Track: The Dog Who Listened
I stepped out the back door and plopped down on the top step. Our back stoop had just three concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk, which ran along the rear of the house to the gate.
There, my faithful, hairy companion Track arrived and rested his head in my lap. He was a cross between a beagle and a peekapoo and looked like the movie dog Benji, but with darker hair.
As a child, I was allergic to animals, so I wasn’t always the loving master Track deserved. My father made up for my shortcomings, I think. Still, there were many times when my childhood world seemed to be crashing down around me, and Track would lay his head in my lap for a heart-to-heart.
I often paint with the brush of idealism when I write—because we all prefer the polished version of the past. But there were times when the gleam didn’t reflect well on us.
Life isn’t easy, and the daily grind can wear us down. Parents sometimes share intense “fellowship” with each other. Sometime kids push the envelope saying or doing things they should not. In my experience, though, that rarely ended well for the child. A meeting of the minds often came with the crisp whir of my father’s belt slipping through its loops—a sound every kid recognized as the line being crossed. We’d bolt for cover: the bedroom, the den, or—on occasion—behind my mother’s kitchen chair. Sometimes she’d come to our defense, but mostly the two tall grown-ups were united on discipline. For me, the licking wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was transitory. The lesson lingers decades later.
When the stress peaked—whether from my parents’ arguments, my own misbehavior, or a friend’s betrayal—Track was always there. His brown eyes gazed up into mine, listening to my complaints as tears ran down my cheeks.
He listened. He consoled. In some way, I know he understood my hurt. Compassion knows no bounds between humans and our furry friends. For me, Track was a constant. Our playtime was limited, but he entertained himself with fierce intensity in his enclosed backyard domain. He’d bark insistently at any passersby who dared approach the fence, claiming his territory. The garbage men endured it every Tuesday as they grabbed our two metal cans, hauled them to the truck, dumped them, and returned them. Service was personal back then. Track would bark at our cans, follow them to the truck, then race to the neighbor’s in-ground can to bark some more. I assume he relished the weekly ritual.
For all his bravado, Track wouldn’t hurt a fly or snap at a person. I recall one adventure when we harnessed him and the neighborhood dogs to wagons with wheels and raced them down the street. Oscar, a huge dog, always won—and if he broke free, we’d chase him endlessly. Track excelled at pursuit, shooting down the block like a bullet from a gun. I’d usually find him at Oscar’s fence, the two running back and forth, one on each side. He did the same with Herman, the elderly next-door dog who preferred not to run.
Except for a few months while I earned my animal husbandry merit badge, Track led a solitary life, broken only by brief visits from neighbor dogs. During that time, we brought home Lassie from Raymond, the janitor at my elementary school. She and Track had seven puppies, which we placed with families—including some back with Raymond, who hunted with them. Lassie eventually went to another home, too.
Track was my confessor, my friend, and my steadfast companion through childhood.
When he passed, I built him a small coffin and laid him to rest between a peach tree and a crab apple tree—his favorite spot. It was a sad day for my dad and me as we said goodbye. I haven’t had a pet since, and I don’t plan to.
