Zeb the Dog

This is a story about a boy and his dog. The boy’s name is Jay, the dog was named Zeb. Zeb was the big, goofy, ready-for-fun black lab mix that rounded out our family unit.

When the three of us were much younger and still living together, a snowy day meant one thing – fun. As Jay and I glided along tandem style on the Flexible Flyer sled, Zeb would run beside us barking and jumping around eager to join in the fun.

We’d stay outside in the snow until our knitted mittens were soaked through and the lack of feeling in our toes indicated it was time to head indoors. Zeb would lag behind, waiting for the boy to lob another soft snowball his way.

The smell of wet outerwear drying over forced hot air vents was soon mingling with the aroma of hot chocolate.

Jay and I would sit side-by-side on the sofa, cuddling under afghans while watching one of his favorite TV shows – The Dukes of Hazzard, The Six Million Dollar Man, or Batman. Zeb would curl up on the floor where I could tuck my toes under his warm body. The dog never complained.

We lived in a neighborhood filled with children, many of whom were young boys around the same age as Jay. Zeb would always be outdoors with the gang of kids, ensuring fair play and herding as necessary.

One day as the kids played outdoors, riding bikes and launching themselves on sleds over frozen patches in the road, I heard a horrible grinding sound. The children weren’t screaming or crying so my maternal instincts sent me scurrying to the windows. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Zeb was leashed to the front of the sled by a rope attached to his collar and was pulling the children along the road, even in those areas where blacktop had emerged. With two kids on the sled and one kid – mine – on a bike, the dog was being encouraged to chase the bike while pulling the sled and its load. When he’d hit a dry spot, the metal runners of the sled ground against the pavement shooting sparks and making a terrific noise.

Although the dog looked like he was fighting for his life, tongue hanging out, panting, he kept pulling for all he was worth as my son encouraged him, “Come on, boy! Pull!”

“Hey!” I screamed out the door. “Get that rope off the dog immediately and knock it off. You’re killing him!!!!!”

My son replied, “No we’re not! He loves it!”

Suffice to say that game ended as I brought the dog inside for his own wellbeing. Lying beside the closed front door, Zeb sulked until his boy came inside, too.

On another occasion when the weather was turning to spring, the boys and the dog went on an adventure to the forbidden cranberry bogs that were located nearby. The ditches surrounding the bogs provided endless hours of fun, and the distance from the settlement meant the boys were free from the prying eyes of grown-ups.

The fact that the children weren’t allowed to play in and around the bogs was of no consequence to them. They weren’t doing anything wrong. Really. And with a little fib told to cover their true destination, once out of sight the gang simply disappeared into the surrounding woods and onward to the bogs.

I had always warned about the poisons used on the bogs and the depth of the ditches in classic fear-tactic style to discourage forays in that direction. These warnings failed to impress young boys determined to have a real adventure.

As suppertime neared, I stood on the tiny porch and called out my son’s name at the top of my lungs in Tarzan fashion, “JAAAAASSOOOON!” I heard the pre-adolescent response from rather far away – “Coming!”

In a few minutes, the group slogged up the street, each boy peeling off from the group into their respective front yard, victors of another epic chapter of Boy’s Life.

My kid nonchalantly came inside after placing his bike towards the back of the property. The dog slinked inside, slumped to the floor, clearly very exhausted and wet.

One look at the dog and I knew the deal – sticks thrown into the bog ditch so the boys could watch the dog perform his best tricks, diving and swimming.

I went outside to examine the bike. The chain was encrusted with bog weeds and mud. They certainly had had a very fine adventure.

Inside, I was quiet while waiting for the right moment to pronounce my verdict and the associated punishment for the crimes committed. There were denials of the charges levied: “willfully breaking the no-bog rule.” The dog wasn’t able to make eye contact with me. Neither could the boy.

Time passed. The boy became a man. The dog grew old. The memories, well, they live on and are retold to the granddaughter. Where they go from there, who can say? But for the boy, Zeb the dog lives forever frozen in time, a partner in crime, a pal still sorely missed.

As an afterthought, recently Jay admitted that he never really did hear those wild calls I made for him to come home. It was the dog who heard me. Zeb would stop whatever game was being played, tilt his head and ears, and bark to Jay, “Time to go home kid…”

This Mattapoisett Life

By Marilou Newell

 

Leave A Comment...

*