MY DOG AND TREASURE, HEATHER MARY OF SHERMAN, TEXAS

 

   When I think of the significant family members growing up in Sherman,  I am always think about our Scotty dog, Heather Mary.  She was a constant source of affection, joy and protection in my childhood.

   

Heather Mary came to us once after my mother took debris to the Sherman, Texas, garbage dump.   Heather was a spry, fully grown Scotty dog, already a bit hefty and stinky.   She joyfully ran to my mother, wanted her tummy scratched and insisted on getting in the car when mother was ready to leave.  She had no tags and we felt she must have been abused because she was so grateful for any food and affection. 

   

Heather Mary moved in and lived with us for the next 18 years.  Heather was protective of we three boys, accompanied us as we delivered papers,  went to cub scouts or played in the school yard.   If we  wrestled with friends or played football, we had to put Heather Mary inside because she would race to our protection and nip our opponents.  If my parents were going to spank us, they had to put Heather Mary in another room because she would intercede on our behalf and bite them when they struck us.  

  

It became so common to see Heather with our family, people would greet her, along with everyone else.  “Good morning, Heather Mary…how are you today?”  She would walk with her boys to the convenience store or ice cream shop, wait by the door or sometimes come inside to the air conditioning.  Mr. Ashburn of Ashburn’s Ice Cream shop became so used to seeing her, he gave her a cup of her own ice cream for free when we would stop by.   

Heather Mary often saved me from a dreaded daily ritual I went through with my father.   My dad had decided we were not getting a good breakfast from my mother and made a big deal of preparing the morning meal himself.  It was awful…the man could not cook.   He would burn about a pound of bacon and in the grease, quickly “fry” about a dozen eggs.    These eggs were still very runny, with the yellow goop cascading around your plate if touched by a fork.  I would see them quickly cooking in all that grease and get nauseated.   He would top this gastronomic cruelty off with biscuits made with WAY too much baking powder and as hard as rocks.  

   

Then the torture would begin. I had to eat this before I was allowed to go to school.  I gagged, choked and attempted to wash it down with milk, but it was impossible.  If I could get my father to turn his back for a split second, I could lower my plate to Heather Mary who was only to happy to polish off the eggs and burned bacon…but even she could not eat the biscuits.  My brothers and I resorted to usually throwing these out the window of our little “breakfast nook”.   We would later retrieve these and offer them to the street department for filling pot holes.

   

Heather also came through when my mother made a “casserole” and I could get my parents to turn their back for a moment.  As back up, I discovered you can eat anything, if you can roll it in a flour tortilla and pour enough Tabasco sauce on it.

Heather Mary was deathly afraid of thunderstorms.   If it started to thunder she would cry, whine and moan, find a family member and curl up at their feet.  We would often hold her as she trembled and wept.  If no one was home, she would walk the approximate 1/2 mile in the rain and storm to my mothers office at the local newspaper, The Sherman Democrat, and wait by the front door.  As Heather was well known, someone would let her in and she would go to my mother’s desk and sit beneath it to wait out the storm…all wet dog stinky and trembling. 

If the storm occurred at night it was worse.  She would come into someone’s room, heft her little chubby body up so her two front feet were on the mattress and begin pushing, while whining and moaning.  She clearly felt we did not realize we were in danger and we needed to make it stop!  We had to put her out in the hall and close the door, but she would walk up and down panting, slobbering and crying.   If you had to get up, the floor was so wet from her drool you slipped in the darkness and crashed to the floor.   No one slept when there was a storm on her watch.

Another downside to her residency was her need to relieve herself.  When we would let her out, she would conduct her morning constitutional and leave a deposit in the midst of the Bermuda grass in the front or back yard.  My brothers and I were charged with retrieving these artifacts, but generally ignored the order.  This came back to haunt me one Saturday while mowing the grass and the blade hit one of Heather Mary’s sunbaked, hard as a rock “souvenirs”.  It went flying into space and crashed thru the neighbor’s window.  I was immediately confronted by my father and the neighbor, who thought it was a rock, only to find Heather’s petrified dog poop beneath his dining room table.  The order to pick up after her was reinstated and my parents became more vigilant to keep it enforced.

As she got older Heather’s “saddle started to slip”, she became senile and disoriented.  I was living at home while attending college and would usually get home after everyone else was in bed.  We went through an evening ritual…I would let her out, stand in the front yard with her as she relieved herself and bring her back inside.  I had to lift her up to carry her up the stairs, she would forget who I was and bite me...every night. 

     

I left home after graduation and Heather Mary had to be put down shortly thereafter.  We all wept.  She was a delightful, treasured family member and everything a dog should be.