Clara Caufield: Remembering my old happy rez guard dog

Friday, May 3, 2019  

I just finished the most wonderful book: Lessons from Lucy: The Simple Joys of an Old Happy Dog by Dave Barry, ever one of my favorite columnists from the Miami Herald who won a Pulitzer Prize for his commentary and has published many best sellers, this being his most recent. If you like dogs, comic wit and down-to-earth wisdom, consider reading it. This book must be read with much Kleenex, but also brings belly laughs and brought to mind my Old Happy Dog, Ms. Reilly.

And thank you to my good friend Dennis Malloy (a fellow Irish who likes my columns, because he is fascinated with the Northern Cheyenne and the Sioux) from upper New York State, for sending it to me. He has been a long-time subscriber and fan of Native Sun News Today (even when it was the Lakota Times).

This week was the first anniversary since Ms. Reilly went on to the last camp. She was thirteen, in dog years about 79 years old; the ratio being seven dog years for each human year.

Ms. Reilly was a red and white Australian shepherd/border collie cross with large glowing amber eyes, named after my first-grade teacher, also of the same coloring and eye color, also an Irish lass. Ms. Reilly came to me by accident, ironically born and raised on the Crow Indian Reservation, purchased for a pretty penny, a natural and valuable cow, horse and sheep herding dog of the “Hanging Tree” line.

As a pup, she belonged to my former daughter in law, Jerilyn Harris, who then had a large, tall, dark Indian husband, ever clad in a big black Stetson, normally wearing spurs. As a little girl, Ms. Reilly did a puppy thing which irritated him, so he kicked her, getting her right in the throat with a big spur. Thankfully, a week in the vet clinic saved her, but ever since, she held a grudge against guys who looked that threatening.

Aussies are known to be very loyal and protective, and Ms. Reilly lived up to that. Finally, through circumstances of divorce and re-marriage, the red and white wound up living in town, Colstrip, with my son and his new family, where she carefully guarded the perimeter of the trailer house fenced yard against invaders, especially the tall dark cowboy types.

Invariably, one of those showed up and Ms. Reilly, most likely thinking it necessary to save her life, attacked, drawing blood, the wound requiring stitches. Of course, the dog cops came, and Ms. Reilly got “throwed” into the dog jail, waiting for ten days to make sure she had not passed on rabies.

But then, she had to go before the City Judge who declared her a “vicious” dog: the only solution to put her down. It is not socially or legally acceptable when living in town for a dog to attack and bite people, drawing blood, necessitating an ER visit.

Somehow, Phillip, then custodian of Ms. Reilly, convinced the Judge, who as it turned out was also a dog lover, to give the dog “Just one more chance.”

“What if she has a home way out in the country on the reservation?” he begged.

The Judge relented on the condition that Ms. Reilly was then never, ever again, to put a paw into Colstrip (a parole violation we later committed many times, but without consequence).

“Clem?” he pleaded. “Can you take her?”

Since, having attended a dog training school at one time, I agreed. Still, it was a little intimidating to get a rather large dog who was known to bite people, but then I am short, light skinned and very rarely wear black Stetsons or spurs.

I had to become the “Alpha” dog to her; accomplished by putting her into a kennel for a few weeks, becoming her only source of food, water and socialization. That’s not as bad as it sounds, because dogs feel secure in a small, dark place, like a den, tend to sleep a lot and they always soon recognize the bringer of food, water and nice backrubs, provided they behave in a civilized fashion.

Ms. Reilly quickly learned lessons, ever very happy to see me. A granddaughter, Shawnee Realbird had already taught her the basics: the red and white only had to learn my style. And soon she earned a special treat, allowed to park herself by my bed every night, eager for some company.

Then, Ms. Reilly started guarding me. She quickly determined the perimeter of the place and so long as vehicles did not venture in there, things were fine.

When they did, Ms. Reilly put up quite the racket, barking and growling, even viciously jumping up to the vehicle windows trying to get the predators, sometimes scratching the paint of those vehicles, damage which I never agreed to pay for. Prudent visitors honked their horns and waited for me to call her off.

And, of course, from time-to-time, a tall dark cowboy friend of mine, clad in a black hat would show up. That is when things got very interesting, but by then she had learned all the basic doggy commands: “Quit, down, lay, sit, stay, etc.” But only from me, plumb fine as I was living alone. With Ms. Reilly around, I didn’t have to worry about intruders or unwelcome guests. If ignoring the “Beware of Dog” sign, visitors had to worry.

As my cousin Diane, a frequent visitor, note, “When on the outside, Ms. Reilly was vicious, but when you were allowed into the house, she would calmly loll around, sitting by your chair, asking to have her belly or ears scratched. As Diane said, “When in the house, you became a friend. But, the next time, she apparently forgot that, and a visitor had to start all over again.”

On the other hand, Ms. Reilly loved children and would happily and energetically fetch the STICK or the BALL for them for hours, often finding one and suggesting the game to them. They could climb upon her and even pull her long shaggy hair or ears without any resistance. When tired of that, she would simply wriggle out from under them and hide under the porch.

And she immediately bonded with my mother, who is somewhat frail, just asking to lay by Mom’s chair, seeking the occasional pat. On the rare occasion when Ms. Reilly needed a dog sitter, she stayed with Mom, guarding her too, giving a poor visiting Public Health Service nurse a near heart attack in the process. “Oh, that Ms. Reilly, she is something,” Mom laughed.

Clara Caufield can be reached at acheyennevoice@gmail.com

Copyright permission Native Sun News Today