TERROR OUT OF THE MIST

    Getting up at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday mornings to deliver newspapers was not my idea of fun, especially in the winter with temperatures dropping into the low teens. The worst part was alarm anticipation. I had a windup alarm clock that ticked loudly and could wake a hibernating grizzly. Sometimes I'd stay awake half the night trying to beat the obnoxious sound of the alarm and turn it off before it rang. Coat, scarf, hat and gloves. I was off, pumping my Schwinn the two miles to the Daily Herald office and loading up the heavy Sunday papers. At least I had my little Border Collie, Skosh, to keep me company.

Francis and Skosh, the Border Collie.

    The route was quiet, eerily quiet as I pumped along. It must have been the thick fog hovering close to the ground. I got off my bike to adjust the heavy canvas bag holding the newspapers. That's when I heard it. Something big was running toward us. I could hear its claws clacking on the pavement. The sound grew faster and closer. Suddenly leaping out of

the mist was the largest Boxer I had ever seen.

A monster of a dog! Without warning it attacked my little dog, locking its strong jaws tightly on the ruff of her neck and shaking her wildly.  It was killing my dog!

    I began kicking the boxer as hard as I could. I kicked its sides, I kicked its legs. I kicked between its legs. It didn't seem to notice. In desperation I grabbed its spiked collar and pulled with all my might. The beast dropped my dog and turned on me, sinking its sharp canines into my gloved hand. Then just as quickly it was bounding off through the fog looking for its next victim.

    It was quiet again except for the occasional whimper from Skosh as she gently licked my wounded hand. Despite my fears she seemed to be ok. In the dim light of an apartment building I removed the glove to examine my damaged hand. Blood poured out. One of the viscious dog's sharp teeth had penetrated through the leather glove, through the back of my hand, and exited my palm. It could have been worse, much worse! After the required shots, Skosh and I both recovered physically, but we were left with a bad case of Crazed Dog Contempt.  

SKOSH THE WONDER DOG

Francis and Skosh in Ash Avenue backyard.

    At age twelve I was lucky enough to snag a Daily Herald paper route right next to my school, BY Junior High. It was so convenient. I could leave school, pick up my papers a couple of blocks away at the Daily Herald Office, do my route, and be home in time to enjoy the rest of the day. Even better, I earned enough money to feel independent. I could buy my own clothes, and not be surprised by nerdy fashion items like the combat boots Mom had found on sale.

       Each day while pumping my bike around the paper route, I would stop at a particular apartment to help comfort a young puppy named Skosh. You see, Skosh had a bulky cast on her back leg from being struck by a car. As the months went by her leg healed and she began following me on my route. One morning while loading up for school, there she was, sitting on our front porch. I returned her to her owner, but each time she was let loose she bolted and ran the two miles to my house.

    Returning Skosh after each escape was a painful experience. It was sad to watch the young couple's disappointment. It was obvious Skosh wanted to be with me. It broke my heart to watch Skosh being led into their apartment against her will. I'm sure it had nothing to do with her owner being a mailman! For the next few weeks Skosh was chained to a clothesline and couldn't follow me. I would try to ignore her whining and whimpering when I rode by.

    One night our doorbell rang and there stood the mailman and Skosh. He asked my Dad and me if we would like to have Skosh for keeps. He and his wife had talked it over and decided that since she was expecting a baby soon maybe Skosh should be my dog. I waited until he had left, then scream, "YES!"

Our family at Bear Lake: Kay, Mom holding Karalee, Paul, Skosh, Francis, Russ and Joel.

    Skosh was like a member of the family. Even Mom bought into the idea. She went everywhere we went, even swimming in Bear Lake when we were on vacation. She became so protective of me that she would bear her teeth and growl when Dad was sent to dish out some well-deserved punishment!

Francis and Skosh.

    She was a great friend to me over the next few years, especially when I broke my arm playing baseball. It seems she knew what it was like to have a broken limb with a bulky cast.

KIDS AND CRITTERS GO TOGETHER

    Pets and kids just seem to go together. What parent can say no to little eyes looking up longingly. My Mother put her foot down when it came to dogs and cats which left little choice. I turned to the rodent population.

    One day while exploring the outskirts of the Brimhall Building on the BYU Campus, my eye caught sight of a white streak darting among the bushes. After stalking it for some time I caught and identified it - a white mouse. I didn't realize it, but the mouse was an escapee, probably injected with who knows what by scientific researchers.

        I named the little guy Henry and kept him in a gallon glass jar on the dirt floor portion of our basement. The bottom of the jar was covered with sawdust and cardboard scraps from which Henry constructed an elaborate summer home. He ate commercial pet food and drank from the tip of a water container made for small animals. It was fun trucking through the neighborhood with my small white friend hiding out in my shirt pocket. The boys loved him while the girls would usually run away screaming. Before moving up to a larger rodent, I found Henry a loving master who could keep him in the same luxurious lifestyle to which he had become accustomed.

    Next it was a chipmunk I bought from Howard Andersen who trapped them in the wild. That purchase set me back $.75. Dad covered the top of an old blue trunk with chicken wire, providing it a comfy home. I named him Wilford after our grumpy next door neighbor. Wilford was the hit of the neighborhood. Dozens of kids would visit our garage where Wilford hung out. Before picking him up, they were required to glove up. You see, Wilford had a bad habit of sinking his choppers into unsuspecting admirers.

    A rat dog named Tippy from across the street followed its young master for a chipmunk visit. Unfortunately the rat dog had other ideas about Wilford. In his wicked imagination he envisioned a tasty chipmunk snack, which came to pass only a few days later when the garage door was left open. Bye, bye Wilford. I’ll see you in Pet Heaven!

    Next came two beautiful white rabbits. With Dad’s help we built a Rabbit Duplex in our backyard. I would let them run loose to explore their surroundings and enjoy a little R&R. My younger brothers enjoyed these pets, but they were mine, and my responsibility.  I fed them rabbit pellets. However, rabbit pellets soon became a big expense.

    To cut down on costs I supplemented their diet with fresh alfalfa I picked from a vacant lot nearby. I even went dumpster diving at Carson’s market bringing home a supply of carrots and lettuce that had been thrown out. Yup! I had big plans, putting them together from time to time in hopes of becoming a pet rabbit entrepreneur. It never happened. It seems my fluffy bunnies were two of a kind and not a matched pair.