lover's-delight of a story.
Being attacked by a wild Keeshond is a memorable event. Especially when this close cousin of the wild wolf is young, active, and has problems with short-term memory.
All of which apply to Corky Sue Campbell who rules the roost at Broken Tree Ranch, up in the wild skyhigh greenclad mountains of Butte Montana.
Don’t let the ‘Sue’ fool you. Corky is all dog and then some. His face is almost hidden inside a mass of downy grey and white hair, as is the rest of him, but his personality, his appetite for affection, and his need for constant approval are evident.
He is cute, cuddly, affectionate, loyal, easily bribed, but forgetful. Put it down to the youthfulness of a dog whose first birthday was just about due when we visited the Campbells, and who is having too much fun to remember every little thing.
When Corky sits on your shoes, looks backwards over his shoulder, and grins at you with his tongue lolling out sideways, almost to the floor, you know you have been admitted to his inner circle of intimate playmates.
And with that knowledge, having enjoyed his affection and play for several hours, we retired to the bed that our gracious hosts provided. This was not our fist time in that bed, having slept in it three years ago when we had done the Grande Tour soon after our arrival in the Promised Land and met our cyberfriends, Kenny and Kathe, for the first time, beginning a friendship made to last forever.
We slept the sleep of the just, which is very similar to that of the aged weary, waking early to watch the slow hand of day creep over the extraordinary landscape of Campbells’ Kingdom near the stars on the green topped peak, where God’s wild creatures come, certain of a welcome and a feed from the gentle patriarch and his lady.
I was hopping around noiselessly, pulling on the first of my socks … But, wait, wait! First, let me explain what happened when we climbed into bed the previous night.
We had hardly settled down to address ourselves to sleep before a grey shadow burst into our doorless room and, in a single bound, snorted onto the bed and galumphed all over our aching legs.
After some struggles and misunderstandings about the purpose of beds, I managed to finagle him into a position that was comfortable for Gay and me, and he was almost settled down from his fidgeting when, in response to a call from his master, the shadow leapt unceremoniously from our bed to disappear into the gloom and quiet of the of the house as it shut down for the night.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was pulling on the first of my socks, when out of the morning gloom of the drawing room, through the corridor to our room, faster than a speeding bullet came the grey shadow, fangs bared, his lungs exercising a stentorian lupine snarl, slavering spittle – all the better to eat us with – bent on our destruction.
Momentarily, I abandoned the cladding of my pedal extremity in knitted hose, to identify this armed and dangerous combatant. Realising it was Corky, I called to him in gentle tones, hoping to remind him that I was his friend of a few hours ago, and that I still loved him, and was not planning the immanent demise of his master and mistress.
Corky would have none of it! He knew better. Whatever passes for good judgement in a puppy’s mind was apparently abandoned so he could pursue his attack with a savagery that he clearly enjoyed.
Attack might be too strong a word, when what he did was merely threaten. Had I not been a dog lover, and had I not already formed a judgement about this excited Keeshond, I might have been somewhat anxious. However, a short delay in the donning of my socks would not unwind the universe or destroy what is left of the ozone layer, and so I stood reasonably still - not easy on one leg - and kept on trying to talk Corky into a more eirenic frame of mind.
Well, that was the plan, but he was intransigent and maintained his menacing posture complete with growls and snarls arranged for full orchestra and choir of thousands.
Finally, his desire to drink our blood and sink his fangs into our flesh, gave way, as the light improved, allowing him a glimmer of recognition, then full recall, and a humble and contrite Corky crept out of the room trying to scrunch himself down to the size of an embarrassed Chihuahua.
Later, when we joined Kathe in the kitchen, Corky was his old self, his sheepishness had dissipated, and it was as if the Belgian barge dog had never put a bark wrong.
It is easy to see why Kathe waxes lyrical over her little friend, and if we were not already ga-ga over our Border Collies, we might have been enticed to adopt the twin of our new and charming friend, Corky Sue.
As we drove away from Broken Tree Ranch later that morning, we mused over the "Keeshond Attack" and how easy it is for us to sometimes forget who our friends are, simply because we do not take time to remember. And that is when our friendships are in most danger.
Howard Arnold Walters addresses the subject of friendship in his poem, "My Creed."
I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.
I would be friend of all—the foe, the friendless;
I would be giving, and forget the gift;
I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
I would look up, and laugh, and love, and lift.
Thank you Ken and Kathe for your unfailing love and hospitality. And thank you too, Corky Sue, for leading us toward a wonderful lesson that we are not too old to recognise or remember with profit.
Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2004
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
