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Neighborhood Dogs

Thinking about the old Allen Park pony ring in my last column reminded me of my old neighborhood and of the dogs who were a part of that neighborhood. Dogs and kids ran free in those days, and many people had dogs. I’m sure many of them got into trouble, chasing cars or tipping over garbage cans, but that’s not what I remember. I remember a Jack Russell named Pal who patiently let the children in the family dress him up. I remember Rowdy, who was always willing to play. I remember the small, barky dog next door, and the two Pomeranians who lived three houses away.

The dog I remember best, though, was Mickey. Mickey was the neighborhood dog when I was growing up. Mickey belonged to no one and to everyone. He had no collar and no home, yet his black coat shone with health and he was neither fat nor thin, but, like the baby bear, was just right.

I first met Mickey when I was seven years old. My family had just purchased a home and it was our first trip to see it. It was night. Don’t ask me why. I was too young to question my parents, and my mother no longer remembers why we went to the house at night. The point is Mickey. I went up the front steps of the house and suddenly there was a wall of fur, chest high, in front of me. I couldn’t see a thing. I could just feel fur. “There’s something here,” I said. “It’s a bear.”

“Nonsense,” said my mother. “It’s not a bear.”

“Well, it’s something,” I responded. And it was, indeed, something. It was Mickey, and, as far as I was concerned, he was welcoming us to our new home.

We didn’t have a dog at that time, but I wanted one desperately, and when Mickey chose our porch to sleep on, I could pretend he was mine.

I’ve tried hard, as an adult, to figure out just what kind of a dog Mickey was. I think possibly a Flat-coated Retriever, but my memory of his head doesn’t match up with what I know of Flat-coats. I can’t even compare size, because I only know that as a child, Mickey seemed huge. I do remember at the time thinking that he looked like an Irish Setter, only black. Again, as an adult, I know his head and ears weren’t at all like an Irish Setter’s.

Whatever breed or mix of breeds he was, Mickey inherited the best temperament from all his ancestors. I never saw Mickey when he wasn’t wagging his tail. He never got in fights with other dogs and every human was his best friend. Small children could, and did, fling their arms around his neck for a hug, and Mickey calmly and patiently let them hug.

Across the street from where we lived were what we called “The Projects,” rows of barracks like buildings, each containing four apartments, and built to accommodate ex-soldiers and their families after World War II. There were three long rows of these units, and that meant plenty of families for Mickey to adopt. At the end of the development was a grocery store, officially Hebner Heights Grocery, but no one ever called it that. It was simply “Fred’s.”

Like our parents, Fred was an adult we could depend on. Fred waited patiently for us to choose penny candy, split Popsicles in half, wiped noses, broke up fights, mediated disputes, and saved Mickey for us all.

Mickey ran free for years, always staying in the neighborhood, never causing any trouble, but one day, the law caught up with him. He needed to be licensed, or he’d be taken to the pound. We all knew what that meant. In those days, it was a death sentence. Fred licensed Mickey, and bought him a collar for his tags. He even built him a doghouse, sided the same color as the store, and complete with a scrap of rug for a bed. Mickey never used it. He continued to sleep on and under porches, and people continued to feed him and he continued to roam fee, the neighborhood dog, no matter what the records said at City Hall.

There’s more traffic now and I’m always horrified when I see a dog running loose, worried that a car will end his life before he finds his way home, but there was something wonderful about growing up with a neighborhood dog.

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