When he came at our clapboard home for the first time in the arms of Alvin Whitmore, a family friend and distant cousin, on that humid August morning in 1954, I knew without a doubt that this small black ball of fur and I would be wonderful companions for many years to come. It was the hue of his paws that prompted a few names that the majority of boys who are 11 years old would consider to be ideal.
During the time when my father was paying the agreed-upon sum of $5 for our new family member, I suggested that we give him the name Four-Socks or perhaps Boots. “All of these are wonderful names, son, but I believe that this young man would be most interested in your second proposal. “That is a wonderful name for a puppy that has four brown paws,” commented the father with a smile on his face. He confirmed, “Boots, welcome to our family,” and he said it.
When Boots reached knee-high and I turned 12, we both sensed that we were prepared to go on after-school adventures in the great outdoors. A river, trails, and woodlands were all located within a short distance of our back door, along with hundreds of acres of open fields. Boots and I would get up early and make our way to the verdant woodlands and riverbanks that were located along the Saugeen River, which is the major branch of the town’s rolling river.
This would happen after the summer break from school began in late June. We would spend the entire day fishing for the elusive brown and speckled trout, rambling along our hidden routes, exploring freshwater springs, eating sandwiches wrapped in wax paper on a rock pile or riverbank, and fishing for these trout with my binoculars, a fishing pole that had been cut down, and a canvas rucksack.
I only ever caught suckers and silver chub, and neither of them ever made it inside my wicker fishing basket. Typically, I only caught suckers. On the other hand, those scorching summer days, the undulating waves, and the gentle green banks that were eroded by decades of spring floods will be ingrained in my adult memory forever.
When Time Is Misty
When I close my eyes on this midsummer day, the memories of sunburned arms and cool, shaded days that marked every walk along that canal, from one deep fishing hole to the next, come flooding back. These memories are brought back to me at this moment, which is fifty years later. Because I am very positive that there is a dog paradise, there is no doubt that Boots is currently in heaven, where he is loving getting drenched on the shorelines and then rolling around in the lush grass beneath the large willow trees.
Mom’s lunch bag, which contained thick jam, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, glass jars of chocolate milk, and a mason jar of soft food for Boots, was a continuous highlight of those days when school was out for the summer. Even though she is now 89 years old, she vividly remembers those events that took place a long time ago and were shared by two dear friends who were both youthful and full of vitality. Almost as much as I loved Boots, I believe she loved him as well.
Boots had a flair for reading my weakness extremely well, as evidenced by the fact that he was able to successfully beg for sandwich crusts or the corners of a cookie during its daylong journey with me. Peanut butter was the only food that was prohibited; we had learned this lesson in the kitchen several months before. When a dog is trying to remove peanut butter from the roof of his mouth with his tongue, it is not a funny sight to behold.
In addition, it was common knowledge in the neighborhood that my black-and-tan companion would always be there to shield me from any dangers, whether they were real or imagined. Although there were bullies in schoolyards back then, just like there are today, the threat that was present in our small-town atmosphere was not as significant as it is today.
On our two-acre property, I had my very own individual safety net consisting of four legs. I have a feeling that a couple of adults who are now in their senior years could still have a few long-healed marks on their bottom cheeks as a result of the reaction of my dog to the harmless one-on-one boxing contests that we staged every summer in our garden. I would occasionally give my opponents a light nip on the butt, but only when it was obvious that I was going to lose the bout.
There was no reaction of any kind whenever it seemed as though I was having the upper hand in those outdoor fisticuffs. It seems to me that the system was fair, but I’m sure there are others who would disagree. I am aware of two adult men who openly admit to today that they have thrown those summer matches all for the purpose of keeping Boots pleased and at a distance.
In contrast to the parents of today, who are sometimes accused of being overprotective, my parents encouraged me to spend as much time as possible in nature, if at all feasible. A portion of that learning experience took place during those summer outings that lasted the entire day, with my dog serving as my sole companion.
When we were out exploring the fields, forests, and calm waterways that welcomed a boy from a tiny town, I did, in fact, imagine that he was speaking back to me. When we were walking our regular paths together, we frequently had hidden chats with each other that helped me find answers to questions that I had about being a teenager.
An Exceptional Watchdog
Two years later, when I had completed my final year of high school, I was faced with more significant July decisions to make before September finally arrived. Everybody was aware that meant attending college at a distant location from our small hamlet. Yes, this is an amazing journey for me, but I’m sad to say that dogs are not permitted.
The fall of that year was the time for me to start moving in a new path in the most populous city in Canada. Nevertheless, throughout that first year, it was also a moment when every member of our family observed an extraordinary canine skill that astonished each and every one of us. Even to this very day, it continues to do so.
The experience of living in a university dorm 150 miles south of home during the middle of the 1960s was another thing that put a burden on my parents’ financial situation. The three construction lots that were part of our two-acre property were separated by my father so that the changeover would be within our financial means. In a short amount of time, the money that was obtained from the sale was magically transferred into my bank account.
It was common practice to hitch home on the weekends. At the time that I was attending college, there was little fear about putting on a backpack and using your thumb to get a ride. This may sound tough to believe now, but it was not unusual back then. Haitchhiking was a frequent practice that was seen as safe.
It was during my first two years away that I utilized that particular strategy, and I would frequently begin my journey on a Friday afternoon. The majority of the time, I would arrive at my house within four hours. In retrospect, the trips over the weekend demonstrated that Boots was not a typical pet. Fridays were also a demonstration of this. What a mystical canine he was!
The location of our home was around 300 yards away from the highway that cut through the middle of the town. There are no obstructions in the line of sight that extends from the edge of that elevation to the highway. Boots would recognize his master as soon as I exited my previous ride, which was at the intersection of our street and the freeway. He would then rush down the rise like a rocket to welcome me with a series of joyful leaps and licks.
I initially believed that his timing was merely a matter of luck, rather than an instinct that could not be explained. However, after a string of Fridays in a row, during which I was greeted with the same joyful greeting, I posed a fundamental question to my parents: “Does Boots spend every afternoon until nightfall hanging out on that hill?”
Both of my parents responded in unison, “It’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened.” It is unequivocally true that he possesses a time clock of some kind within that brain. Ever since you relocated, we have been keeping a careful eye on his behavior.
Boots only sits on that rise every Friday afternoon, and he does not move until he sees you at the corner. This is a fact that you may or may not believe. During the last six afternoons, he behaves normally. In the event that you are staying in Toronto on the weekends, he will remain on that hill until very late in the evening; at one point, it was approaching midnight!
This shown ability to count down the days appears to be impossible to comprehend; no one that we know could ever comprehend how he was able to determine that it was Friday afternoon. Boots was dependable and accurate for the three years that I spent in college; he was always on guard on the appropriate day, regardless of the weather.
According to my perception, he was one of a kind.Following Boots’ departure to the canine heaven, we made the decision to forego the acquisition of another furry companion from Cousin Alvin. There is a high probability that my close friend would have disapproved of any other watchdog service.
On the other hand, our “Time Dog” is still on that small hill to this day, and his name is engraved on a river stone that I discovered near the shoreline.
