“Pumpkin”

Written by Stumblin’ Jimmy Watermelon

es, it is September. Yes, it is still rather early for most all people to be thinking of pumpkins. Those having such on their minds are either growing them or perhaps a little too engrossed in thoughts of Halloween. As for me, my wife Ghee and our two house cats (keep in mind that we have no children), Fickle and Clawed, it is a whole different matter.

If you have followed some of my stories or perhaps read my book, Going Coastal, you might know that there has been for a fair number of years a fifth member of our family. She wandered into our lives on a very hot day in mid-July 2002. Our veterinarian told us he guessed her age at about seven years old and that she was most probably a golden retriever, no matter how orange-red her coat may appear. I learned sometime after that there are two lines of golden retrievers, English goldens which are most always blonde to platinum in color as well as a bit shorter in the legs and blockier in the body and head and American goldens, which tend to be yellow-orange to orange- red, taller and somewhat leaner. Whatever the truth may be, the latter described our newfound friend in aces. Through veterinarian offices, as well as public and private animal shelters, we put out the word of her being found and left each office as a contact point.We were told that by going this route, only a legitimate possible owner would follow up. No one ever called and we became her companions with our place her new home.

Ghee and I, having no idea of her first given name, set about trying one after the other. I’ll admit to being the more (what am I saying!?) – the ONLY - anal retentive one in our little troupe, so I had pen in hand and as we went along in this trial and would write down and subsequently cross off each name that drew no response. After about a legal pad’s page full of names and careful study of her demeanor, Ghee called out,“Lady”. Our very furry friend lifted her head from the living room floor, wagged her tail and rising to her feet, came over to us. O.K., Lady it was going to be.

Now I know you’re confused, but please just follow me here. Some several months later, while our newfound protégé was still in training, so to speak, as to following our requests, I decided to take her out for an early morning walk through our quiet neighborhood. The little heed she paid to strong commands, I would describe as “whimsically oblivious.” With no leash yet attached to her collar, I thoughtlessly opened the front door. Well, needless to say, Lady bolted out, down the front steps and quickly towards the street. Following after her, loose leash in my grasp, I quickly spied what had sent her bolting forward. A young lady jogger was trotting, aways down the lane and heading towards us. With a beeline focus, “Lady” was headed towards her at an equal gait. I, at this point was coming up closer to the rear now calling to my dog, “Lady, Lady, LADY!” In retrospect I realized too that I might have been waving my arms a bit. Happy dog, paying neither heed nor the slightest care, continued on toward her joyful point of focus. Female jogger, went from blissful morning run - with happy dog approaching from yard – to, what from her facial change of expression I can only imagine as horror at a crazy man with red face and arms flailing, coming after her hollering, “Lady, Lady, LADY!!!”.

She had no idea why, she did not appear to want to find out. The poor woman turned on a dime and ran away far faster than she had approached. The dog, “Lady,” stopped in mid-street, looked back at me and wagged her tail. I could not see the jogger as it was all a blur and she, at this time was very, very far down the street. I prayed for myself, should some beau or spouse of hers soon show up in retaliation. I took a hard look at this orange-red dog sitting patiently for my approach. She wagged her flag-haired tail again as if to say, “Hi there. Where’ve you been?” I stopped a bit before her, thought through my windedness a bit, looked straight in her eyes and called out, “Pumpkin”. She lifted off her haunches and came straight away. We never called her “Lady” again. I never saw the jogger again either. I guess she came to favor other routes.

Pumpkin, as we came to know her better, was one very special creature. She had not one mean bone in her body, even beyond that, she had a tenderness about her to all warm blooded things – toads, lizards and such, she simply paid no heed. We had worried how she would handle our cats; how they would handle her. She met them as close to the floor as she could put herself. She never advanced on them but would let them engage, however they chose, with her. Fickle, a gray and cantankerous old Persian,took her with an aloof passing. Our other cat, Bella-Pooh (who passed on several years later), a white Persian, would brush by with a little more warmth as if to let Pumpkin know that it was all okay. Believe me when I tell you this was significant, as Pumpkin weighed in at around 75 pounds when she arrived.

Some time after Bella-Pooh had left us, Ghee came home with a tiny little kitten, I mean it was teeny tiny. Ghee had been told that the mother was Persian and the father, unknown. The vet told us that the little female couldn’t have been more than five or so weeks old, almost too young. Too late now, we gradually introduced the small ball of fur with big eyes to Fickle and Pumpkin. Fickle was no big deal – for either of them, but when we headed toward Pumpkin, the kitten’s already big eyes bugged out a good bit more. With an oddly loud cry from such a tiny little thing, she began what could be described as ‘back-pedaling’ in Ghee’s hands. An appreciated introduction from her towards the great big dog took awhile and in the end it happened on that kitten’s own terms. Gradually, as days passed, with Pumpkin waiting quietly on the tiny feline’s approach, watching the kitten out of the corner of her eye, curiosity overcame fear. The little, big-eyed ball of fur made it right up to the dog’s nose and sniffed before skittering away. Next the little one’s attention turned to a big dog tail. It went on like that until after a week the kitten had, to her own requirements, discovered the whole of this big furry creature. After that the growing kitten, named “Clawed” (Ghee, after some research, had decided not to have the kitten declawed) often slept on Pumpkin’s bed beside her canine pal and even drank from the dog’s water bowl with her. I wasn’t sure Clawed had not begun to think herself of that breed. Through it all, Pumpkin portrayed a patience and tenderness that we came to know as her hallmark.

For the longest time, I’ve got to tell you, as sweet as she was, I didn’t think Pumpkin was any too bright. She would answer obediently to the usual requests and dutifully fetch a thrown ball or hunting dummy (I mean like a cloth stitched duck, o.k?) but all too soon she would seem to tire of that, walk up and lie down, roll over on her back and beg for a scratch. If she lived for anything, hunting had nothing to do with it. Her sole focus was constant loving contact and food, preferably treats. I would note here that as I soon learned, medallions of fresh carrots and such were NOT treats. Her slowness only went so far, I figured. Still, there was this little test that I had seen on some television show where you show your dog a treat (a real treat) and then hide it under a mug or a can or something and see how long it takes for the dog to figure the thing out, turn the can over and get the treat. Sounds simple, right?

Over and over again, I would play this game with Pumpkin. Over and over again she would wander around sniffing only to finally give up, sit or lie down and looking into my eyes, wag her tail a bit. I’d finally relent and pulling out the hidden treat hand it to her. This went on and on. You’d think she would have figured it out. I half resigned myself to having a sweet, stupid dog. I’ll bet you’ve guessed it. One day, in our living room, I ran her through the same game -- same immediate results. This time instead of giving in and handing her the treat, I just got up and walked out of the room then a bit down the hallway. I could look back and still see her reflected in our hall mirror but she couldn’t see me. What I witnessed was a crystal clear lesson in one’s perceptions and a strong taste of humility. Pumpkin got up, paused, looked towards the entry to the hall where I had turned, then sauntered over to the can and knocked it over with a swipe of her paw and ate the treat. Anthropomorphism be damned, I swear to you when she lifted her head back up, the look seemed a pretty close proximity to disgust. With heavy feet, she walked away to her bed and lay down in a huff with her back to the room she had been in -- God as my witness. And I never made up any more tests again. Dog not so stupid after all, human, long way yet to go...

So it has gone for these six years. Pumpkin’s tenderness and patience has never altered nor has her loyalty to her adopted family. I don’t know where the time went but one day I looked at her and an ever-sweet face with a white mask looked back. She moved slower and we poured love upon her all the more, even the cats. Yes, even Fickle.

Pumpkin waited for me to come home from work, just this past late July. Waited with my wife Ghee at her side; waited for me to pet and stroke her head once more. She left with love beside her, left loving all. We are a witness to her and there it is. Always remembered, hope to be reunited. September? I haven’t noticed the time...

Going Coastal —
Twelve Months And Then Some of
Stumblin’ Jimmy Watermelon

James Lynah Palmer Jr.
Sea Oats Publishing LLC

A collection of short stories straight from the heart of the Lowcountry. Stumblin’ Jimmy shares adventures from his life that include many colorful characters. His tales have such wit and drip with so much southern charm that he has been called the twenieth century Mark Twain. Jimmy is a monthly contributer to the Bluffton Breeze Magazine and his work is in syndication. To purchase “Going Coastal” email to: seaoatspublishing@yahoo.com or call (843)762-2606.