A Crime of Passion

January 14, 2021

It has been said that a person doesn’t really die until their name has been spoken for the last time. I wonder… does that also apply to dogs? Because, if it does, then an ebullient mutt of questionable lineage, with the unlikely name of “Bouncer”, still endures among us.

I would have been about seven, or perhaps eight, when after much pleading from us children, our parents decided it was time to get a dog. The farmyard had been canine free for a number of years with the previous demise of Sport when I was about three years old. We heard of a family near Alix that had a litter of pups to give away and one Sunday afternoon a visit was arranged. Upon arriving we were informed that there was only one pup left as all the others had been taken. That should have been a warning bell, however, we impressed upon our parents that this last pup would be the perfect pooch. He even came with a name: “Bouncer”. 

We were delighted with our new friend. The name “Bouncer” suited him perfectly, for this dog was filled with boundless energy and enthusiasm. His brown coat mixed with black didn’t disclose much about his breeding; however the long floppy ears and curled tail revealed that there must be some beagle in his ancestry. This was another plus, for beagles were popular in the sixties, thanks to the fame of Charlie Brown and his trusty pal, Snoopy.

Without getting too political, it could be said that Bouncer was like the Donald Trump of dogs. You see, when it came to sentiments about him, there was no middle ground. We kids thought he was great. He was full of fun and was playful. He loved to fetch a stick that was thrown for him and when he ran his tail moved in a circular motion that resembled a propeller spinning on his rear end. 

On the other hand, our parents weren’t quite as enthusiastic. Bouncer had an annoying habit of chewing on anything and everything, including extension cords, much to the frustration of Dad. And then there was the time that we returned home to find that Bouncer had whiled away the afternoon by dispersing nails all over the driveway as he toyed with a bag of them that he had found in the garage.

Normally Mom was warm hearted towards the animals in her life. However, with Bouncer things got off to a rocky start, when she accidentally backed the farm truck up and somehow trapped Bouncer’s front legs under the rear wheels. Hearing howls of pain she immediately stopped, not realizing that he was still under the wheels. When she finally moved the truck, Bouncer limped off, wounded in pride and paw, to spend several days under the chicken house, plotting his revenge.

Things went from bad to worse as Bouncer exacted his price for the truck incident. Whether by careful observation, or my mere accident, he found his way to settle the score. In those days, Mom prided herself on the flower beds around the house. And Bouncer prided himself on digging holes in those same beds.

 I was probably too young to realize the anger and frustration caused by Bouncer’s frequent excavations; however my naivety was demolished when things escalated suddenly. I don’t remember when, however it was the day that Dad bought a new air compressor. I got home from school and after a quick snack went out to the garage to help Dad where I was excited to help assemble the new tool. As we worked I noticed that Bouncer was conspicuous by his absence. “Where’s Bouncer?” I asked Dad. I was stunned by his reply. “Mom shot him! But she feels bad so don’t talk about it!”

Mom shot him? My mind reeled. We were not the type of family that had much use for guns, although, like most farms, there was a 22 calibre rifle on hand for emergencies. I was shocked that not only did Mom know where it was kept, but also that she knew how to use it.

I don’t remember much about supper that evening; however I do clearly recall that any reference to “Bouncer” did not come up in conversation. In fact, Bouncer’s name was not mentioned for many years after that. Although he faded from conversation, his legend loomed large. Not only that, but I think this must have been the beginning of my realization that there was more to my mother than I had previously understood. Many years later when we were finally able to talk about it, she explained that as a young girl, her father had taught her and her sisters the basics of handling a firearm just to be ready for unforeseen circumstances. I’m guessing he didn’t foresee this particular circumstance!

There are more stories to be told of my Mom and the dogs in her life and fortunately they all had happy endings. In her later years, she and Dad would take care of our little dog, “Digger”, when we were on vacation. It should be noted here that Digger had issues of his own. But on picking him up, after his first extended stay, we learned that they had made fast friends with Digger. Every night before bed he was treated to a sandwich, made with real butter. And unlike his normal sleeping arrangements at home in the kitchen, Digger got to sleep on their bed, eventually moving up to a place on the pillows between them! I often wonder… was she trying to make up for some transgression in the past? We’ll never know for sure.

And how did I react to the loss of my pal Bouncer? I guess you might say I “bounced” back pretty quick as I was pretty excited about that new air compressor!