My Cousin Mutt
Written by the Q.O.E.
August 27, 2016
The first dog I loved, was, by coincidence, one of the great dogs of the western world. Mutt was a typical yellow guy of indeterminate parentage, short-haired and on the lean, lanky side, his name being indicative of some of that. He climbed onto an Army Jeep in Truro, Nova Scotia, sometime in the latter days of World War II. The soldiers may have befriended him in town and coaxed him to come along….or, Mutt may simply have had his own agenda.
The soldiers stopped at my Grandfather’s farm, allegedly to ask for a drink of water, but likely knowing the hospitality of the place would produce more. They were fed, watered and probably offered a bed for the night, if so inclined. Whenever it was that they were ready to leave, they assumed their new friend would climb aboard. No amount of calling, clapping or whistling achieved this, however. The dog-who-was-to-be-Mutt decided that Mount Thom was his destination, planted himself firmly and there remained for the rest of his days.
Whenever I think of Mutt getting on in Truro or off at Mount Thom, I picture him with a little backpack or a stick with his skivvies tied up in a bandana over one shoulder. The reality is that he arrived with no baggage. Also, no name. In a burst of creativity, someone dubbed him “Mutt,” and Mutt he remained. I suppose he became “Cousin Mutt” in my mind simply because he seemed to be the “child” of my Aunt and Uncle, both single people, who had remained at home to keep the farm and care for their aging Father.
Soon, Grampy MacAulay, Aunt Nettie and Uncle Russell discovered that Mutt was worthy of his keep. He could herd cows and horses, could hunt down and dispose of small vermin, was an excellent watch dog, yet was friendly to all humans. He was useful. He could also be asked to hold a tasty chunk of food on the end of his snout, staring at it through slightly crossed eyes, until told he could have it……at which point, he would bounce it upward and snap it into his mouth on the way down. Mutt was an entertainer and appreciated an audience, too.
One of my favorite memories involves going up to the old place to fetch the cows with Mutt and my cousin Hetty. We were not very old, somewhere in the 6 to 8 year range. We were told that all we had to do was to open the fence rails so the cattle could come out, and then replace them once they were. Mutt would do the rest. Hetty knew the way, so off we went, across the road (Mutt would stop us, if he heard a car coming - in those days there were so few cars that you could hear one coming for miles), up the rutted farm road to a pasture on the old place that had been our great grandparent’s first home.
Mutt bounced along, sniffing stuff here and there, but once the cows were in view, he became the consummate professional. Hetty and I hauled the rails aside, and I saw my beloved Cousin Mutt morph into a slathering beast that sought and was given total obedience. He tore into the pasture, woofing and snapping at cow-ankles, until upwards of twenty-five cows were pouring out. He paused them and himself as we put the rails back in place, then off we went. On the way up, we were sort of in charge, but on the way back, he was.
At the road, he stopped cattle and us while he cocked his head to listen carefully. He had background noise to contend with now with the mooing and hoof-steps and such. Sure nothing was coming, we crossed the road and went up a path known to Mutt and the cows, but never used by me. Thence into the barn yard, and then the barn, where each cow was ushered into its proper spot, and Uncle was waiting to just clamp the stanchions into place and begin milking. All this was interrupted by the occasional cow deciding she wanted to see what was over there…whereupon Mutt launched into full snarl to make it clear that she didn’t.
He had one little oddity. Mutt liked company, but hated to be crowded. Each newcomer was, at some point, urged to “sit closer.” Mutt would just edge away the first time and the second. But come the third or fourth time, he would fly into the air, roaring, teeth bared and scare the person to death. Of course, the MacAulays split themselves laughing every time. And, Mutt never laid a tooth or a claw on anyone. But, it sure taught us to respect him….and to understand why the cows did.
What a dog!
