Michigan Dogman

 

     This year, along with family history, I’m going to include a few interesting tales and some Michigan lore. I hope these stories will make you ponder and question what you are so very sure about.

     Several years ago, I penned a blog entry called, “A Matter of Perspective.” In a way, this is an extension of that post. I’ll be putting myself in the first person as the character Debbie, but this is not my account. It was originally conceived as a Halloween Story based on actual witness testimony, but I never entered it on this blog since at that time, I was helping my boss close out her business.

 

 

In college, I used to live west of Grand Rapids. My friend Jean and I often walked before twilight. Some evenings we’d go to the edge of the state park so our friend Pat could join us. Pat was one of the security guards for the golf course that bordered the park and would routinely take a smoke break right about 8:30 pm. In autumn that was full dark.

     Jean and Pat and I were well acquainted with the path, rain or snow or dry conditions. The only time we wouldn’t walk it was during a windstorm because a branch could blow down and cause one of us to trip.

     This night Pat was about to light up when we heard a cracking sound, kind of like a pick-up truck driving through cornfields, but we were far from the road and nobody was allowed to drive in the woods. The only alternative was someone tearing up the turf at the course, but we could see no headlights. We heard no engine gunning for us.

     Then silence. Too quiet. Pat lit a cigarette.

     Jean joked that the sound might be the Michigan Dogman lurking nearby, and told a story about someone’s great grandfather seeing a dogman at his uncle’s hunting camp. Family lore said that the natives had reported them to the French and British all the way back a couple hundred years. Then Jean started talking about skinwalkers. The conversation faded since Pat and I were not buying it.

     We walked for another five minutes, maybe less, in silence. Then we heard an exhale. Loud. So powerful that it made the leaves and small branches beside us rattle!

     Pat hastily shone a flashlight where the state park and golf course fence met, about fifteen feet from us. Expecting a dog, maybe even a bear, at first the light was pointed close to the ground. We saw, long spindly legs, like a Barbie Doll’s, skinny but covered in dark brown fur. Pat’s beam traveled upwards to what could have been a hairy chest. The direct light illuminated what might have appeared to be a canine face, partially hidden behind pine boughs. Its hands, if you could call them that, were raised above its head, the fingers spread.

     Jean and I muttered, “Bigfoot,” under our breath but this beast was taller, maybe ten feet. Again it made a whooshing sound, exhaling at us menacingly.

     Pat dropped the cigarette and we high-tailed it to the guard building the moment the creature charged toward us. We could hear the monster’s footfalls on the pavement behind our backsides, gaining ground on our human bodies, weak compared to the lean, muscular, upright animal that we were now fleeing.

     We made it to the structure. Jean tripped over some decorative pumpkins left over from an earlier activity, falling hard on the inclined drive. I helped my friend up and we stumbled in through the doorway after Pat. Once inside the other guard, an older man close to retirement, yelled, “You’re late, where—”

     The man’s voice trailed off when he saw two more people with Pat. The old man looked angrier as we slammed the door behind us. “What the devil is going on?!”

     “It’s after us!” whispered Jean. We crouched down, the old man hunching over as he saw how visibly frightened we were.

     “What is after you? A coyote?” The old man sounded doubtful that this was anything more than college-aged students terrified of a puppy. Despite the radio being tuned into music from like thirty years ago, we heard heavy footsteps as something or someone brushed against the hedges near the front windows, crunching, chewing, and snorting its way around to the back as it searched for weaknesses in the shack’s clapboard walls. The old guard, no longer “the tough-guy,” suddenly realized the serious nature of our narrow escape, clutched his little transistor radio from another era, and fell into a chair in the corner.

     Muffled between the man's fingers, we hears the radio. A disc jockey asked listeners to call in to make a request or to share how their evening was coming along. He repeated the studio's number twice. I couldn’t remember my mother’s phone number. I couldn’t dial simple numbers like 911 or even zero! Despite my shaking hands and fingers that felt like deep-fried smelt, I grabbed the shack’s old yellow rotary phone and began to dial 2 3 1. . .

     “Hello, you are on the air, who am I speaking to?”

     “Dah, Duh,” I took a deep breath. “Debbie!”

     “. . . and how is your night, Debbie—are you spending this evening with your lover, or getting ready for Hal—”

     “We’re calling because, I think we just saw the Michigan Dogman!” I passed the phone around to my friends as we huddled beside the desk, telling him why we were calling.

     The DJ asked us a few questions and went along with us for a while, but then said, “You kids are great, you sure can tell a great Halloween story—”

     Jean fumbled for a PallMall in the almost empty pack, and flicked a lighter.

     “—Before I hang up, is there a song you’d like to request?”

     I dropped the phone on the floor. We all screamed. In the glow of Jean’s Bic, out the back window of the shed, on the low side that dropped off away from the parking lot, the dog-faced creature’s eyes glowed. It was tall enough to look into what could arguably be considered a second story! It was drooling.

     One of the dogman’s raised hands brushed the window as if to shatter it. Jean dropped the lighter. Its flame extinguished.

     The old man in the corner sobbed. “I seen it! I seen it! I seen it!”

     We waited in the darkness for the shattering of glass. After a couple songs, other listeners were calling in, saying what we saw was no joke, that the dogman was in some tales of the Odawa and from journals of old French traders in Ontario, Wisconsin and here in Michigan. One caller said that dogmen hadn’t been seen in nearly a hundred years but since the mid-90s more people were reporting them again in increasing numbers.

     The large footsteps crunched on the fallen leaves and gravel, fading farther and farther away. That’s when Pat screamed, “Run for the car!”

     The three of us scrambled for the door, shot out onto the drive, and dashed to the lot adjacent to the shack. Without looking back, we drove off, deserting the old guard. I think we busted a gate on the way out. Pat did not collect the last paycheck and we never spoke of it again. In fact, we never even went walking again, and within the year life took us down diverging paths.

     Decades later, after I moved to Indiana and married, then divorced and moved back, I took my kids and some of their cousins to the Upper Peninsula to camp. I told this story to my family around the campfire just as the sun went down. My oldest kid’s face was buried in his cell phone. Branches snapped in the woods behind me, dredging up that night from my memories.

     “Yeah, it was tall, and thin. Not like Bigfoot. Some say Sasquatch is maybe seven or eight feet tall. This dogman was maybe ten to twelve feet tall. It had upraised arms and its fingers spread out, like it wanted to grab one of us.”  I demonstrated with my arms in the air.

     My oldest let out a big sigh and turned his phone slightly toward the woods, “You mean something like this?” I figured he was going to show me his hasty Google search. Instead, his flashlight app was on and the beam shot toward the trees where more branches were crunching under the weight of something heavy.

     We all saw it: a tall, long legged, lean snarling beast, drooling as if it wanted to taste our blood; it’s arms, outstretched  in the dim light. My son sat still. I clutched my young daughter to my chest and she whimpered. My other children and their cousins began to cry and scream, and the dogman turned. It shifted before our eyes. The spindly, grasping man became a large, long, horizontal-presenting body, maybe six feet in length as it lumbered away from our fire.

     I know what my children and their cousins and I saw was exactly what my friends and I faced close to thirty-some years ago.

     Later in the month, I contacted Jean on Facebook and I was informed that Pat had died in Afghanistan. When I talked about old times and what happened the last time we took a walk together, Jean swore what we saw was a dogman, refusing to believe what else I wanted to say. Unsatisfied, I contacted the old guard. He was still alive. As it turns out, he’d co-authored a book about Michigan’s Dogman (which is how I located and identified him). He also confirmed Jean’s words, and said what we saw was not what I now speculated the brute to be.

     You see, that night around the fire, as the brown creature turned to amble off, my son told me something that changed my perspective. “Mom, what you saw was a moose.” He repeated his words, “A MOOSE!”

#Odawa #MichiganLore #Dogman #MichiganDogman

 

(This post is a compilation of witness narratives from encounters with the Michigan Dogman. At the end, my theory of the creature actually being a moose is revealed. Royalty free images have been used purely for demonstrational purposes.)

The Tree That Broke Me

      Dear Readers,

       I've been absent and I honestly don't think I was missed very much. Only one person asked if I was still writing. I had a very good reason for not blogging: not long after Easter, in the beginning of May, my county had an intense electrical storm and we were under a tornado watch. I sheltered in a centrally located closet in my home, hiding with my family, both humans and house pets. We rode out the storm and watched both Ryan Hall Ya'll and Michigan Storm Chasers on YouTube. The violent weather roared over us and we heard the deluge pounding our windows.

     Soon, the worst of it was over. What hit us, we realized, were actually the straight-line winds off of Lake Michigan. The sudden force snapped pine trees in half and uprooted hardwoods. One hit my neighbor's roof. You might ask how that affects me, directly. Fair question: my grandchildren live next door and they were terribly frightened. Everyone's power was out, except ours. We have a Generac generator. My youngest daughter and I walked over there in the blackness after the storm had passed. Maybe in a real neighborhood it's less of a challenge, but we live in a rural area.

     There was an entire dead, old tree right across half the road and some cars were driving up and over part of it, crushing its brittle branches. We shone our flashlights along the path's saturated soil and reached the house. We found one pine tree had penetrated their roof and the front door was blocked. Inside were crying children. Their mother could barely get out of the door to talk to us.

     In bright sunlight the next day, I found a huge limb was on top of the rabbit hutches but none of the structures were cracked. The chickens were safe as well. I went back next door and saw that there was a random branch that had stabbed into the ground several inches. If it had hit a human like that, it would have killed the person.

     I was incredibly shook up and for several months I put myself into work at the office. That became my focus until my last day of work just before Thanksgiving. There was less drama there than at home for me. My boss was getting ready to retire and was in the process of selling her building. I just couldn't string two words together for this blog and set it aside as I have done sometimes in the past. Some people can bounce back from nearly losing family. Not me. I already have my issues as you might know. 

     Then in the days leading up to Christmas, I wanted to write some greetings. Still I couldn't do it. I watched footage of the California floods yesterday. I'm unsure if that is what snapped me out of my funk.

      Today I had a choice: write now or maybe never write again. I have so much to say! I have thoughts, feelings, facts, history, controversial subjects and so much more to share, even if only my family and close friends benefit from my words. So here I am, wishing you a Happy New Year. My goal is to write once a week. 

Comments are appreciated.

#Generac #RyanHallYall #YouTube #MichiganStormChasers

                    The porch lights came on and we could see more downed trees.

Wonderful, Wonderful Easter Mem'ries!

     It’s almost Easter, and so I think back fondly of old and dear family friends, such as the Westerlunds. When I was little, these neighbors were a constant fixture in my life, even after we moved from Dearborn Heights, Michigan to Taylor a few miles away. Pete was born in Copenhagen, Denmark. Amelia was from Lebanon. I loved them both like another set of grandparents.

     I used to follow Pete, a skilled carpenter, all around from project to project. One was at his step-daughter Marie’s home where my family visited a lot. Other times those tasks were in his garage or yard. I observed while Pete painted baseboards that balanced on saw-horses, installed them, took a ballpeen hammer and gently pounded tiny nails into the wall to fasten the baseboards, then explained how to touch up that paint (a skill I remember into adulthood).

     Sometimes while working, Pete would take a break. During those breaks the old man would sing, “Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen!” Later at home, I’d play on my swing set and sing that same song over and over again. Most moments between projects, Pete removed his painter’s cap and then lit a cigar, clamping it in his mouth Popeye-style. I was fascinated every time I saw his bald pate: there were two deep dents in his skull covered by skin. (What preschooler absorbs all that in, like a sponge, to recall it decades later as if it happened moments ago?) At some point I changed the lyrics to “Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen! Something hit Peter in the noggin,” no doubt influenced by some older child or adult.

     I heard all kinds of tales as to why Pete’s skull was misshapen: from maybe having a brick land on his head, getting hit by a hammer, falling off of a roof. One day, long after we’d moved off of Stanford Street, I asked my father why Pete had two holes at the top of his head and was told that it happed as a result of an accident doing carpentry. I could only speculate as to which of the three incidents (maybe all three?) had caused these noticeable indentations.

     Other than singing and patiently explaining some finer points of carpentry, Pete was quiet. He was a man of few words, as his wife Amelia was the one to talk, direct and lead.

     My memories of Amelia were that she attended church faithfully, she would cook Lebanese recipes, she dressed in beautiful pastel colors, she spoke with confidence, but most of all, I was amazed because she was the first woman I ever knew who actually DROVE A CAR! None of my aunts, not my mother, not one of their friends, could operate a vehicle at that time.

     Whenever my mother wanted to go to Kmarts, Amelia was the one doing the driving. I have happy memories of eating at the store’s little cafeteria. One time even after we’d moved, she drove my mother and I to a meeting about traveling to Germany. I was bored in the back seat while the car was going down the highway toward the meeting, and like a little fool, I played with a dead wasp which, when I showed it to Amelia, she was clearly upset to say the least. On the way home I got a bloody nose and wouldn’t stop picking at it. I believe by that time, Amelia regretted the decision to be our designated driver.

     Since my American grandmother lived in Virginia and my Oma was in Germany, my sense of family and belonging came from dinners at the home of Pete and Amelia.

     Easter was the most special event where we’d gather with Amelia’s family: her daughter Marie and her husband, her granddaughter Delores and her husband and children, as well as a few more people that I do not remember. A short walk next door and we’d arrive to the aroma of kibbeh and warmed pita bread. (In my mind not nearly as delicious as McDonald’s, there was absolutely no way I was going to eat spicy raw bloody lamb.) I’d sit at the kids’ table with Amelia’s great-grandchildren Lynnie, Karen, Eric and Shelley. I’d pick at the pita bread and spoon a little mashed potatoes and gravy into my tiny mouth. Every time Amelia would yell at me that there were starving children in the world and how could I waste food? My dad would come to my defense and say that my plate had been piled high, by some adult, with things I didn't ask for and shouldn’t be forced to eat. He'd eat the kibbeh, but how could a little girl with a sensitive palate enjoy that? All the while, four little kids around me would be quietly chewing every morsel on their plates.

     I thought my fourth birthday was a public holiday like Easter or Christmas or even the Fourth of July! It was quite an event with a cake featuring every superhero that I was aware of: Batman, Robin, Superman, Catwoman… even Bozo the Clown! (I was a preschooler, and to me a creature with that much flame colored cotton candy-inspired hair had to have superpowers!) Amelia’s great-grandchildren were invited, too. My favorite kid there was Lynnie, since she was my age. It beat the celebration I had with a dog the year before, but I’ll save that tale for next week.

     Shortly after that wonderful party, my mom and dad found a home on an acre in nearby Taylor and before the end of the summer of 1968, we moved. Still, several times a year, we’d go back to Dearborn Heights to see my Pa Pete and Grandma Amelia. Sometimes we’d visit Marie’s home. Other times we’d travel up to Lynnie’s house where I was overwhelmed by the number of other children playing in their basement.

     Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays—we celebrated together and I felt that the Westerlunds were family. Over the years, we attended weddings and baby showers as Lynnie’s siblings grew. One year while I was in high school, Pa Pete got very sick and died in his own bed. I don’t know why I associate his death with Grace, Princess of Monaco, but I do. We were at the Westerlund's when we heard the news of Princess Grace’s car accident and I think that’s also when Pete was deathly ill.

     Not long afterward, Daddy retired and when he and my mother moved away to Utah, except for the occasional Christmas card, we all lost touch with the Westerlunds. Shortly after I got married, David and I went to Amelia’s old house. There was yet another generation at the kitchen table. I was amazed at how many LIVING generations that I knew of that family, five in total.

     That visit felt awkward and forced. I still loved them all, but somehow the dynamics were off. None of us kept in contact after the 80s, until social media brought some of us back together.

     There is no conclusion to this, no moral of the story, no point really -- just good memories that helped shape the woman that I am today. 

Christmas 1967- my Dearborn Heights neighbors. Pete and Amelia Westerlund, my mother Anneliese, Marie Scarpace (Amelia's daughter).  Me in the front row.

March 1968, my 4th Birthday, with Pete and Amelia's great-grandchildren. Facing is Karen Eggen, Lynn Eggen. Back to photographer is Shelley Eggen. Left of her, a bit of Eric Eggen. Me in green jumper, farthest left.

Beneath the Surface

     When I was about nine, my dad and I spent a special day together. It was August, and soon autumn would touch my world with bright orange and red, my favorite colors at the time.

     Daddy heard that this year would be the best salmon fishing in about three years, maybe the best opportunity ever. Even though the two of us only fished with cane poles, we both wanted to watch the expert anglers’ successes. We headed south of the Downriver area of Detroit with a loose set of places we’d visit.

     Our first stop was Michigan Memorial Cemetery. My dad let me drive our station wagon along the graveyard’s lanes, but only for a few minutes. He then took the wheel once again, a look of determination on his face. “There? Maybe there? Things have changed,” he muttered to himself.

     We parked and got out. Daddy reached into the back of our vehicle for some flowers. We walked solemnly amongst the graves of people who were at one time alive, breathing and dear to their loved ones. Daddy lit a cigarette as we zigged and zagged through a few monuments.

     “Ah, we’re close!” he said as he pointed to a grave. “I remember this.” Together we read the words on a headstone. The poem was something like,

            “Where you are, I once was. Where I am, you will someday be.”

      It was very somber and sobering to me. I felt very much alive!

     A little farther and we were at the grave Daddy was searching for. “Your grandmother wanted me to lay these flowers on my brother’s grave, He would have been forty-three. He was only eighteen when he passed away. That’s almost twenty-five years ago!” Then he whispered something like where had all that time gone. (Forty-three seemed so old then. Now my own nephews are about that age and even older! I am sixty-one myself. I repeat my father’s thoughts: where did all that time go?) He put the flowers down on the stone and we spent a quiet moment together.

     Taking deep breaths, Daddy’s tinged with grief, we carefully stepped back and returned to our vehicle.

     We drove to Monroe and parked our car in a lot by a river. There were hordes of people, picnic baskets, families, anglers of all ages. My father watched the skilled and the unskilled as they pulled up a few salmon here and there. He’d remark how some of them were fishing correctly and others were using illegal means. We stood near the dam and he said that only weeks before, some boys who weren’t much older than I, had been pulled under the current. He pointed to the surface of the river and then to the dam.

     “Take a look,” he said pointing to the calm above the dam. “Looks smooth, right? You think that’s safe to swim in like your backyard pool? Well, it isn’t.” Then he pointed at the dam. “Those children were deceived by the tranquility of the surface, but there’s an undertow that pulled them under. They’d surface and get jerked under there again and again. One of them drowned.”

     He quoted something about “Still waters run deep,” and not to trust the first appearance.    

     I remember the afternoon becoming overcast and we decided to go home. On that drive, I thought about the uncle I never knew, the cousins I’d never have and currents that I could not see. I thought about rivers, undertows, boys who would not grow to become fathers. 

     All my father’s lessons have served me well in life. He’d teach me with stories. I later found Daddy’s method was The Cherokee Way of the storyteller: Observe; Instruct. Occasionally my dad would lecture. I hated those times. I enjoyed the stories coupled with real-life examples from nature. I wish these days parents would teach their children and those children would listen.

     I realize that now attention is short and brains have been conditioned to snatch a snippet here and there.  Many things that are displayed on social media will not help us survive or thrive.

     I hope my family’s lessons will help my grandchildren to learn. I hope that these stories will inspire. I hope that when I am no longer here, my words will carry on, because there will come a time that you will be where I once was, and I will go to a place that you will be someday.

Harold

     I don’t believe my uncle Harold Cline Owen ever had a settled life. His parents divorced when he was a toddler, about the time his baby brother David was born. As a young boy, he and Davey were sent west to live with his father and stepmother. It’s doubtful that he went to school while living in Oregon. He certainly didn’t go to school much once he hit his teens because his kidneys were failing.

     It started when he was a little fellow. He and my dad walked to school in a cold pouring rain. Soaked through, they slogged through the mud. Harold had to urinate and looked forward to reaching the school’s toilet, but once he got there, the old school marm, as she was called, punished him for being late to class.  She would not let him use the lavatory. She made him hold it in and then only let him use the facilities during lunch. By that time, the boy was in so much pain. He still had to walk home after school.

     A doctor came and said that an infection had set into Harold’s kidneys and he was also affected by the low temperatures. The word for it is hypothermia. The young child’s fever spiked with the bacteria that had flourished. Harold had uremia and nearly died.

     Sometimes other kids in the neighborhood would pick on Harold for being sickly. Harold thought his way out of those predicaments. He didn’t want to look cowardly so he’d say, “Aw, I could lick all of you. Even my baby brother could fight you and beat you!” Then just to prove they could, they’d go after David and knock him around once they caught the boy. David learned how to throw punches which served him later in life.

     After so much family upheaval, traveling from Detroit to Oregon and back again, and a weakened body, Harold stayed home from school. What was the use of a formal education if you were going to die anyway?

     About 1947 in a little town called Rockwood in Michigan, Harold lived on a farm with his mother Zona, stepfather Roy and youngest brother David. The teen had a pig that he’d raised from the time it was a piglet. It was named Houdini after the famed escape artist. The two played together, spending the hours like best friends do. He taught Houdini tricks like he would have taught a dog. Wherever Harold went, Houdini followed, through corn patches, fields, and along the road. Sometimes Harold would eat out of the field. He could eat a large onion just like he would an apple. There were other things to graze on along the way. He’d share the scraps with Houdini as a reward for sitting, shaking hands (hooves) and other tricks. The months passed. Houdini was becoming a boar. Harold was losing his sight and wearing glasses.

     In the evenings, Houdini would rest in his pen, and Harold would read. Just because he didn’t go to school didn’t mean Harold couldn’t read for fun! The two grew together for a year until one day Houdini turned on his master.

     It was sudden and unexpected. Houdini had been escaping his pen several times a week and going into gardens, snuffling up the ground, then eating the crops. Usually, the hog would comply and leave with Harold, but not this time. The ever-growing boar not only bit him, it injured the young man’s hand deeply. Roy asked his stepson what he wanted to do, since it was his pig. It was a fair enough question.

     “Kill that pig and cook it up!” came Harold’s answer. Roy slaughtered that hog, a little earlier than the usual season which was generally October or November. With a dangerous animal, you just don’t wait. Infection settled into the boy and he was treated as well as he could for it.

     Weeks later, Harold was at the kitchen table, his nose in a book. He said, “Could somebody turn on the lights, I can’t read!”

     His mother, Zona said, “They’re already on, Son.”  Apparently Harold thought that someone, most likely David, had turned out the lights as a prank.

     “Mother! I can’t see!” he cried, realizing his sight had complete failed. In the hospital, it was said to be a result of prolonged kidney disease and sudden failure. No doctor could save the boy.

     In the forties, dialysis machines and their role in treating kidney disease were in their early stages of development. Using one of those machines might have prolonged Harold’s life, but there were none in Michigan at that time. Dutch physician Willem Kolff was just beginning his use of very primitive practical artificial kidneys in the 1940’s.  Doctors Leonard Skeggs and Jack Leonards had a workable system in nearby Cleveland, Ohio. Neither apparatus was ready for regular use by patients.

     On September 21, 1948, less than a day or two after being struck by blindness, Harold Cline Owen expired from acute Bright’s disease, most likely exacerbated by infection brought on by the hog attack. At the time, there was no treatment for Harold’s condition.

     He was only eighteen.

Just Doing Her Job

     It's been a month since I posted to my blog. First, I had the flu which took me out of commission for several days, then I was out of town with my sisters- in-law and some nieces. Today I have a moment to write, only because I spent the day at my doctor’s office, then to a hospital, the nearest one that had availability for a scan. So now, I must relax, but my idea of relaxing is to keep busy. That’s just the way my mind works.

     Over the decades I have had a multitude of problems from physical to mental, from accident caused, to disease. I won’t give details today except to admit that I mask them well. Not many people know this, but I have a psychiatric service dog. A service animal is different than a therapy pet or emotional support dog. A service dog performs a task that is needed by the patient. In the case of sight-impaired people, they are guided by their canine companions. Some of our furry co-workers pick up objects or provide a strong support for their humans to get up off the floor if they’ve fallen. Some will indicate that the diabetic human they serve has rapidly falling blood sugar and for young, busy people this actually does save lives. Teddi provides grounding and a sense of safety. I’ll explain more about that later.

     A service dog, in most states, is recommended by one or more medical professional. They are trained for specific jobs. These canines (and sometimes horses) are a little different than our furry friends that are there, just as our friends and companions, in that SD’s are allowed everywhere: clinics, restaurants, salons, museums, concerts etc.

     I personally do not anticipate taking Teddi to a restaurant unless it has outdoor seating. I never dine alone. I won’t take her to medical or physical therapy appointments, although my physical therapist says Teddi is welcome any time. I don’t need her at work, but I have had her at my feet, in the past, while I type reports and greet clients. Many people have their SD by their side every moment. It is their choice, need, and right. Please, do not distract their dogs or harass the team. Err on the side of caution. Be kind. When I need Teddi is mainly at night and specific situations due to my PTSD. My mind takes me back to certain moments and Teddi brings me back to reality.

     Several days ago, once I felt well enough to go for a short walk, I took Teddi to a mall. I’ve met other people there in the past that ask A LOT of questions. I appreciate it when these shoppers and walkers ask first before petting, and wait for an answer. Teddi is very accommodating. Many people ask me why she doesn’t wear a vest. The answer is, some SD’s do wear vests but it is not required by law. Wearing a vest encumbers Teddi from some tasks. Add to that, anyone can buy a vest online, slap it on a dog and it will look authentic. Chances are that dog will still bark, nip, lunge and pee indoors. Service dogs will bark to signal that their human needs help, but will not yap in public continuously.

     It’s because of these liars, many people assume most service dogs and owners are fakes. Some malls will remove all dogs including service dogs, which is against the law and breaks ADA rules. I’ve had it happen in another town, but left quietly (and injured myself) because my anxiety was getting the better of me during the harassment. 

     On our most recent jaunt to the closest mall, the guard on duty and I did more talking than I did walking. I’ve met a couple of the security officers there over the months and they are pretty good about Teddi. This guard didn’t recognize me at first, but when he remembered me, we visited and talked about PTSD and his time in the service of our country, the men he lost, injuries and survivor’s guilt. I saw that he was desperately fighting back his emotions. His eyes began to water. Teddi stood up on her legs, touched his chest and looked into his eyes. She put pressure on him and he began to calm. He said, “She’s doing her job.”

     I said, “Yes, Sir. She’s just doing her job.”

Along The Road

     After running unsupervised for more than a year in Oregon, Davey and Harold were about to be sent home. The next step was: how to get George Ransom Owen’s young sons back to Detroit.

     It was warm enough for a cross-country drive so Edward, the boys’ oldest brother, went to retrieve the little scoundrels. Some other family members went along for the drive, but I cannot recall who. It was about 1946.

     On the road they were, once again, camping sometimes along the way, Edward using his Army issued (or so I was told) dual coffee-maker-water heater-maybe cookstove at picnic tables. If I find that old relic in my camping gear, I’ll snap a photo and share it. I also thought that it belonged to my Grammaw Farmer.

     It was quite the journey for two young boys. Unlike their bus trip, they got to tour places like Strawberry Reservoir and the Kodachrome Basin. More than likely, those iconic destinations were off the beaten path as the saying goes, but for a man who just got out of the US Army, it was a pleasure for Edward to take his young brothers to see the country for which he served.

     One eventful day, a convertible passed them on the highway. The young teen drivers waved and acted like they wanted to race. They’d slow down, then speed up repeatedly. The sun was bright. The girls wore sunglasses and scarves. Edward just grinned but would not take the bait. Finally the driver in the other car waved then sped off, going over a hill. Only a few moments passed as Edward’s car crept over the ridge to a horrific scene: The convertible had sped into a truck carrying new sewer pipes. The front of the sportscar was folded into itself. Edward slowed his vehicle and the boys saw something that my father, Davey, never forgot – a young woman’s head tumbled out from one of the cracked pipes, still wearing the scarf, landing on what remained of the convertible’s crumpled hood.

     There was nothing that could be done. If not for Edward refusing the challenge, perhaps my father could have died.

     I don’t know how to end this story. Nothing else eventful happened along the road home to Michigan after that accident, but two things can be learned A. No matter how cock-sure you are of your driving abilities and vehicle, don’t drive recklessly; and B. It’s wiser to keep a cool head in every situation and just smile.