Memoir: Rexie

How shall I keep Mother from trying to write my memoir herself? Her ghost is pushing my fingers on the keys.

"Tell them about the time your father brought Rexie home." Yes, that's good story, brave father, sensitive mother, thrilled child. A happy ending story and it takes place when I am very young, exactly the right age to have dog of my own.


Ever notice you don't get to choose the breed? It's only a kid's dog so who cares if it's a mutt or a Wolfhound. Okay, a Wolfhound would take up too much room in that little house in Middle Haddam, three rooms down, three up and a single bathroom. The first house my parents owned. and they couldn't wait to have a mortgage burning party. I was six. And that was the house Daddy brought Rexie home to.


"Sal," he called up the stairs. It was late, Sally, my mother, and I were in bed. Dad had stopped to whet his whistle on the way home from somewhere down at the shore where he taught Coast Guard navigation as his part of the war effort, being too old to join up to fight. "Sal, come down and see what I brought home."

My mother obeyed the urgency in his voice and so did I. Barefoot, we felt our way down the steep, painted stairs into the livingroom where Daddy had a brown and white Walker Foxhound on a short chain. The frightened dog made himself as flat as he could and edged toward the door.

"Oh look, he's scared to death," Mom said. "Now be careful, Reedie, just show him the back of your hand. Let him sniff and he'll know you. I hope," she added, offering her own hand.

"Son of a bitch was going to shoot him,"Daddy growled. "Said he wouldn't hunt. He was nasty, he kicked the poor dog. At that tavern in Chester, you know the one." Mom was patting the trembling dog.

"Water," she said, rising to get it. "Don't try to drag him through the living room. I'll bring it. He can stay on the porch tonight. If he doesn't go through the screens." She put a pot of cold water on the porch and folded an old blanket. "Here." She patted the blanket but the dog cringed away from her and headed toward the outside porch door. "You think he needs out?"


"Nah, he piddled when he got out of the car. Water and a bed, that'll have to do it until morning."


"No, honey," Mom turned to me, closing the inner door. "He'll be here tomorrow. You can feed him and make friends with him. Poor guy, somebody's been awfully mean to him. He's terrified of us and this new place."


Daddy told us the man bragged about how he beat the dog to teach him to hunt but it didn't work because the dog was stupid.

When Daddy offered five dollars the man refused. Daddy insisted and again he refused to sell at any price. My tall father stretched his six feet four inches over the guy who was by then too drunk to argue, handed him a fiver and just took the chain.


By morning Rexie would stand almost all the way up, trembling hard. We had removed that awful chain and now tied a clothesline on his collar so I could lead him outside. With his ears flat back he sniffed and gazed around the unfamiliar yard, found a bush and lifted his leg. Watching me very cautiously, he ventured around the yard, poked his nose into the old barn, then backed out as if he sensed a trap.


There were no traps, no cages or kennels. We hadn't had a dog since Rastus tried to bite my face off when I was two. I don't remember what Mom made for Rexie's breakfast, probably milk toast, our Sunday night supper.

This was her comfort food, hot milk pour over toast with a lump of butter melting on it. Proper dog food would come later that morning.


Rexie let me stroke his tan satin head and his long, long ears. His deep brown eyes were sad--well, no wonder with a master like that. We clucked our tongues and thought Daddy was quite a hero to rescue the poor boy.

In a week Rexie was comfortable in the house, certain his water bowl would be in that exact corner of the kitchen and that dinner, kibble and thawed horsemeat (half a Hills one pound frozen package) would appear every night right on schedule. My job and I loved it.


I loved every hair on his body. The black saddle, the white breast and legs, the white tail tipped with black. For the rest of his life Rexie ducked if anyone raised a hand to pull a light switch or just stretch and he spent Fourths of July under a bed but he quickly learned how to sit and sit up and come and go in the cars with his head out a window, ears flying, black nose wet in the wind. We took him everywhere, even on the boat. He became the darling of village. He completed our family.

Ah, that boat. And Rastus, there's another tale for another day.