03/28/2024
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I call them Punch and Judy.
They turned up on our road a week or two ago; the dogs might be a year old, maybe less. Judy is a black and tan hound mix, Punch is best described as a plain ol’ dog, red-brown with a generous helping of hound on his own. The first and second time we met, Punch furiously wagged his tail and actually smiled in that way some dogs have. He wouldn’t allow me to touch him, save for a brief rub of his head, but he was grateful enough to break my heart.
They turned up near an abandoned house on what we call the Bear Curve, so named because black bears are common there. The shoulders are also wide, and it’s a good place to hide one’s crime if one is prone to dumping unwanted animals.
I know I beat this drum far too often, and I don’t blame you, dear reader, if your eyes glaze and you turn to something more interesting than another column about thrown-away dogs. I want to turn away, too, but I just can’t.
I could well be part of the problem, I guess, since there is flat out no way for me to bring those dogs home. We simply have too many mouths to feed, many if not most of which turned up along the road or in our front yard (which is also a convenient place to drop puppies and kittens).
So I watch out for Punch and Judy as I drive back and forth to Kelly from Lagoon, leaving a bucket of feed for them well off the shoulder of the road when I can.
They want to be friendly; with patience, if one’s knees will hold up, one can exchange a hastily-snatched cookie or piece of sandwich for a brief, frantic wag of the tail, and maybe a sociable bark or whine. Punch never assumes a position of submission, unlike his sister, but he never acts aggressive, either. They relish the food offered by myself and the handful of hunters and soft-hearts whose frustration with our fellow humans is overridden by our love of God’s critters.
I’ve been told that Punch and Judy, like the ghostly tri-color Walker hound near our house (he’s utterly feral), may have been dumped by some ne’er-do-wells whose misbehaviors cost them a deer lease. All three of the dogs have worn collars at some point in their lives, but as is typical, there’s no sign of a collar or nameplate on them now. They’re just more dogs whose only crime was not being wanted anymore.
Whether Punch and Judy were hunters, or just happened to be the ones tagged as being expendable, I have no idea. I do know they deserve a far better life than what they’re living, and that no dog deserves the death they’ll inevitably experience.
Harsh? Yep, I’m being harsh. Live with it.
I’ll tell you what’s harsh: eating trash thrown beside the road, or fighting the natural scavengers for whatever doesn’t make it across the highway, and sleeping in brush piles or nests wallowed in frost-bitten or mosquito-ridden grass, living in fear that the next person who stops will hurt you like the ones who tossed you out – that’s harsh. You ever drink filthy water out of a roadside ditch? That’s harsh.
Don’t talk to me about feelings being hurt when a critter who can’t understand what he did is thrown out like an empty beer can.
I sincerely doubt Punch and Judy will survive much of the fall; they’ll toughen up to the elements, of course, but some angry hunter feeling like his day has been ruined will drop the hammer on one or both of them, or they’ll be killed by coyotes, since we’ve bred the natural instincts out of domestic dogs. The voracious ticks of the fall wear them down, too, along with the heartworms that come from every other mosquito. They’ll get weak and desperate for food, and be a little slower when they cross the road one night.
Maybe, just maybe, someone will stop one day, and they’ll accept a ride to a new home, or even the animal shelter, where they at least have a chance at a good home. That good home is all any critter deserves; a place where the rain and the cold and the coyotes and the people with dark hearts are locked securely away, a place where the water is clean and fresh, and the food frequent.
Perhaps the person who threw away two perfectly good dogs on my road had problems of their own, problems I can’t understand; I am a prime example of having needed a helping hand from time to time, and try to fulfill both the Biblical injunction and my parents’ upbringing to repay that debt by returning the blessing on down the line. I can’t say I am perfect in this practice, but I try, and if someone swallows their pride enough to ask for help, I will do all I can to make that sacrifice worthwhile.
Still and all, I find it hard to be forgiving of humans when Punch and Judy dash across my headlights, or run down the road beside my truck, recognizing me and hoping I brought them some food today.
If you’re around on N.C. 53 between White Lake and Kelly, slow down a bit when you get to the Lagoon fire tower. You’ll cross the Bear Bridge (again, named for obvious reasons) and pass one of the Smith cemeteries, in the middle of the Whitehall Game Lands. A few miles down, you’ll pass the remains of an old farmhouse as you enter into a longer curve. A rusty cable guards a forgotten lane there.
Keep your eyes open, if you will, for a nervous, floppy-eared black and tan dog, and her red-brown brother. If you spot them, hit the flashers, pull over and offer them a half of a sandwich, or the snack you were keeping for the road. You can get more at Charles’ store in Kelly, or at the Wam Squam at the lake, if you’re heading west. You won’t starve.
Get down on one knee, and be patient. Maybe you’ll get a tail-wag, or even a smile.
Look in those big brown eyes and say a prayer. Try to make friends, since that’s all a good dog ever wants.
Who knows — maybe you’ll be the one who takes them home to a place where the water is clean.

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