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Small Town Dog Stories
by Mary Kay Nelson

Dogs and kids were part of the fabric of small towns when I was growing up in the late 1940s and 1950s. Dogs were on the school playgrounds, occasionally wandering into class. They rode in pick-ups and lay in the sun on front porches. There were no leash laws, but I don’t remember any vicious or mean dogs. An occasional gardener was upset when a prize-winning tomato plant was dug up or knocked over, but for the most part dogs were where kids were, everywhere in a small town.

My dad, Dale Luke, who enjoyed hunting pheasants and ducks, always said that if there was a return trip to earth after death he wanted to come back as a rich man’s hunting dog. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when he came home one day with a Weimaraner pup. My mom did question exactly how he planned to house train this dog since we lived on the top (sixth) floor of the Hotel Dale in Holdrege, which we owned.

Dad did clean up quite a few puddles in the elevator before he decided to put a doggie door to the roof of the hotel and train the dog to “do his business” up there. The dog, Tracker, enjoyed being at the top of his world and soon learned to walk along the edge, barking at other dogs below. This drove other dogs crazy. It also alarmed several town residents. One man coming out of the drug store across the street looked up and saw the dog casually walking along the edge of the roof and shouted, “Call the sheriff! There is a dog on top of the hotel!” To which the druggist replied, ”It’s okay. It’s just Dale’s dog.”

A penthouse doghouse.

When winter approached, Dad decided Tracker needed shelter on the roof and contracted a carpenter to build a doghouse. This was not an ordinary doghouse. It was fully insulated with two glass bricks in the ceiling to let the sun warm it during the day and had a carpeted floor. Careful measurements were taken of the elevator door and the door to the roof, detailed plans were drawn up, and the doghouse was built.

On delivery day, a problem arose. The carpenter used the outside measurements for the inside of the doghouse and it would not go into the elevator. That afternoon Dad and about six of his buddies borrowed a small crane from the city electrical department and with a pulley, winch and heavy chain, they hoisted the doghouse up all six floors to the roof. My mom, standing on the street watching all this asked, “Dale, what is this costing us?” My dad replied with a wink, “Honey, you don’t want to know.”

Dad, chuckling, loved to tell the story of the first night he had the pup. He had leashed him to the steam radiator in their bedroom and Tracker kept whining and trying to jump up on the bed. My mom would never allow an animal on her bed, and my dad knew it. He would scold the dog, “Stop it.” Push him off. “Get down, and get off.” Stamp his foot, threatening, “I need some sleep, just calm down.” On and on, all night. The next morning as he was checking out guests at the reception desk, one “traveling man” said to him, “Dale, I know it is none of my business, but there was a man above me who was just talking terribly to his wife all night long.”

Tracker was a disappointment as a hunting dog. The minute a gun was fired, he was under the car shaking and quivering. My dad couldn’t stand to see any creature that frightened and gave him to a farm family. Tracker lived a long life with them.

World’s smartest mutt.

Later, when I was in college and my parents no longer lived in the hotel, my dad got a “mutt from the pound” – today, I guess you’d call them a “rescue dog”. This dog, Cleo, was one of the world’s smartest dogs. She could do every trick in the book, was graciously behaved, and devoted to my dad. When it was time for a car ride, (Dad was driving a lime green Volkswagen Beetle at the time), Dad would throw the keys up in the air, Cleo would catch them, and they would go get in the car, and Cleo would drop them into his hand. Cleo and Dad did this hundreds of times, until one day when Dad threw the keys, Cleo marched out to the car, jumped in and dropped the keys out the passenger side window. After this, dad never knew when Cleo would give him the keys and when she would drop them out the window. I said, “Why don’t you roll up the window?” Dad replied, “What fun would that be?”

When we were at UNL, my husband Clarke bought a St. Bernard pup to be his fraternity’s mascot. The St. Bernard, Duchess, spent her summers in our small town and when it was time for her to retire from active campus duty she came to live with us. Our children adored her. She was gentle and protective with them. After about five years with us, we were forced to “put her to sleep” because of cancer. It was a sad parting for all of us and our five-year-old son, Casey, had many questions about death.

Dogs in heaven.      

Every morning about 10:00 A.M., Pastor Clarence Hall walked with his Collie, Lady, (no leash needed) from the Lutheran Church to the post office. One morning Casey saw them go by and waited on the porch for their return. As they approached, Casey walked out to them and asked Pastor Hall, “When Lady dies will she go to heaven?” Pastor Hall thought a minute and then he responded with kindness and respect, “Casey, if I need Lady in heaven, she’ll be there.” What a wonderful way to assure a child of God’s love and care.

There are more restrictive laws about dogs in small towns now, but families still welcome and love their dog companions. They teach our children lessons about loyalty, responsibility, joy and gratitude in a uniquely personal way. Small town America is still home to strong families and their dogs. Let’s hope it is always that way.

Mary Kay Nelson writes about her rural lifestyle from her home on Plum Creek Lake.

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