Penny

Picture at left: My brother David playing with Penny.

Back in the early 60s, I used to have a dog. Penny was her name. She was a small dog, the runt of the litter. She was given to me by a neighbor for helping them during one summer’s haying season.

Penny was a mongrel. Her mother was a pure-bred standard Manchester; those dogs who look a little like miniature Dobermans. Her father was from a friendly neighborhood. Penny’s brothers and sisters were all black with a tan spot above each eye, a tan underbelly and tan feet, just like their mother. Penny didn’t have a stitch of black on her; she was tan all over, about the color of a penny.

I was happy to be given a pet, but was concerned about taking her from her mother—and training her. But I didn’t need to worry. We got along just fine, and she learned right away what newspapers spread on the floor meant. Pretty soon she learned to ask us to let her outside to take care of her own necessities.

She was one smart dog all right. If she wanted to go outside, she’d reach up with both paws to turn the handle. She never could open the door, but she attracted our attention and we opened it for her. If we were too busy to notice, she would give a short bark. If we were still too preoccupied to get the message, she would run to one of us and bark her way out the door.

She was always a pleasant dog. She played Fetch with my kid brother—or me. She helped run the bases for us when we played baseball in the back yard. She worried the cats on occasion. She alerted us to visitors, but kept quiet when ordered. Rabbits in the garden fled in fright when she appeared, but she wouldn’t harm anyone or anything.

She grew to maturity as a dog well-trained and was allowed the run of the place. Her nocturnal haven was a corner box in the family room. If she needed to go outside at night, she’d trot into my room, her toenails clicking on the linoleum floor. Sometimes she’d come into my room just to have a soft place to lay on my bed. In the darkness I’d wake up to hear her footsteps trotting toward me, then a pause as she leapt, then a sleep-disturbing bounce as she landed on top. In the wintertime she sought the warmth of my bed more often, my personal foot-warmer.

As she grew up she also started dating canine suitors who came calling. She was rather serious about one in particular and it soon became obvious that she was in a family way. We had to wait for about two months for the blessed event.

Her time finally arrived one cold winter evening. It was evident by her restless behavior. It was quite noticeable when the rest of the family retired for the night. I was left to look after her welfare. She didn’t stay in her box. She didn’t stay put anywhere. She was in labor and I didn’t really know what to do about it but to let nature take its course.

I solved the problem by coaxing her to the warmest place in the house, the bathroom. I placed Mom’s best towels on the floor for a soft place for Penny, right by the radiator. I convinced her to stay and she finally was in such a strait that she had no choice but to yield to her newfound instincts in giving birth.

I was fascinated by the whole process. She didn’t know what was going on—only that she was in pain. I had often seen tiny puppies and kittens, and even tinier mice. I had watched calves being born on several occasions. But I never saw the miracle of birth at such an intimate range before. I didn’t want to upset her by my presence but I didn’t want to leave either. I talked to her in reassuring tones and she soon paid no attention to me. Her attention was drawn to an emerging pup; a black pup with a tan spot above each eye, a tan underbelly and tan feet, just like its grandmother. Soon another emerged, same color. Then another, another, another and another. Six identical-looking puppies—four boys and two girls. Six squirming little puppies ravenously hungry. Their eyes were tightly closed but they soon found their way to the dinner table. Soon they were feeding contentedly at mother’s ample bosom while she cleaned them dry, nuzzling each of them in turn. I picked one up and she nervously but politely objected. I let her watch what I was doing and she soon paid no attention as I checked each one out.

The next morning everyone was greeted by the sight of one proud mother dog with her litter of six healthy puppies. However, she would not allow anyone near them but me. She didn’t trust anyone else.

Penny eventually gave birth to another litter of pups. She was still the playful dog and she romped with her offspring. She even had time for us like she used to.

One day, while I was at work, tragedy struck. I came home to the sad news that Penny had been hit by a motorcycle. She was across the road with my parents and, hearing a motorcycle speeding up the hill; she headed for the safety of the house, and ran right into the motorcycle. It had happened just shortly before and she lay dying in the little cottage near the house. I was heartbroken, and she couldn’t even acknowledge my attempts to comfort her.

She soon passed away and we gave her a decent burial. I laid her gently in a nice cardboard box, said a prayer, and buried her near the garden. A bright spot in our lives was dimmed by her passing.

But that’s not quite the end of the story. About a month later during the night, I was startled awake by the sound of trotting footsteps coming toward me in the darkness, a pause, and then a bounce on my bed. I saw nothing but I was not afraid. I lay there wondering whether I was dreaming, and gradually drifted off again, content that Penny had come to bid her final farewell. I woke up later to a beautiful sunny morning, and happy for the experience.

This is a true story.