RADAR

Radar was a dog, of that you can be sure! Trying to discover his pedigree would have been a formidable endeavor. His mother was a Bull Terrier that belonged to the J.B. Gore family, our back-side neighbors at the top of Fisher Hill in Carthage, TN. His father was from parts-unknown and Radar was made of parts unknown.

I was ten years old when we got Radar, or Radar got us. I thought at the time that I must have been the luckiest boy in the whole world: We got a television and I got a dog in the same year, Boy, was I lucky, or what?!

His tail was bobbed, and I worried about that a lot. Didn't it hurt an awful lot to get one's tail cut off down to a little nubbin? I just knew it did!

Radar was not really his name: I named him after the Middle Tennessee State Teacher's College Normal School, Raiders; Nathan Bedford Forrest's band of intrepid fighters of Civil War fame. I got tired of explaining his name to people, and I just changed it to Radar. Funny but no one ever asked about Radar as a name.

Raider was a sweet, cuddly puppy and loved being held and petted. The first night he came to live with us I insisted that he sleep nice and warm beside my bed. I fixed him a box with a soft piece of old bed spread to keep him warm. At bed time I gently put Raider into his cozy box and settled myself for a contented night's sleep. Ah, life was so sweet.

That's when Radar started to whine! It was not really a full blown whine. It was more like a closed mouth, high pitched, pitiful, lonely, groan. When it began I ceased my dozing and jumped up to comfort poor, little, puppy, Raider. He stopped whining when I held him and started to go to sleep, so I, very gently, placed him back into the box. When he hit the bed spread he started to whine again. Two more try's and "Radar" was on his own!

Radar whined off and on all night long. During breakfast I was internally debating the rewards of having a puppy. Mother assured me that something could be done. So we placed a warm water bottle and a wind-up alarm clock in the box with Radar. He thought it was his mother sleeping next to him, I guess. It was great: I got to sleep and so did Radar until the water battle got cold, and the alarm went off about 1:00 AM! We both did pretty well the third night, but Radar slept alone in the kitchen that night.

Radar grew and frolicked and played like all puppies. He was a lot of fun. You could hunker down on the grass and whine as he did on those nights, and he'd go crazy trying to lick your face. A good face-likkin' always cheers me up.

He'd sit on your folded legs on the ground, and when least expected he'd leap and hook his sharp, canine teeth into that piece of your nose that separates your nostrils. Boy did that hurt!

At age fourteen I was forced to discover girls: the very last thing I intended to do! We'd pair up on MYF hayrides in the back of Tuley's furniture delivery truck. Some old mattresses softened the truck bed and blankets were available that the girls had thought to bring.

We took off one cold evening and started north out of town toward Defeated. Radar was in pursuit. I saw him running and was sure that he'd get tired soon and go back home, but Radar was a dedicated dog. We must have gone about three miles when I finally got Bill Tuley to stop to get Radar aboard. He was one happy dog. From then on Radar enjoyed all our "hayrides."

Radar knew intrinsically when the Butler's needed something: He brought home a shag, bathroom rug, and the freshly washed, business end of some one's dust mop. We used that rug for years and years.

Radar thought he was a hunting dog. He'd get in the woods smelling all these interesting smells and did not have a clue about what to do to find their source. I saw him run, slap-dab over a sitting rabbit one time.

Usually in the fall we early-teens would strike out on a "hunting expedition" with Radar in attendance. He would circle off to the side and front. You wouldn't see him for a while and he'd bust through the midst of your column from the rear at a dead run.

One time we were crossing the draw on the other side of Battery Hill when Radar spotted some chickens in the farm yard off to our left. No amount of calling, whistling or threats would deter Radar from those full grown layers. My dad got a call that night demanding payment of a dollar a piece for two dead, laying hens. Radar didn't eat them he just killed them.

We arrived at Minchey's pond one hot summer's day and Radar plunged in. The pond was a cattle pond that had been frequently used to cool the legs and bellies of the Herford beef cattle and the Guernsey milkers. The bottom had been churned into about three feet of mud with a half-foot of water on top. When Radar returned to our vicinity he coated us with the muddy mixture by shaking as only a wet dog can.

Just as in the comic strip “Red and Rover,” Radar met me everyday at recess much to my embarrassment. After all, I was preoccupied with attempting to impress all nearby females, and here would come this terribly ugly dog wagging his butt. If he'd had a long tail he'd probably broken someone's leg.

He loved me even though I was mean to him occasionally. I would send him to his box or make him look ashamed just show someone what he'd do, but he never knew why he was being punished. He was disciplined with a rolled up newspaper, and it worked without hurting him.

Radar was a dog: he did what dogs do. So I wasn’t surprised when Radar was reported to be running with a pack of cur dogs after a female. He came home one night having been shot with a .22 that went clean through his leg. But this time I didn't see him for several days, and I learned later that he was killed along with some others of the aforementioned pack.

Radar was a dog. He taught me a lot about just being a kid by being my dog during the luckiest time of my life.