Saturday morning

Come Saturday morning, I’m going away with my friend, we’ll Saturday spend to the end of the day, and then we’ll move on, and we will remember long after Saturday’s gone.” Boy is that true. My Saturday friend was my dog, Wolfee. He was a small mutt who probably had a little shepherd and a little collie and who knows in it. He was more the size of a border collie, but he had short hair and was tan in color. He always went with me when I went bike riding on the farm. I must have been in the seventh and eighth when we had him. He was also Adam’s dog, and we really liked him.

In the eighth grade there was a music event at Mobridge that all of the area schools were invited to bring a certain number of their students to. I was lucky enough to be chosen to participate. We had to learn certain songs with our own teacher, and on a Saturday we went to Mobridge and spent the day working with a conductor that was brought in from some college. I remember being in the Freeman-Davis gym. It felt like the whole place was full of students on risers. We practiced all day and finally went with a Mobridge student to their home to eat supper and change for a concert.

I have no idea whose place I went to, but I do remember that she had a friend come with her to entertain about three or four of us from Herreid. Her mother made Rice Krispy bars for us to snack on while we were in the basement relaxing. She had diabetes and the friend was always splitting the bar with her so that she didn’t get too much sugar. One of the songs that we sang was Come Saturday Morning, I loved singing that song as I biked along the road by my house with my dog.

If you follow my blog, you might have caught the time when I said that I can’t ever be a real writer because I hate the fact that their has to be a conflict in every story. I especially hate stories when you just know that the animal is going to die. This is one of those stories. One summer day several of my mother’s geese were found dead in the farm yard. My parents argued about how it happened. We found no marks on the birds, but I couldn’t convince my dad that the dog didn’t do it. Well, he was not a shooter, so I thought we were fine with the dog.

Wouldn’t you know it one of his uncles came by that day to talk. My dad told him that he thought the dog killed the geese. Emil pulled the gun out of his pickup and shot our dog on the spot right in front of us. I was in the house or I would have run in front of that bullet. My brother was devastated. To this day he is a dog raiser. He loves his dogs. The worst part of the whole story is that later we found a pail of gopher poison open and sitting in the middle of the feedlot where my mother left it when she was distracted. I know that some of my sisters say they blamed the deaths on a weasel, but I remember looking at those stupid geese myself and their was not a mark on them.

Just telling this story makes me so angry, I just can’t think about it. I hate stories like this, yet they are real, and maybe that is what makes them even harder to read or to write. Animals, why do they have to pay the price for the mistakes of humans. Perhaps this is why I am not a dog person. Every time I get close to a dog, something happens and I lose them. It is just easier not to have one.

I guess that is all I have for you at this time. Sorry that it was such a negative story. I have no photo of Wolfee, but I will leave you with a picture of Audrey, who is living in our yard with us because of Victoria. She is a fairly good dog, but I have no intention of liking her because I don’t want anything to happen to her too.

Audrey.

Audrey.

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