Summary: It doesn’t take long for a stray dog to win the Cartwrights’ hearts, and one tough Cartwright in particular.

Rating: G, Word Count: 2420

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One Very Smart Dog

 

“Now Pa, I know you say any animal has to earn its keep, but I couldn’t let him keep draggin’ himself around town. Folks there said he’d been hangin’ around for the last few weeks. What if a wagon came barrelin’ down the road? He couldn’t even get out of the way. He’s been livin’ on people’s scraps and he’s half starved. Look at ‘im. His ribs are stickin’ out.”

I can’t get a word in edgewise. That’s how I know I’m being snowed. Well, maybe not snowed exactly, but unable to raise an objection.

Hoss continues. “Adam had a real good idea. We’re gonna see if we can get him to stand usin’ a harness and that might teach us how to save the calves who are born crippled. Now, we’ll have to keep him inside cuz he can’t protect himself.”

Now, both Adam and Hoss look at me winningly, smiles plastered across their faces. Honestly, my sons, full grown men, are still using the same tactics they did when they were boys. There they both stand by the door grinning like mad men and Hoss is holding some mottled skinny old rust bucket of a dog with back legs that appear to be useless.

“Set him down on the porch,” I tell them.

They do and the strange looking mutt glances upward at me so pitifully that I can’t help but wonder if the best help I could give the poor thing would be to put it down. Possibly it has interpreted my expression correctly, for suddenly, the dog changes its tune and stands at attention. Well, the front legs do anyway. Long skinny front legs. The back legs just flop on the floor behind him. I can’t blame my boys for caring about another creature, especially one that’s hurting.

“It doesn’t set one paw in here until it’s had a bath. And make sure it doesn’t have fleas. That’s all we need.”

There is a previous history involving fleas in this house which I won’t go into at the present time. But, they get my drift. By the time the dog enters the house, it is bathed, has had its nails filed, and it has a name.

I get an update from Adam. “Do you remember Reverend Fulsom telling us about the grandson of King Saul who couldn’t walk? His name was Mephibosheth. We’re gonna call him Sheth for short.”

Only Adam would remember that, but Sheth it is. I must admit that the animal is exceedingly polite. He never once begged for food although Hop Sing served his best pot roast that first night. Perhaps he figured that if he was patient, he would get the left-overs. He was correct in that assumption. I must also admit that he seems to be a well-behaved dog. Hoss carries him outside to take care of business and carries him back in, although there is something about the dog’s demeanor that tells me he would prefer to go on his own power. Once the novelty wears off, I’m sure he’ll have an opportunity to do so.

After a week or so with Sheth, we have developed an evening routine. The family eats dinner, Sheth eats dinner. Sheth is carried outside and back inside. Then, we settle down to read, sing, or play checkers or chess. Each night, Sheth begins by circulating among us, then he singles one of us out and attaches himself. He has tried to warm up to Hop Sing, but the little cook prefers not to have a dog in his immaculate kitchen. I understand so we keep him in the great room. I have become accustomed to his long narrow face worming its way underneath the newspaper onto my lap and the sound of his movements, pad, pad, drag, pad, pad, drag. At night, Sheth sleeps on the hearth while the rest of us go to our beds. I often see a certain longing in his eyes which I construe as a desire to go upstairs with one of us. It tugs at my heart – but only a little.

The next week, Hoss and Adam begin working with a small harness they have rigged up in the barn. We all pretend that this procedure may have some future use for farm animals but the dog seems to simply suffer through it. So far, it appears to have no positive affect which is discouraging to the boys.

“It may take a lot longer than you first thought,” I tell them. “Don’t expect miracles.” One must always encourage one’s children no matter how old they are.

One night I wake up in the wee hours to what sounds like a horse running around the outside of the house. I come downstairs, note the dog sleeping on the hearth, open the front door and listen again. All is still. It must have been a dream. I note that the dog is actually cute when he sleeps. I guess you’d say he is growing on me.

Joe has volunteered to take the dog swimming – to strengthen his legs, he tells us – although I know he thinks the rest of us are lunatics and he simply wants to go swimming himself. Hop Sing also thinks we’re crazy. He shakes his head and mutters intermittently all day long. Still, life proceeds.

Until one Saturday when every Cartwright is busy rounding up calves. There is a church picnic after the service on Sunday and Hop Sing has been kind enough to bake two of his famous apple pies for us to take. He has placed these apple pies on the upper shelf of the stove to cool. Thirty minutes later, only one pie remains. Hop Sing knows immediately who the culprit is and makes certain we know it too. Hoss and Adam laugh.

“Exactly how do you think the dog reached the pie way up there?” Hoss asks.

“He push chair over, then jump up on chair.”

“Even if he managed to push the chair over, how could he jump up into it?” Adam’s dimples are in full relief which means he’s having a difficult time keeping a straight face. “He can only use his front legs.”

“He pull self up.”

“Hop Sing, it seems pretty far-fetched to me too,” I add. “And he still couldn’t reach the shelf even if he could get himself up on the chair. Besides, Sheth’s a good boy.” I lean over and give his head a little pet and chuck him under the chin. He looks up at me with adoring eyes.

“Now, have one pie for church picnic,” Hop Sing loudly reminds us. “I not make more.”

“I guess one of us better make a run into town to the bakery. Any volunteers?”

Three hands go up. In the end, Joe makes the bakery run while the other two put Sheth on the harness for his exercises. One crisis averted.

But, there’s another soon afterward. An old friend from my sailing days, Padraig Reilly, is passing through Virginia City on his way to California and I have invited him and his family for Hop Sing’s legendary lemon rosemary chicken. Paddy and I are in the great room regaling the others with the details of our adventure in Cameroon. My three sons are also busily entertaining his daughters when suddenly, we hear what can only be described as a scream followed by much loud squawking in Cantonese.

Adam high tails it to the rescue.

“What happened?”

Hop Sing waves his arms wildly. “Three chickens on platter. I drop egg on floor, go get more egg. Come back. Two chickens on platter.”

“Hoss,” Adam calls out, “did you steal a chicken?”

Hoss charges into the kitchen. “How come every time food is missin’, I get blamed?”

Hop Sing turns toward him, eyes cold, jaw clenched, raising his wooden spoon.

“I didn’t take any dadburned chicken.”

By this time, Joe and I are also in the kitchen. We all proceed to look around the room for a missing roast chicken, although the idea that a chicken could have hopped off the plate and gone into hiding is preposterous.

“It that dog.”

Hoss is under the work table pulling potatoes out of the bushel baskets, a ridiculous and futile exercise. “Where is Sheth, anyway?” he asks.

“Outside. Keep away from girls in pretty dresses.”

“If Sheth isn’t even in the house, how could he take a chicken?” Adam reasons, combing through the shelves in the pantry.

“He jump through window.”

“He can’t jump, Hop Sing. His back legs are paralyzed. A dog needs at least three legs to jump.” Joe demonstrates around the kitchen.

“OK,” I say, grateful that our guests can’t see us at the moment. “What else do we have that we can serve?”

“Smoked ham left over from last night.”

“All right, let’s get that sliced up. Then tomorrow, I’ll have a talk with the men. This could be someone’s idea of a joke. Not a very good one, but a joke all the same.”

Once our guests leave, we allow Sheth back into the house. Hop Sing narrows his eyes at the hapless animal.

“Hop Sing know you do this,” he says waggling his finger at the dog. “Will figure out how.”

Sheth whimpers for the first time since he came to live with us. I chuckle but if suspicion was water, the first drop would have fallen. Still, I lean over, rub his chest and give him a pat on the head. You could say I’m getting used to him.

We have had no more incidents with food. However, as before, I have been awakened a number of times by what sounds like a horse running around the house. I go downstairs every time, gaze around the room, and check outside. The only thing I ever see is a sleepy dog that lifts his head to look at me as I stroke him. Each time, his head drops back down, all is silent and I decide I must have been dreaming.

“Good night Sheth,” I tell him every trip.

Finally, one morning dawns blessedly cooler than it has been for the last month. It seems like the opportune time to look over new horse flesh. One of the hands is leading out a sensitive foal who isn’t adjusting well to the loss of his mother. He is shaking and has tried to rear up twice; I can see no justification for making him any more nervous than he already is.

“Take him back in. He’s going to need some time,” I tell Harry. “Bring out that new mare.”

As Harry parades the Appaloosa around the corral, a wagon drives into the yard. I’m not expecting anyone and we’re a little too remote for people to just drive by and stop in, so I turn, surprised to see a visitor.

“Excuse me, Sir. Is this the Cartwright place?”

“It certainly is,” I inform him as I walk up to the wagon. “You’re on the Ponderosa, son. I’m Ben Cartwright.”

“My name’s Matthew Ferguson. I understand you might have my dog.”

“We have a dog that was abandoned in Virginia City,” I respond somewhat defensively.

“Not abandoned, sir. Lost. I’ve driven all the way from Temecula, California to try to find him. I’ve had him since he was a puppy and I’m awful attached to him, but the wagon train wouldn’t wait for me on the way west.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s an English dog. My uncle brought him back for me when he came home from a business trip. Long narrow face, skinny body, long skinny legs. They call him a greyhound. Does that sound anything like the dog you found?”

I watch Matthew as he climbs down off the wagon. Self-assured, not a day over twenty five. If he has been caring for this paralyzed dog for its entire life and has driven this far to look for him again, he must be a very special young man indeed. He also must love this dog a great deal. As for myself, I feel a tug in my gut, something akin to mourning. Perhaps it would be better if we had never let Sheth into our hearts, our home. Nevertheless, he is not our dog, however fond of him some of us have grown.

“I believe your dog is in the barn right now. My sons have been putting him through some exercises.”

A puzzled look crosses his face. Then, he puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. A dog barrels out of the barn on four long skinny legs and leaps up on young Matthew. Following closely, falling over each other are Adam and Hoss whose jaws have dropped down to their boots. From somewhere deep inside me comes a big belly laugh.

“Good boy. Where have you been, silly boy? I missed you so much.” Matthew hugs and continues to coo to this dog who remains standing on a very sturdy pair of hind legs with his front paws wrapped around the boy’s shoulders. “Good boy, Shyster.”

“What did you call him?,” I ask.

“Shyster. That’s his name. Like con man, you know? When he was a puppy, he used to pretend that he was crippled so people would give him food scraps. I don’t know where he learned it but he’s so good at it that a circus trainer tried to buy him from me. He’ll do just about anything for food.”

Adam recovers first. “Yes, we heard from people in town he was dragging himself around. We thought he would be better off here.”

Matthew surveys the area with his eyes. “There’s a lot of room to run around here. He loves to run.” He smiles. “I bet you had a good time, didn’t you buddy.”

As the others continue the conversation, I think about how the windows have been kept open to the cool air each night. I consider the sound of a running horse which has wakened me on numerous occasions. The dog I see now, with its paws on Matthew’s shoulders, would have no trouble reaching that apple pie. Or, jumping through the window and grabbing a chicken.

To think that a dog – a dog! – could trick a household of supposedly intelligent men is truly humbling. And yet somehow, I don’t feel completely foolish. There’s a warmth inside of me that wasn’t there before. That took one very smart dog.

 

 

This story was originally written and posted in Bonanza Trail Riders.  Brand is happy to provide this story a new home.