Author's note: I've been holding this story back because frankly, I am not sure which facts are true and which my brain made up as the years passed. So anyone reading this who was there, just consider it a work of fiction.
This is the story of a dog named Tramp. Its about how a family was blessed by a small white mongrel who brought joy to their hearts. And its about how difficult it can be to make a final act of kindness to a beloved pet. I hope you will forgive me, but it’s a sad story. And if you see tears in my eyes, its because the story still impacts me today.
It was a warm summer day, just after I had completed the first grade, when my older sister Theresa discovered a dog hiding under Mom’s red and black Ford. Theresa and my younger sister Tina lay on their bellies in the dust, peeked under the car and talked to the dog. I sat next to them. I could see that the white mop of hair hanging into the dog’s eyes was matted and dirty. When Theresa tried to coax him out, he growled a little and backed deeper into his lair. We couldn’t understand why he was so scared.
But Theresa was determined to make friends. She ran inside and stole some lunchmeat from the refrigerator. We spent the day tossing bits to the dog. He would come out just far enough to snatch our offerings and then dart back to his haven. When Dad came home from work, Theresa told him we found a dog. “Can we keep it?” she pleaded. “Absolutely not.” Dad decreed. Case closed. “But maybe he’s hurt. Or lost.” Theresa reasoned, “At least come out and see him.” Reluctantly, Dad agreed.
Outside, Dad crouched down and peered under the Ford. A black nose peeked out at him. Somehow, Dad convinced the dog to leave its shelter. “But we’re not keeping it.” He warned. Then Dad fed the dog properly, gave him a bath and combed the tangles out of its snow-white hair. No one knew where the dog came from. And since he couldn’t tell us his name, Dad called him Tramp. It didn’t take long for Dad to fall in love with Tramp. And even though Tramp became “our” dog, he loved Dad best of all.
In those days, people didn’t keep their dogs on a leash or a lead. And hardly anyone had a fence around their yard. So the neighborhood was full of dogs following their kids from one game to the next. If Tina went to play in a friend’s yard, Tramp tagged along. When I went for a walk, Tramp was my companion. While Theresa played baseball, Tramp romped in the outfield with the other neighborhood dogs. Tramp protected us from the dangers of life, like nasty squirrels. And he brought us amazing gifts, like slobbering wet tennis balls and sticks.
It was a warm summer day, just after I had completed the first grade, when my older sister Theresa discovered a dog hiding under Mom’s red and black Ford. Theresa and my younger sister Tina lay on their bellies in the dust, peeked under the car and talked to the dog. I sat next to them. I could see that the white mop of hair hanging into the dog’s eyes was matted and dirty. When Theresa tried to coax him out, he growled a little and backed deeper into his lair. We couldn’t understand why he was so scared.
But Theresa was determined to make friends. She ran inside and stole some lunchmeat from the refrigerator. We spent the day tossing bits to the dog. He would come out just far enough to snatch our offerings and then dart back to his haven. When Dad came home from work, Theresa told him we found a dog. “Can we keep it?” she pleaded. “Absolutely not.” Dad decreed. Case closed. “But maybe he’s hurt. Or lost.” Theresa reasoned, “At least come out and see him.” Reluctantly, Dad agreed.
Outside, Dad crouched down and peered under the Ford. A black nose peeked out at him. Somehow, Dad convinced the dog to leave its shelter. “But we’re not keeping it.” He warned. Then Dad fed the dog properly, gave him a bath and combed the tangles out of its snow-white hair. No one knew where the dog came from. And since he couldn’t tell us his name, Dad called him Tramp. It didn’t take long for Dad to fall in love with Tramp. And even though Tramp became “our” dog, he loved Dad best of all.
In those days, people didn’t keep their dogs on a leash or a lead. And hardly anyone had a fence around their yard. So the neighborhood was full of dogs following their kids from one game to the next. If Tina went to play in a friend’s yard, Tramp tagged along. When I went for a walk, Tramp was my companion. While Theresa played baseball, Tramp romped in the outfield with the other neighborhood dogs. Tramp protected us from the dangers of life, like nasty squirrels. And he brought us amazing gifts, like slobbering wet tennis balls and sticks.
Sometimes when we were in school and Dad was at work, Tramp would wander off on his own. We always imagined that he was out playing with his doggy friends. And we never worried. We knew Tramp would be home in time for dinner.
A few years passed. Then on one cold and blustery autumn day, while Mom was fixing dinner, she heard Tramp howling at the bottom of the back stairs. She went outside to check and found Tramp sitting on his back end supporting himself with his hind legs. His back paws were sprawled out on each side at unnatural angles. Tramp couldn’t walk. Dad gently carried Tramp inside. We didn’t know how it happened, but Tramp was hurt …bad. The next day, after Theresa, Tina and I went to school, Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet. When we got home that afternoon, Mom was alone, and she was crying. Tramp was gone.
I cried uncontrollably. So did Theresa and Tina. We all loved Tramp. But Mom asked us not to let Dad see us crying when he got home. So Theresa, Tina and I went to our room and comforted each other.
When Dad returned, he didn’t say anything. He just stood on the back porch and stared blankly at the mountains behind our house. Mom told us not to mention Tramp to Dad. He was too upset. So after that we hardly ever talked about Tramp, especially to Dad, because it always made his eyes fill up with tears. It wasn’t until I graduated from high school that I learned why. Mom told me.
Times were tough. It was the 70s. There was a recession, unemployment and all that comes with it. Mom and Dad did all they could to make ends meet. But there wasn’t much left over after the bills were paid. When Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet, he told them there was nothing he could do. He’d have to put Tramp down. The cost was $25.
Twenty five dollars may not seem like much today. But back then it was a lot of money to a struggling family. It could feed the kids for a week. And besides, Dad’s paycheck was already spent. So Dad and Mom brought Tramp home. After Mom hugged him good-bye, Dad gently wrapped Tramp in a blanket and carried him to the car. He took his hunting rifle. And they drove into the mountains together.
When Mom finally explained to my what happened, I couldn’t say anything. Later, I took a walk alone in the woods behind our house and cried. But I wasn’t crying for Tramp. I was crying for Dad. I knew that it was the hardest thing he ever did. I still think of Tramp often. And when I do, I remember how he would romp and play with us and bring us so much joy. And then I think of Dad and how difficult and courageous and sad it was for him to do the final act of love for Tramp.
There is a happy ending. A few years later Theresa begged Dad for a new pet. So Dad brought home a chubby brown beagle puppy and gave it to her. We named her Daisy, after the wildflowers that grew all over the mountains that surrounded our house. Daisy and Dad became best friends. Their favorite activity was to go for walks chasing rabbits up in the mountains. The funny thing is that they never caught any rabbits. But I suppose that could be because Dad never took his gun.
A few years passed. Then on one cold and blustery autumn day, while Mom was fixing dinner, she heard Tramp howling at the bottom of the back stairs. She went outside to check and found Tramp sitting on his back end supporting himself with his hind legs. His back paws were sprawled out on each side at unnatural angles. Tramp couldn’t walk. Dad gently carried Tramp inside. We didn’t know how it happened, but Tramp was hurt …bad. The next day, after Theresa, Tina and I went to school, Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet. When we got home that afternoon, Mom was alone, and she was crying. Tramp was gone.
I cried uncontrollably. So did Theresa and Tina. We all loved Tramp. But Mom asked us not to let Dad see us crying when he got home. So Theresa, Tina and I went to our room and comforted each other.
When Dad returned, he didn’t say anything. He just stood on the back porch and stared blankly at the mountains behind our house. Mom told us not to mention Tramp to Dad. He was too upset. So after that we hardly ever talked about Tramp, especially to Dad, because it always made his eyes fill up with tears. It wasn’t until I graduated from high school that I learned why. Mom told me.
Times were tough. It was the 70s. There was a recession, unemployment and all that comes with it. Mom and Dad did all they could to make ends meet. But there wasn’t much left over after the bills were paid. When Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet, he told them there was nothing he could do. He’d have to put Tramp down. The cost was $25.
Twenty five dollars may not seem like much today. But back then it was a lot of money to a struggling family. It could feed the kids for a week. And besides, Dad’s paycheck was already spent. So Dad and Mom brought Tramp home. After Mom hugged him good-bye, Dad gently wrapped Tramp in a blanket and carried him to the car. He took his hunting rifle. And they drove into the mountains together.
When Mom finally explained to my what happened, I couldn’t say anything. Later, I took a walk alone in the woods behind our house and cried. But I wasn’t crying for Tramp. I was crying for Dad. I knew that it was the hardest thing he ever did. I still think of Tramp often. And when I do, I remember how he would romp and play with us and bring us so much joy. And then I think of Dad and how difficult and courageous and sad it was for him to do the final act of love for Tramp.
There is a happy ending. A few years later Theresa begged Dad for a new pet. So Dad brought home a chubby brown beagle puppy and gave it to her. We named her Daisy, after the wildflowers that grew all over the mountains that surrounded our house. Daisy and Dad became best friends. Their favorite activity was to go for walks chasing rabbits up in the mountains. The funny thing is that they never caught any rabbits. But I suppose that could be because Dad never took his gun.
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