The Dog With the Old Soul (7 page)

Elaine Ambrose

By the summer of my twelfth year,
my parents had already decided that I was a problem child. There had been too many calls to the school principal’s office to discuss my noisy and disruptive behavior in class. (Obviously, they failed to appreciate my spirited, creative nature.) And my teachers had complained that I daydreamed too much. (Couldn’t anyone recognize a potential writer here?) And my parents were weary of my fights with my brothers, noting that the boys never questioned the rigid rules of our home. (My brothers later suffered from painful ulcers and other health ailments; however, I did not.)

I grew up on an isolated potato farm near Wendell, Idaho, a nearsighted, left-handed, goofy girl with wrinkly hair and absolutely no ability to conform. Outside of farm chores, the only activity for youth in the farming community of one thousand was a program called 4-H. Desperately hoping it would
help me focus, my mother enrolled me in a 4-H cooking class, with the admonition that I behave and not embarrass her. I failed both assignments. When it came my turn to do the demonstration in front of the group, I dropped a dead mouse into the cake batter because I thought it was a brilliant way to spice up the boring meetings. But the leader, one of the town’s most prominent women, thought otherwise, and she called my mother and told her I was never welcome in her home again. My mother is still mad at me more than forty years later for the public humiliation.

My great escape from the chores and challenges of life on the farm was to ride my horse, Star. As we galloped through the forty-acre pastures, I hollered with delight when she jumped the ditches and raced to the far end of the field. Sometimes I would lean over, lace my fingers through her long white mane and push my boots against her flanks until she ran full speed, ears back, nostrils flared, with a force of freedom that no bridle could control. When she finally stopped at the top of a hill, her sides were heaving and covered with sweat. Her entire body shivered as she calmed down, and I would jump off and loosen the cinch on the saddle. For me, the exhilaration was worth the fear of falling.

Star was a big white horse, over fourteen hands high (almost fifty-eight inches from the ground), and had been trained as a prizewinning barrel racer. My father had acquired the horse from a man who owed him money, and the horse was all he had to give. At ten years old, she was past her prime for the rodeo, but I didn’t care. She was my passport to liberty, and I loved her.

During the summer of 1964, I worked in the fields during the morning and rode my horse every afternoon. I knew how to catch her in the pasture, bring her to the barn and put on her bridle and saddle. I would be gone all day, and no one ever checked on me. Probably, they were just as eager to have me out of the house as I was to leave. After every ride I brushed Star’s hide and fed her oats. Sometimes I brought her an apple or some sugar cubes. My brothers referred to her as an old gray mare, but to me, she was a gorgeous white horse who could run like the wind. And she was my best friend.

One day I learned about a 4-H club for horses. It took expert negotiation skills and outright begging to convince my parents to let me join. “No more dead mice!” I assured them. With the help of the club, I learned how to ride my horse as she raced around three barrels set in a dirt arena. She knew what to do, and all I did was hang on for dear life. She loved the full gallop after rounding the third barrel, and within weeks, we were the fastest team in the club.

“You should ride her at the barrel race at the Gooding County Fair and Rodeo,” my 4-H leaders said, encouraging me. “And she should do well, even though she’s not so young anymore.” Again, I resorted to theatrical pleading to receive my parents’ permission. I also needed silver cowboy boots, a purple saddle blanket and a purple vest to ride with the 4-H club. That required extra days of working in the field for one dollar an hour, hoeing beets and weeding potatoes. Soon I had enough money, and I was ready for the fair and rodeo at the end of August.

Two weeks before the fair and rodeo, I used bleach and water in a bucket to comb through Star’s long mane and tail to make them gleaming white. Then I saddled her for a solo practice in the pasture. Just as we were riding toward the first barrel, a flock of pheasants suddenly flew up in front of us. Star jumped to the side and I lost my grip. I flew through the air and landed on my right foot. I screamed as it broke.

Star trotted back to me and lowered her head. I couldn’t tell her to go get help. My only choice was to get to the three-rail fence and try to climb back on the horse. I grabbed the loose reins and told her to back up. She understood my command and slowly backed to the fence, pulling me through the dirt. We finally reached the fence and I managed to pull myself up on my good foot. Then I climbed up and straddled the top rail.

“Come here, Star,” I said. “Easy now.” She pressed against the fence so I could fall across the saddle. Then I sat up, secured my left boot in the stirrup and reached for the reins. That was when I noticed her mouth was bleeding, because the bit had rubbed it raw while she was pulling me. That was the only time I cried.

We rode back to the barn and found one of the hired hands, a gnarly old guy named Titus. He helped me off the horse and into his pickup truck. “I’ll get you home and then take care of the horse,” he said. “And I have some ointment for her mouth.” I was grateful.

Going to the doctor was an inconvenience for many farm families. It just wasn’t done without considerable effort and a good reason. “Are you sure it hurts?” my father asked. “Maybe
it’s just sprained?” After much debate, reinforced by my contorted expressions, my mother decided to take me to town to see the doctor. I closed my eyes as they cut off my jeans and sliced through my new silver boot. I heard mumbling as my swollen foot was examined and x-rayed. Then I felt the cold, messy cast being applied to my foot and leg.

“Stay off of it for six weeks,” the doctor said, and the words echoed like a prison sentence.

“But I’m competing in the barrel race at the rodeo in two weeks,” I said.

My mother and the doctor laughed.

I did not see any humor in the situation. “I’m riding,” I said with all the conviction I could muster.

The doctor handed me some crutches and patted my head. “Go home now, dearie, and get some rest,” he said. That was when I knew I would ride.

The following day I called Todd Webb, my 4-H leader, and explained the situation. He seemed reluctant to talk with my parents about the barrel-racing competition. “I just need help getting on Star,” I said. “She knows what to do. Please let me try.”

Todd Webb approached my father that night and, after a few shots of Crown Royal, convinced him that all I had to do was sit on the horse. And basically that was true. Somehow my father agreed, and I was thrilled.

The day before the race, Todd Webb and several 4-H club members came around with horse trailers to get the horses. By then, I was using only one crutch and could maneuver quite well with my clunky cast. We drove to the stables at the fair grounds
and unloaded the horses, our gear and extra bales of hay. Star seemed nervous, so I brushed her hide and sang my favorite song from our lazy riding days—“We’ll Sing in the Sunshine,” by Gale Garnett. The song had the perfect cadence for an afternoon ride.

The next day we all arrived early to prepare for the race. The right leg of my jeans was split to cover the cast. The club members assisted in hoisting the saddle onto Star, joking that I would need to split any prize money with them. Star’s mouth had healed, but I decided to pull a hackamore without a bit over her head. I struggled onto the horse and took the reins. I felt comfortable, except the cast caused my leg to stick straight out, and I knew it would hit the first barrel as Star galloped around it.

“Tie me down,” I said to Todd Webb. He hesitated but then agreed. He used a small rope to secure my right leg to the stirrup.

“Don’t fall,” he said. “Or we’re both in trouble.”

We trotted to the arena and joined the other riders. I supported my weight on my thighs and left boot as we rode in a slow lope around the arena. I could feel Star getting tense. She had owned this competition many years ago, and I knew she was eager to return. “Easy, Star,” I murmured. “We can do it.”

There were seven riders ahead of us in the race, and we were last. They all posted times between twenty and fifteen seconds. Star’s ears were rigid as we eased into the chute. I matched her breathing as we waited for the countdown. Suddenly the gate flew open and Star shot out in a fury of speed. She leaned around the first barrel and my cast rubbed the side. Then she ran toward the second barrel and circled it so sharply that
I could touch the ground. Then she sped toward the third barrel. We rounded it and headed toward home. Dirt flew, the crowd cheered and my cast banged against the rope as I rode the relentless force of pure energy. I knew my magnificent horse was running to win. We crossed the finish line in fourteen seconds and the crowd went wild. The clumsy problem child and the old horse were the improbable winners.

I don’t remember all the details after that. I know I looked into the stands and saw my parents and brothers and couldn’t believe they were cheering for me. The five-hundred-dollar prize money, a fortune back then, was added to my college savings account. Star and I never raced again. After that day she became slower and less eager to run free. We still took regular rides, and she would pick up the pace as I sang. But we had nothing else to prove.

My foot healed, I entered high school and I didn’t have much time to ride. Star spent her last days roaming the fields, and every now and then she would raise her head, point her ears and break into a full gallop. The last time I saw her, she was jumping a ditch on the far side of the pasture. She died while I was away at college, and my mother called and asked if I wanted to see her before they took her away. “No,” I answered. “She’ll always be alive for me. Every time I need to get around an obstacle, I’ll feel her power.” And that’s how it remains for me, the wild child who finally grew up with the help of an aging horse and a pounding passion for freedom.

Meera Klein

The cool mist swirled around Leela
and smothered her in its wet embrace. She shivered and wrapped the woolen shawl more tightly around her slender body. The late November days in Kotagiri were chilly and dismal, nothing like the warm tropical nights she was used to. Leela’s sigh sounded loud in the gray silence as she paused to take a deep whiff of the fading jasmine blooms on the vine by the front gate. It was then she heard the sound, the tiniest whimper, which she would have missed if
the world hadn’t been so silent. She reached up and unlatched the metal gate and stepped onto the patch of grass. In the dim twilight she could make out a small bundle lying on the wilted jacaranda blooms. When she looked closely, she saw it was a tiny shivering puppy. She couldn’t bear to leave it there on the side of the road. She relatched the gate and walked into the kitchen using the side entrance.

The kitchen was warm and cozy. Her mother, Ammalu, was seated on a small wooden stool in front of the hearth, stirring a pot of lentil stew. The sharp scent of cumin mingled with the wet puppy smell. Ammalu wrinkled her nose.

“What do you have there?” she asked, getting up to take a closer look at the black-and-tan bundle in Leela’s arms.

“Oh, Amma,” Leela wailed. “Look what someone dropped off at our front gate.”

The puppy seemed to know it was being inspected and opened its tiny jaws and yawned, stretching out a minuscule pink tongue.

“Not everyone has your kind heart, my daughter,” Ammalu sighed. “Remember what our neighbor Sister Mary told us?”

Leela nodded and held the puppy closer to her chest. Their nearest neighbor, an Anglo-Indian everyone called Sister Mary, lived a few miles down the road and was a feisty animal lover.

“Be warned. Villagers get rid of their unwanted pets by dropping them off at the bungalows in the middle of the night. Most of us are only too happy to take in these dogs and cats. It’s a shame, though, because not everyone wants a stray and that is the end of the poor animal,” she’d lamented.

That will not happen to this little one,
Leela silently vowed. Mother and daughter dried the puppy and fed the hungry creature some rice gruel. Soon the little dog was curled up on a pile of rags in front of the warm hearth.

The next morning Ammalu mixed a little rice and vegetable broth in a beautiful ceramic pan decorated with deep purple flowers and urged the little puppy to eat out of the fancy bowl.

“Amma, why are you using such a nice dish for the dog?” Leela protested.

“Leela, you know I don’t like to use these tainted containers.”

The tainted containers Ammalu was referring to were part of a collection of dinnerware left behind by the previous owner. After the declaration of independence in 1947, many British decided to leave India rather than live in a country no longer ruled by Great Britain. Rather than pack up an entire household, some of them left many things behind. One such Englishman was the owner of the charming bungalow that was now Leela’s home on the outskirts of the remote hill station town of Kotagiri, nestled among the famous Blue Mountains, or Nilgiris.

When they moved into the charming red-tiled house in late 1948, they found the musty rooms filled with large pieces of wooden furniture. The cabinet doors were inlaid with ceramic tile in beautiful geometric patterns. An intricate carved folding screen in one of the three bedrooms provided privacy and beauty. The dining room boasted a large china buffet, complete with silver soup tureens, round and oval serving platters, big serving bowls and a tea set. The delicate moss-green tea set,
made of the finest bone china, would never be used, though. Like most upper-caste Indians, Ammalu’s family was vegetarian. They had no intention of eating or drinking from vessels used by strangers and nonvegetarians. At the first opportunity Ammalu invited friends, neighbors and acquaintances from the surrounding areas to come choose from the lovely Spode plates and Wedgwood dinnerware. So the puppy happily ate off the Spode chinaware and drank from his Wedgwood saucer.

The German shepherd turned out to be the most patient of animals. He waited for Leela or Ammalu to get up each morning and let him out. He would wander around the front yard, sniffing at rosebushes and lifting his leg against the spindly poinsettia tree. He would then lie on the kitchen floor, his bright blue eyes following Leela’s every movement.

“He really is the most silent dog,” a friend remarked to Leela. That was when she came up with the perfect name for her new pet, Chuppa, or “the silent one.”

She tried out the new name, calling, “Chuppa!” Immediately the puppy sat up, straight and proud. He cocked his head and looked at Leela as if waiting for a command. From then on Leela spent countless hours with the young dog, teaching him simple commands. Chuppa was an intelligent pup and wanted to please Leela. He became the young girl’s constant companion. He would greet her joyously, albeit silently, every afternoon when she returned from school. He draped his long tan-and-black body across Leela’s doorway. The pair was a common sight as they went on long walks among the tea bushes and apple and pear orchards.

One evening, when Ammalu made a teasing gesture toward Leela, pretending to hit her, Chuppa immediately sat up and stared at Ammalu and emitted a soft warning growl.

“Chuppa thinks I was going to hit you!” Ammalu exclaimed. “What a good dog. Don’t worry, Chuppa, I would never hit my girl.” Ammalu bent down and petted the agitated pup, who settled down, his head resting on his folded paws, as if he understood Ammalu’s words.

Leela decided to teach the dog commands to make sure he would know when a threat was real and when a family member was just playing. The dog took to the lessons as if he was a sponge soaking up spilled water.

Two years later Chuppa was a full-grown German shepherd with thick black-and-tan fur and bright blue eyes. He was a familiar sight in the little village and allowed young children to pet and fuss over him. But his soft eyes were always on Leela.

A few months later, their postman, the deliverer of news and mail, had some disturbing gossip. “Did you hear about the thefts?” he asked Ammalu and Leela one afternoon. “There has been a rash of thefts in the area and residents are asked to keep their gates locked.”

The following spring Ammalu and Unny, Leela’s older brother, had to make one final trip to their ancestral village to take care of some business, and Ammalu was not happy to leave Leela.

“Don’t worry, Amma. Chuppa will keep me company at night, and during the day Mala and her husband will be here,” Leela assured her mother.

Mala and Lingam were local villagers who came to help Leela’s family with household chores. Ammalu and Unny were expected to be gone for about five days, and after giving Mala and Lingam many instructions about the household and Leela’s personal safety, they finally left.

That evening Leela made sure all the doors were locked before retiring to the living room. A fire in the hearth made the room snug and comfortable. Chuppa settled down in front of the fire and Leela curled up on the sofa with a Sherlock Holmes mystery.

“Why didn’t the dog bark?” she murmured to herself.

Chuppa glanced up with a questioning look in his blue eyes.

“Don’t mind me, Chuppa. I’m just talking about the clue in this story,” she assured her pet, who sighed and went back to staring at the golden flames.

The crackling fire was the only sound in the room and Leela found herself drifting off. Chuppa’s low growl woke her up.

“Shh… Chuppa. It’s just the fire.”

But the dog didn’t settle down; instead he stood up and looked toward the front hallway. The coarse hairs on his neck were standing up and his body was tense and alert. Leela was alarmed at the dog’s stance and got up to stand in the living room doorway. She was as tense as Chuppa and tried to hear what had disturbed the dog.

Then she heard it, the slightest grating of metal as the front gate was opened. Chuppa growled beside her. She put a hand on his head, wondering what to do.

“Is anyone home?” a woman’s voice called out from the front stoop. Leela knew whoever was out there had probably
seen the warm glow of the light through the living room window, even though the cloth curtains were drawn shut.

Leela took a deep breath and walked into the dark hallway. She turned on the porch light and lifted up the curtain to peer through the front window. She could make out the figure of a woman and a man standing on the front porch steps. The woman raised a slim hand and knocked on the wooden door. Leela looked back at Chuppa and gestured for him to stand behind her. The dog obediently went into the hallway, where he was hidden in the shadows behind his mistress.

Even though she dreaded opening the door, Leela decided it was better than waiting for the couple to perhaps break the glass and force their way in. She pulled the door open and peered out.

“Who are you, and why are you knocking on my door at this time of the night?”

The woman laughed, a sound that was nervous and at the same time somehow threatening. “Sister, we are just poor pilgrims on our way to the temple on the hill. Can you spare us a hot drink or a few paise?”

“I’m sorry, but my hearth is out for the night and I have no change. Perhaps you can find hospitality farther down the road,” Leela said.

“Listen here, sister,” the man snarled, pushing the woman aside. “We are not asking for a few paise like beggars. We are demanding you hand over your necklace, earrings and anything else of value you have in the house. I don’t make idle threats.” As he spoke, he pulled out a knife, the blade glinting in the overhead porch light.

“I don’t like threats. I suggest you leave,” Leela said, trying not to sound as frightened as she felt.

The man answered by pushing the door aside and taking a step to come inside. A deep rumble from the hallway stopped him in mid-stride.

“Chuppa, come here,” Leela called out to her faithful companion, who came to stand beside her. He bared his teeth and he gave out a menacing growl. The couple stared at the German shepherd.

“Now, I suggest you leave before my dog gets impatient,” Leela said to the couple.

The man hissed in anger. “A dumb animal isn’t going to stop me,” he said in a low tone as he stepped toward Leela, his knife raised.

“Chuppa, get the knife,” Leela ordered in a firm voice.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the dog leaped and grabbed the man’s hand. The knife clattered to the ground. The man yelped in surprise. Leela quickly kicked the knife out of his reach. The dog let go of the man’s hand and waited for his next command.

“Good dog. Now get him,” Leela said.

Again the dog leaped and, using his full weight, brought the man down. Chuppa placed a heavy paw on the man’s chest and bared his teeth. The woman cried out, and the dog looked at her with his soft eyes and pulled back his lips to show his sharp white teeth.

“Call off your dog,” the woman cried. “We meant no harm.”

The silence was broken by a murmur of voices.

“Miss Leela, are you all right?” a voice asked from the driveway. It was Lingam. He was carrying a smoky homemade torch in his hand. Behind him there were several villagers.

“Lingam! I am so glad to see you,” Leela called and sighed in relief. “Chuppa has caught a man who was threatening me.”

Lingam walked up to the porch steps and looked down at the figure on the ground.

“These look like the couple who have been robbing houses,” he announced. “We heard they were out tonight, and came by to check on you. But it looks like you can take care of yourself.” His white teeth flashed as he grinned at Leela.

“It was Chuppa who saved the day,” Leela said. “Chuppa, let him go.”

The German shepherd looked down at the man and growled again before moving slowly off him. The animal went to stand beside Leela, looking up at her with adoration shining from his bright blue eyes.

Leela bent down and hugged the dog. She buried her face in his doggy fur. “Thank you, Chuppa,” she whispered.

“Woof.” Chuppa’s bark was short and soft. Leela laughed out loud. That was the one and only time Chuppa ever barked.

For years the dog was my mother’s faithful companion in Kotagiri. When he died of old age, my mother was heartbroken. Chuppa was the last pet she ever owned.