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Books About Life on a Farm Written Especially for People Who Like to Read! "Highly recommended reading." The Midwest Book Review Reviews & Readers' Comments |
LeAnn R. Ralph Rural Route 2 Author E6689 970th Ave. Colfax, WI 54730 (715) 308-6336 |
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by LeAnn R. Ralph When I was a very little girl, before I started kindergarten, we had an old tabby barn cat who was one of my favorite playmates. I didn't have any other children who lived close by to play with so the cat helped fill some of my play time. The tabby, who answered to the name of Momma Kitty, had been around for as long as I could remember. She was very patient, letting me carry her everywhere draped limply over my arm, as I meandered from barn to house to machine shed to garden, either looking for my father or searching for some activity with which to occupy myself. And if I wasn't carrying her, Momma Kitty would follow me. It seemed that simply being wherever I was made the cat happy because she was always purring. Momma Kitty produced many litters of kittens, too. Even though she hid her kittens well in the hay mow, she didn't mind if Dad and I followed her so we could find her babies when she went to feed them. Although Dad was always busy, he took the time to find kittens hidden in the mow because if they weren't found when young, they'd grow up to be wild. Dad preferred tame farm cats. Sometimes when he was milking if he had a few spare moments, he'd pick up the nearest cat, stroke it's fur and talk to it. Seeing as I had early tutelage in the benefits of tame cats, playing with Momma Kitty's babies became a favorite pastime, too, once I grew old enough to climb the hay mow ladder by myself. Quite often when I visited Momma Kitty and her babies, she'd sit on a nearby haybale, watching the kittens and I play, purring and kneading the hay with her front paws. Yes, Momma Kitty was a wonderful friend, and I loved her dearly. One summer day, the year after I started kindergarten, Momma Kitty died while trying to give birth to another litter of kittens. I was devastated. Inconsolable. At six years old, it was my first experience with the death of a loved one. Mom tried to explain that Momma Kitty was too old and too tired to have another batch of kittens. She tried to make me understand that death is a part of life. But I still missed my Momma Kitty. Everyone in the family knew how upset I was about the cat, and they all tried to make me feel better. Nothing helped ease my grief. About a week after Momma Kitty died, my mother happened to see an ad in the local newspaper for puppies to give away. Thinking this would help take my mind off losing the cat, Mom asked if I would like to have a puppy. "But I want Momma Kitty!" I said stubbornly. "I know, Sweetheart," Mom replied. "Momma Kitty is gone, though, and we can't bring her back." I thought about the puppy for a bit. I'd never had a dog before. True, the puppy wouldn't be Momma Kitty, but it would be another playmate, and I missed having the cat to play with. The next day, Ingman, Mom, and I drove to town to see the puppies. They were Spitz/Cocker Spaniel mixes, about four weeks old, rolly-polly white bundles with black noses that looked like jelly beans, all cuddled up together in a wicker basket. The woman who owned the puppies brought the basket out to the lawn. We examined the puppies one by one, setting them down so they could run and play, although they were still pretty wobbly on their little puppy legs. Trying to decide which one I wanted was a terrible ordeal. Truth to be told, I'd have taken them all home without the slightest urging. Finally, with the help of my brother, I picked out a pup. We thanked the woman, and then we climbed into the car. The pup didn't weigh much, but I loved the feel of his warm, soft, white body against my bare arms. Once we got into the car, though, the puppy realized this was a different sort of game all together. He'd never been in a car before, and he'd never been anywhere without his brothers and sisters. When Ingman started the car, the pup began to shake, shiver and pant. The tip of his pink tongue quivered beneath the black nose. His round brown eyes were wide with terror. He began to wriggle frantically in my arms, trying to get away. Finally I couldn't hold onto him any longer, and the pup fell to the floor behind the driver's seat. He lay there for a moment as if stunned, and then he crawled under the seat. I began to cry. "Sh-sh. Don't cry," Mom said from the front seat. "It's okay," Ingman added. "He'll be okay under the seat. I'll get him out when we're home." "Are you sure he'll be okay," I said in a quivery voice. "I'm sure," Ingman said patiently as he maneuvered the car onto the highway. "He can't get out of the car, after all." For the rest of the six miles to our farm, I watched anxiously to see if my puppy would emerge from under the seat so I could grab him. I didn't even see so much as the tip of his nose or a single white hair, in spite of my vigilance. When we arrived at the farm, Ingman fished around under the seat, got hold of the pup and dragged him - whining and crying - from his hiding spot. It didn't take the puppy long to realize, though, he was out of that terrible, noisy, moving monster - and then he was a happy pup again. I remember the rest of that afternoon with my very own puppy so clearly. We played in the grass together. I stroked his fur over and over, delighted by the silky-smooth softness of it. I lifted his tiny ears with one forefinger, fascinated by the wavy hair covering them. I giggled when he romped around my feet, which caused his ears to flop up and down. I laughed when he crouched on his front paws, growled and then pounced on the toe of my sneaker. I picked up him frequently and held him to my face so I could savor the smell of his puppy fur. I quickly concluded Mom had been right. Owning a puppy was wonderful. And I'd have the whole rest of the summer to play with him, too, until school started. My delighted ownership of the dog was short lived, however. I claimed the puppy as my own for only one whole afternoon. Then Dad came home while the puppy and I were playing on the house steps. "Well," Dad said, looking down at us, "and who is this?" "It's my new puppy, Dad," I said. At that moment, the pup crouched, growled and pounced on my finger. I pulled my hand away from the playful pup and picked him up. 'Isn't he cute, Dad?" I asked. Dad stood there for a moment, looking down at us, one hand on the porch railing and one foot on the lowest step. I thought it looked like there was something wrong with his face. His lips were twitching, as if a fly had landed on his cheek, but I couldn't see any flies or other insects flitting around him. Then Dad reached down and patted the pup. "He's a cute one all right," Dad said, fondling the tiny, soft ears. The puppy, who had been struggling to get down, grew still when Dad petted him. And that was it. I don't know how it happened, but in that instant - my puppy became Dad's dog. I don't think Dad knew how it happened, either. He didn't intend to make the puppy his dog. But from that moment forward, the pup considered himself Dad's dog. Not that the pup wasn't a family dog because he was. He liked everybody in the family. And he continued to be my playmate. But he adored my dad. No matter what the pup was doing, whenever Dad talked to him, he'd wriggle over to my father for attention. Still, in theory anyway, the pup was mine, and I couldn't decide what to name him. For several days, the puppy remained nameless - until my sister, Loretta, who is 19 years older than me, went outside to hang clothes on the clothesline early one evening. She was wearing shorts. The puppy insisted on helping. He followed along behind her as she hung up the wet clothes, nipping at her bare calves and ankles with his sharp little puppy teeth. "Get those needles out of here!" she exclaimed, rubbing the spots on her legs where the puppy's teeth had nipped her flesh. I had been watching the puppy's antics with great glee. But now I was struck by an idea. "Hey," I said. "We can call him Needles!" "Needles," my sister murmured comtemplatively, gazing at the white ball of fur that was watching her every move with impish intensity. "Yes, I guess we could call him that." The name stuck, and we did indeed call him Needles. That first summer, when Needles was still a pup, we'd go to the feed mill with Dad sometimes. Grinding feed was a grand adventure in it's own right, of course. Climbing into our old farm truck, which always was redolent with it's own peculiar odor of ground cow feed, oil and gasoline. Finding just the right place to sit so I wouldn't be poked by the springs pushing their way out through cracks in the upholstery. Reveling in the gritty feel of the truck because the dashboard and seat were always coated with a fine layer of feed dust from the truck's many hours of sitting at the feedmill, waiting to be unloaded or loaded. Needles, even though he was just a puppy, seemed to realize it was an adventure, too. His first ride in a motor vehicle had been a terrifying experience, but it apparently had not been traumatic enough to result in a life-long fear of riding in vehicles. He'd either lay on the seat in between Dad and I, or he'd sit on my lap, looking out the window at the strange, delightful world rolling by. I didn't have a leash for the dog, so I'd tie a length of twine string to his collar. On a farm, twine strings are an abundant commodity. Every time a single bale of hay was fed out, there'd be two more twine strings to add to the barrel sitting in the barn. And every day, many bales of hay were fed out. Clutching the twine string tightly so my puppy wouldn't get away from me and run into the street, Needles and I happily trailed around behind Dad while he conducted his business at the mill. None of the mill workers seemed to mind when I brought the pup into the office or the mill itself. In fact many of them - big, strong men whose clothes were coated with yellow feed dust - often stooped and patted Needles on the head, saying a kind word or two to me and my dog. If the mill was very busy, and Dad knew he might have to wait an hour or two for his feed to be ground and the bags to be loaded back onto the truck, he'd suggest going to the restaurant downtown for a hamburger or a piece of pie. I was old enough to know I couldn't bring my puppy into the restaurant, so when Dad suggested we leave Needles in the truck, I was confident he'd be safe there. Dad always took the precaution, though, of telling the mill workers we were putting the puppy into the truck and to ask if they'd make sure he didn't get out when they moved the truck to load our feed. Whichever mill work Dad talked to always agreed and said he'd tell the others, too. It wasn't long, however, before Needles decided it was his job to guard the pickup truck while it was at the feedmill. After our first trip to the restaurant when Needles was left in the truck, one of the mill workers reported that the little cream colored puppy had growled at him when he opened the door so he could move the truck. The man laughed and shrugged and said he hadn't felt terribly threatened, seeing as Needles wasn't much larger than a cat. As the Needles grew bigger, however, the mill workers didn't find his growling quite so charming anymore. Even when he was full grown, Needles only weighed about 30 pounds, but the mill workers thought the low growling coming from deep within his throat and the bared, white teeth contained a strong warning. And soon, they began to complain about the growling pup. Dad decided then it was better for all concerned if Needles stayed home. But even though Needles couldn't protect our pickup anymore when it was at the feed mill, that didn't lessen his attachment to it. No matter where the truck was parked at the farm, if the window was rolled down, the dog would get up on the hood, inch his way around the mirror, and then curl up on the seat. Or - if the window was closed - Needles would sleep on the truck. Not in the back. Not on the hood. He'd crawl on top of the cab. My dad used to say Needles was worse than a goat for climbing around on vehicles. "The only difference," Dad maintained, "is Needles doesn't eat the upholstery." No, Needles never chewed on the upholstery. Besides Dad, our pickup truck was his best friend, and Needles never chewed on Dad, either. |
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