Fond memories of a meager mutt and his big moment

A mutt by every definition, Indiana Jones lived the first few weeks of his life under a tree stump somewhere along a dusty road that led to the dog pound. Some benevolent passerby transported him along with a litter of siblings the rest of the way to the shelter, just in time to be scooped up by a young couple looking for a companion for their aging Labrador Retriever.

The theory was the elder dog would experience a resurgence of youth when faced with the endless energy and boundless enthusiasm of the puppy. And while the best-laid plans of optimistic young newlyweds do sometimes spiral wildly awry, the relationship of Indy and Rex panned out exactly as we had hoped.

Rex was my boyhood dog. I’d begged and pleaded for a companion that could join me in my frequent forays across field and farm in quest of anything that might fall to a well-placed shotgun blast or small bore rifle round. When my wish was finally granted, I made good on the promise to take that dog everywhere with me — including, years later, to the home I shared with my new wife.

Kristin had brought her own childhood companion to the marital home, a 10-year-old parakeet named Dr. Zachary Smith. In a big house filled with the empty rooms of our future children, it seemed only appropriate to refine our skills by embracing the art of shared parenting. We picked up a sickly stray kitten we found wandering along High Street, nursed him back to health and named him Ed. In short order Rex, Zach and Ed were an inseparable trio. Still, there seemed to be something missing. Rex needed a buddy to keep him occupied while Kristin and I spent long days at work. Enter Indy.

Once grown at roughly the size of a Cocker Spaniel, Indy had the coat of a Bernese Mountain Dog, the drive of a blue heeler and the nose of a well-bred beagle. His list of skills included sitting, laying, rolling over and crawling, the latter of which was always a big crowd pleaser. He did these things because Rex could do them, but his “little brother” drive didn’t stop at parlor tricks.

Rex’s truest claim to fame was earned amid the cattails and button bush thicket of the duck swamp. There he lived his best life as a finder and bringer of all feathered things that had fallen. Each retrieve would end with the lavishing of great praise and adoration. Such was the life of a working dog of the sporting breeds.

During the summertime and all throughout the heady run-up toward October’s big opening day, Indy would drill right alongside the veteran retriever. Tennis balls were batted to the waves, duck-scented dummies chucked far afield and carefully preserved wings from last year’s hunt were hidden amid the standing corn, awaiting the order of “hunt ‘em dead.” Indy did all that Rex could do, and in a belly-to-the-ground style that drew adoring chuckles alongside glowing praise. Yet for all his youthful enthusiasm and willingness to achieve, Indy was stuck in the bridesmaid role when it came to duck season.

In one of duck hunting’s myriad unwritten rules, the old timer runs until he chooses to run no more. Rex had irrevocable dibs on riding shotgun in the duck boat, but just as the saying goes, “Every dog has his day.” Next week you’ll learn about Indy’s!

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John atjlorson@alonovus.com.