ol' smitty

My folks moved from Cowtown to an old ranch house way out on the prairie outside of Godley, TX, while I was in the navy. I’ve often thought they did it just to make me get a place of my own once I got out- they figgered if I couldn’t find them…

It didn’t work. I tracked them down and crashed on the top bunk in my little brother’s room for at least two years.

Godley’s an interesting place. Undulating Johnson grass prairie running off endlessly West; green in fall and spring, dirt brown in summer and winter. The trees are basically mesquite and oaks stunted by the relentless, insane wind, and only reside in the low spots next to the few creeks. I always imagined that there were probably two types of Europeans who first wandered into this country. The first looked around, scratched his noggin, then hauled ass back to “civilization”. Good move. The second stayed, and was whispered crazy in right short time by the desolate wind in the high grasses: go awayyyyy- silence - go awayyyy…

Then got his/her crazy ass scalped and roasted by roving Comanche or Kiowa. Shoulda listened to the wind.

Anyways, being a ranch house on the prairie, there were plenty of semi-feral critters about. One was a mongrel who my little sister had named Gretchen. Mama told me that Gretchen had set up shop in the garage while the place was empty, and came out grinning and wagging her tail while the fambly was moving in. The name, and the dog, stuck.

Gretchen had a tendency to go into heat, and being poor folk nobody could afford to have her fixed. After a litter of pups died of distemper, then another from summer drought and uncontrollable tics and fleas brought on by it, we took to boarding her up in the garage when she puffed up. It was fun, sitting on the porch of an evening, hearing Gretchen’s suitors come from prairie and pastures, sniffing and yowling at the puffy scent moving around in the wind. Coyotes. Farm and cattle dogs. Crazy little feral bastards from the creek bottoms.

My favorite horny dog was Smitty. Smitty was a mix cattle dog from the Smith Ranch, about three miles away toward Cleburne. He was smartest, that Smitty. He didn’t fart around like the rest of them, howling around in the dusk, getting shot at when he got too close. He watched. He knew somebody would let Gretchen out during the day to do her business in the yard. When the human slipped and went into the house for a minute, he’d pounce. Smitty got yelled at a lot, caught in mid-mount, boot in ribs and a thrown stick or rock chaser.

One of those days I put a foot in his ass and hollered, “Gawdayamit, Smitty! You dumb sumbitch! Go to Cleburne fer pussy, like the rest of us do!”

He stopped at the fenceline, like he always did. He looked at me and wagged his tail.

“Dammit, Smitty, I like you. Now GIT. Afore I gotta hurt ya.”
Smitty smiled. I rushed him, grabbing up a stick. He pushed through a gap in the fence and ran, disappearing through the swirling Johnson grass.

“Now, then.” I dropped the stick and put Gretchen back in the garage.



The farmers who eventually settled places like Godley only did so after Comanche, Kiowa, and buffalo were killed down or run off to manageable levels. The ranchers allowed them places of cattle insignificance. The wind still made them crazy. They thought they could plow the prairie for corn. All they did was stir up big rocks from three inches under and knock back the Johnson grass for a season. Then they went away to the rivers.


I tripped over a rock on my way to the barn.

“Shit.”

I landed across another rock on my shin. “SHIT!”

Smitty licked me on the ear. Where’d that crazy ass dog come from? Fucker.

“GODDAMMIT SMITTY, I DONE TOLD YOU!”

Smitty smiled and bolted. I got up. He ran around, circling the pasture like the wind was getting to him, looking back at me over his shoulder.

“Smitty! I ain’t in no mood for your shit. GIT!”

I grabbed up a two-fist-sized rock and chunked it toward him. He turned, toward me, tongue flopping and flapping in and out of both sides of his mouth and BONK. The rock nailed him between the eyes. It sounded like a baseball bat on a watermelon. His eyes crossed, he dug a chin ditch with his legs still running, he fell on his side and stopped breathing.

The wind stopped. My heart stopped.

“Jesus, Smitty. I done gone and kilt ye.”

The prairie went quiet.





“SMITTY!”

“SMITTY!”


The sound of Bob Smith hollering for his dog. It had become routine. When Smitty went missing, that meant he’d gone over to the Huffman place for a piece of that Gretchen. Bob would come rumbling up the dirt road in his big grungy Ford dually, slam on the brakes, fill the front yard with dust, and holler

“SMITTY!”


Smitty wasn’t moving. The wind kicked back up. Dust was coming around the house.

“Dayam, Smitty. I reckon this is a bad day.”

“SMITTY!!!! You wayward sumbitch, git HERE!”

“Well, Smitty,” I said, “I love ye son. I didn’t mean to…”

“SMITTY!!!”

I bent down to pet him goodbye. He was gone. I heard Bob drop the tailgate. Voices came around the house in the wind.

“That’s right, git in thar, son. Set thar. I’m sorry he keeps comin’ up here, Mr. Huffman. But you ain’t gotta worry about it no more. ”

“Oh, he ain’t no trouble. Why’s that, Bob?”

“I took him down to the Vet’s yesterday. Got his nuts carved off.”