Introducing: Vie and Betty by GJ

Two more writers from my early 1980's "collection, Violet Champion Perry and Betty Neal.

First, Vie's "Our Dog Ring," 1983.

In addition to our large family of nine kids growing up in Loretto, Michigan, there was an adorable puppy. He came to us quite by accident. His owner had been annoyed with him because he cried a lot, and in a fit of temper kicked him in the face, injuring him severely. My father was not one to interfere with the behavior of his neighbors if it didn't concern him, but he loved dogs. He felt obligated to investigate when he heard the puppy was being abused. He found the fluffy ball of fur crying with pain and brought it home.

In time the injuries healed, but one side of the! dog's face remained permanently misshapen, giving him a very odd expression, part of an exaggerated grin. A funny looking dog to some people, but we loved him dearly.

We called him "Ring" because he had a black ring of fur around one eye. He was a big dog, gold and white, with a dab of black here and there. Ring went everywhere with the boys, ­swimming in the river, picking berries out of the hardwood, or playing ball. Ring was always one of the group. We would fashion a harness for him out of any available material and hitch him to a sled or wagon to give us rides.

Ring was so good natuied that he was not a dependable watchdog, as we once found out. Our house had a porch across the front and my parents' bedroom window faced theporch. One night, very late, when my father was away, my mother heard a male voice outside the window. She peaked through the curtain and was startled to see a man sitting on the stair of the porch with his arm around Ring, placidly lying beside him. They were having a one-way conversation. Mother went upstairs to call my brother Herb to come down and see what it was all about. Between hiccups, the man was able to convey that he was lost, inebriated and needed a guide. Herb walked him down the street and turned him in the direction he needed to go.

As Ring grew older he developed arthritis and it became very difficult for him to get up when he was down, or get down when he was up. He was a 14-year-old senior citizen. He would lay his head in my mother's lap and whine, and with pleading eyes, beg for help.

One day she said, "This can't go on. Something has to be done about this dog."We all knew what that "something" was. There were no veterinarians anywhere around, not even a doctor. The only way to dispose of -old dogs was to shoot them.

But who was going to shoot Ring? Not Herb, Ernie, Cecil or Gar. Fred offered, reluctantly. He borrowed a gun from some­one, tied a rope to Ring's collar and slowly went up the hill to a wooded area on theoutskirts of town. We waited anxiously forFred to return. It took a long, long time, but he finally returned -- with Ring, very much alive, in tow.




FROM MY DIARY...JANUARY 2, 1983 by Betty Neal

My thought for today is a look to way back when January 2nd was Mother's birth­day as well as tree-taking-down day. We always carefully wrapped the candle holders, packed them in boxes marked "Christmas ornaments," and Mother stored them on a closet shelf. (The strings of popcorn and cranberries, we left for the birds.)

Dad then brought an old sheet and care­fully placed the tree on it. The idea was to get out of the house without leaving a trail of needles. For some reason no matter how careful he was, there were always needles all over. The exit of the tree was followed by much sweeping and dusting and re-arranging of furniture. When all was neat again, we celebrated Mother's birthday.

The gifts we gave her were small things since she'd received big ones for Christmas. It was such a happy feeling to be told, "This is just what I needed and hoped I'd get," when a package with a five cent tablet in it was opened with much joy.