One of the many Good Dog Stories in War Stories for My Grandchildren - a memoir
MIDAS
extracted from GOOD DOG STORIES
part of the memoir WAR STORIES FOR MY GRANDCHILDREN
by Jansen Estrup
Midas holds the dearest place in our hearts. Its not so much that he was smarter or more loyal or a finer animal than the others. It is an unfair judgement based almost entirely on his longevity, those fifteen years which spanned our journey from the pioneering, candle-lit Wild West to solar-electric comfort, satellite television and computers, to a nearly modern place in the world. That was a gradual evolution. The dog's impact was immediate and continuous.
I first saw him in a cage at the pound down at the Weapons Center at China Lake. He was young, about nine or ten months old, and sprang to his oversized feet as soon as I entered the stark kennel. He was already big and his yellow fur rippled with barely contained excitement. Probably he smelled Chief and Shaman on me, and unfamiliar junipers, rabbit brush and Carole, too. His deep brown eyes were alive with intelligence and he displayed a discipline rare in youth. He did not oversell himself, yet he was the only animal I had eyes for in the whole place.
"He's already been here two weeks," the attendant told me. "He'll be put to sleep tomorrow."
I grunted, unimpressed. They told everybody that. But I wondered how anyone could have seen him without taking him home. "I'll take him," I said.
But there was a delay. For twenty bucks they'd give him mandatory shots, but the Vet wasn't in until later.
"I'll be back tomorrow. Don't screw this up and give him the wrong shots."
Carole liked him, too and so did Chief, Shaman and Smoke. He adapted immediately to a place where he could run for miles, chase whatever he fancied, dig until his feet were sore and bark whenever he felt like it.
Over fifteen years there are a hundred stories about him and choosing just a few has been an editor's fondest dream. So I'll skip the time he was chasing my truck down the dusty roads, tripped up on his giant feet and fell, caught one of his legs under the heavy drag I was pulling and mangled that paw to the bone. Dr. Jenkins saved most of the foot, and for years Midas was known as ‘Three-toes'. With a brand new, largely experimental treatment, the vet also saved the dog when a rattlesnake struck him between the eyes. So effective was the procedure (which involved punching dozens of small holes in his jowls and neck so that the venom drained away from his nostrils, eyes and brain and collected in an angry red sack which dangled from his neck like a rooster's wattles) that Midas suffered virtually no loss of eyesight or brain damage. I'll also pass over the daily confrontations he had with coyotes, how he'd chase them up the hillside away from our property, and out-maneuver two, sometimes three of them all by himself while Chief and Shaman, later Ruby and Booter and Thunder watched with admiration. He did much the same thing with cattle when the herd got too close, although Chief and I were always baffled because once he got them on the move he always ran ahead of them, to slow their flight, then round them up and stop them a hundred yards away, as if to say, "Hey, its okay if you're here, just don't go leaning and pushing on our fences."
At the end, when Midas was ready to die, he went down into the creek and lay in the icy water, shouting his death song so that it echoed all over the canyon he had loved so well. He barked for three days and nights, establishing a new tradition. Ruby, when her time came, did the same thing. So, in her fashion, did Booter.
But those are not the stories which really define Midas, the ones which endeared him to Carole and me so much.
I'm not sure anymore which of the first stories comes first, but two of them occurred shortly after he arrived, within a week or so.
I watched him one evening as Shaman and Chief reenacted their nightly ritual, a howling duel with the ‘hill pack' of coyotes. They sat as a trio on the west bank of the creek and as they lifted their voices, Midas twisted his head to that puzzled angle dogs are so famous for and stared at Shaman. After a few seconds he bent his muzzle and laid it on Shaman's upturned throat so he could feel its vibrations. I'd heard that French dogs do not ‘speak' or understand the same language as their English or Italian cousins and so it did not seem odd that a puppy raised in a ‘city' did not know how to howl. For a week or ten days he walked around making the most ridiculous, painful sounds, but suddenly one night he joined in the singing with the most melodic voice of the three.
One of the ‘biker chicks' from the Chosen Few (motorcycle gang of an earlier story) had traded her husband for his Porsche convertible and had it confiscated as ‘tribute' when she took up with the gang. Never happy with them, Meg demanded compensation and accepted ten acres of rocky hillside on the western face of our canyon. A poor trade ... she quickly became a recluse who despised people but kept a soft spot in her heart for animals, especially the sickly or mistreated. County officials would not let her live in a mobile home (that being a separate township and not zoned for mobiles) but they did not seem to object to the rusty old school bus she parked there and lived in for more than twenty years. With her she brought an assortment of broken down horses, twelve dogs and a fluctuating number of cats. One of the dogs, a large black mix with severe heart worms and brain damage, had bitten several people and had a reputation for crazy, dangerous behavior. The others followed his lead.
When I went walking I always took a ‘snake stick' with me, a long cudgel or heavy duty walking stick, just in case. But this day I'd begun by simply browsing among the remnants of flood wreckage on our place and before I realized it had wandered far from our fences and stood alone on a rise out in the middle of nowhere. The dogs had come with me, of course, but as usual they were out of sight, off chasing rabbits.
Suddenly, about fifty yards away, Meg on horseback and all of her hounds shot up out of a gully at full gallop. Blackie, the rogue dog, saw me immediately and the whole pack tuned in my direction, eating up the ground between us with alarming speed. Defenseless, I knew running would do no good and Meg's shouting only seemed to spur them on. I braced for the worst.
Then, soundlessly, all three of our dogs appeared and took up positions around me. It was a distinctly military maneuver, Chief a couple of yards away from me on the left, Shaman an equal distance on the right and big blond Midas, the gangly novice, directly ahead of me, the point of this canine spearhead. They sat calmly as the yammering pack approached and when they got close enough, about fifteen yards, Midas stood up all alone. The hackles on his back spread out and a low, primal growl leapt over the ground. If it raised the hairs on my own neck and a knot of fear in my stomach, I can only imagine what it did to Meg's marauders. Like cartoon characters, they skidded the last ten yards in a cloud of dust and quickly began milling around, furiously wagging their tails and licking each others' faces.
But Midas kept his stance and his growling seemed to tremble the ground as much as the hooves of Meg's pounding horse. Only when she'd gotten them under control and was disappearing back down into the deep gully did Midas and the others relax and leave their positions. I was astonished that they knew such a tactic, that Midas had already been trained for such an eventuality, that they trusted each other so much and were so loyal to me. We walked back home together, Midas leaning his ninety-odd pounds against my leg. That was another thing I liked about him. He was tall enough for me to pet him without bending my six four-four inch frame very far. But I knew that I had Chief to thank for the rest.
A year or so later two very pregnant cows managed to get through our fences and they staked out a birthing ground amidst the rabbit brush on the other side of the creek. It was a good place, open enough and close to water. Midas, as with anything else on our property, was keenly interested and spent a great deal of time trying to ‘get to know' them. But they regarded him as a predator, an odd kind of mountain lion or a particularly large coyote. Whenever he came near they lowered their heads and chased him away, sometimes bellowing their distress.
Both gave birth the same night and in the morning stood guard over calves which might have resembled nothing more than protruding knobs of granite, except that their white coats were heavily patterned with a bright red-brown and they were very visible against the drab green sage and golden grasses. The mothers were a good fifty yards apart and uncomfortable as a particularly warm day grew hot.
Midas was more curious than ever, but also cautious. He lay still nearby, waiting, watching until one of the mamas went down into the creek for water. Then he trotted directly to the calf and stood a foot or so away, appraising, sniffing the motionless baby. Slowly, he extended his muzzle and the calf raised its nose to his. They kissed briefly and I, watching with binoculars, felt tears in my eyes.
Suddenly Midas jumped back, lowered his chest to the grass and raised his butt in the universal ‘let's play' posture. He wagged his tail furiously and squirmed with anticipation while the calf struggled to its feet. Then, on wobbly legs, it began to dance with Midas and even the hurrying, alarmed mama stopped to watch. After a moment or so, she bent to graze and was never concerned about the dog again. Neither was the other one. Midas helped guard and baby-sit the pairs for several days. He was particularly conscientious when screening them from coyotes as they trekked nearby each night, and he was tireless at it until ranchers finally found the strays and returned them all to the herd.
Midas we came to trust with anything from babies to our lives.
Grandkids are the universe's way of balancing the cosmic scales. They are the delight of grandparents, the band of their own parents, and it all evens out. Your stories make wonderful reading although I doubt if your own kids would ever crack the pages. Mine won't get near anything I write. Great tale of the wagging tails.
A Very Good Dog Story, indeed. And so glad you rescued Midas from the shelter - dogs never forget who rescued them - and they often end up rescuing us in return.
I can't imagine feeding and taking care of three dogs, but then, where you live, it probably is commonplace. I'm surprised that you got Midas at the pound. In country like that, I thought that most people got their dogs from litters of neighbors' puppies.
