Mom and Pop...

The holidaze again. You are loved and oh, so very, very missed...

Mr. Howell's dog...

Paranormal? I like to think so. True? Most definitely.

                When I was younger, and still living at home, my Pop’s best buddy was Bill Howell. Mr. Howell was an old bachelor. He lived in the same house he was born in. He was somewhat older than Pop. Maybe 10 years. He lived alone, except for his dog; a nondescript mutt of a bit more than medium size. But she was fiercely protective of him. If she didn’t know you, you WEREN’T getting into the house. Period.

                Mr. Howell’s house was situated directly across the street from the graveyard, where his parents were buried. There was an open spot right next to them, where he one day intended to be, himself. He could look out his front door and see their headstones, standing beneath the cool shade of a maple tree.

                One day, we received a phone call. Mr. Howell was ill and needed help.  Pop and I raced over to his house. Pop went inside and made me wait, because I had never met the dog before. She wasn’t good with strangers. In a minute, he called me inside. Mr. Howell was sitting in his chair, the dog laying across him, protectively. He was stroking her fur. We called the ambulance. They arrive quickly, and Pop held onto the dog, as they loaded her Master up and took him away.

                Mr. Howell it turned out, had advanced stomach cancer. He wouldn’t be coming home. Pop made arrangements for the neighbor to take the dog. He wanted to bring her home, but he was scared because she was not used to multiple people. The poor animal never saw her Master alive again. Mr. Howell passed away in the hospital a few weeks later.

                It was summertime, when they buried him across the street from his family home, next to the graves of his parents.  We went to the funeral and to the graveyard for the burial. Pop was sad. He had known Mr. Howell for many, many years. They worked together at Sheildalloy Metallurgy.  We stopped at the neighbors house, and Pop checked on the dog, and gave the man his phone number, in case there were any problems.  A very few days later, Pop got a phone call.

                “Mr. Hall, you better come over here.”

                “Why? What happened?”

                “There’s something you need to see. I’m not sure what to do about it…”

                We went over to the neighbor’s house. He was waiting outside for us when we got there.

                “Where is she? What did she do?” Pop asked, noting the paleness of the neighbor’s face.

                “Come on.” So saying, he walked down his driveway and crossed the street, into the graveyard.

                He stopped and pointed beneath the spreading maple tree. There she was. Laying atop the freshly turned dirt of her Master’s grave.

                “What should I do?” the neighbor asked quietly.

                Pop stood there, tearing up. 

                “Leave her be. Bring her home at night to sleep. But if she wants to come here and be with him during the day, just let her be. If the caretaker has an issue, have him call me. I’ll take care of it.”

                That was the way it went. As far as I know, Mr. Howell’s dog spent the rest of her days, laying faithfully on her Master’s grave. 

                Anyone who says animals can’t love, has no soul themselves. 

My Pop, WWII and his love of animals...

During WWII, my father was stationed in the European Theater of operations. He was a member of an Anti-Aircraft unit. That didn't mean they saw no ground fighting.

He told us this story; One night, he was in a foxhole, waiting out the shelling from the Germans nearby. Over the sounds of shells hitting and bullets whizzing, my father heard a dog, crying piteously, somewhere in no-man's-land, between his foxhole, and the German lines. Disregarding his fellow soldiers telling him he was an idiot, Pop crawled on his belly, out into the warzone, trying to follow the sound of the dog. He found the animal, after searching for a period of time. It was (of course) a German Shepard. NOT an American style Shepard. THIS, was a Nazi Police dog, that had become separated from it's handler. It was huge. Pop crawled up to the terrified dog and spoke to it in German. He got ahold of it's collar and leading the dog, crawled, back to his foxhole.

That was that. Pop had a dog. It went with him everywhere; on patrol, to the mess tent, to the latrine. Pop saved him and he KNEW it, and showed his devotion accordingly. Unfortunately, the dog only knew German. The Captain of Pop's unit confirmed by the animal's tags, that it was indeed a Nazi Service Dog. My Pop was the only one who could communicate with the animal. Which lead to some disturbing situations with his buddies in the unit. It was not uncommon for them to not be able to get back into the foxhole, or tent, or bombed out farmhouse they were staying in, unless my father called off the dog. lol.

Pop fully intended to bring this massive animal home with him. He had already informed Mom and his own family. The Captain of the unit was going to assist him with the paperwork.

One day, Pop can back from an errand, and the dog was gone. No one knew anything. Pop knew one of them had killed his pet. He never did find out who. My father would tear up when he told this story. It took a lot to move my father in such a manner. I know he loved that dog.