VIXEN, A DOG TO REMEMBER
She certainly wasn’t what I’d call beautiful, but neither was she in any sense of the word, ugly. The black, short-haired dog I came to know as Vixen was a medium-large mutt of non-descriptive lineage—a by-product of some owner’s unspayed bitch. I had not particularly liked the creature when I first laid eyes on her. My husband’s brother, his wife and two young children had recently moved onto a small farm some fifteen to twenty miles distance from ours.
Vixen had greeted me with what I took to be out-and-out hostility: snarling, snapping, growling, barking, frantically endeavoring to break the chain that kept her from taking a chunk out of my leg. Definitely not a dog I would have cared to own.
I like surprises, but not the kind I discovered one early morning. I went to the barn on an errand of some sort to find Vixen tied to a post. “I felt sorry for her,” Carl replied and continued attaching the milking machine cups to a cow’s teats. His set lips discouraged further questioning as to why his brother’s dog was now in our barn. I’d been married to the man for twenty-three years, give or take a year or two and had learned early on when to back off and give in—which was practically all the time. Defeated, I left the barn in a fit of rage and made my way up to the house and into the kitchen to prepare breakfast—wondering how I was going to tolerate a dog I did not like.
As I began to pour the first of several pancakes on a restaurant-size iron grill, Carl delivered the good news. While endeavoring to untangle his new acquisition from the rope tether, Vixen freed herself, ran out of the barn and across the lower meadow, apparently heading for home. Inwardly, I wished her well, turned back to the browning pancakes and smiled.
After breakfast, genuinely concerned for the animal’s safety, but at the same time grateful for being spared the noisy and possibly dangerous nuisance I imagined her to be, I accompanied my husband out to the front porch. Vainly, I tried to assure him that Vixen would surely find her way back home. Carl, probably feeling a bit guilty, gazed out over the meadow, then pointed to a black dog trotting its way through the meadow grass and toward the barn, its tongue dripping saliva and a gaily-raised tail thrashing the air. Carl joyfully whistled and Vixen came bounding up the stone steps leading to the porch and flopped at our feet.
Completely won over, I knew then and there she would never again experience the humiliating restraint of a chain—nor be ostracized from the companionship of humans. It took less than a week or two for her to become a valuable asset, keeping close watch over the cows and alerting us to anything amiss. Though she never became a house pet, our entire farm became hers to roam and the barn a warm shelter during cold winter months.
Three or four years later when our beloved Vixen came between a snow-covered roadside bank and the wheel of a moving tractor, I mourned her death with many a hot salty tear.
Vixen sounds like she was a great dog. Reminds me a bit of a story Sumaya has about a dog they had when she was growing up. Maybe I can get her to tell you about it some time.
Great story, Mom, and not one I recall hearing before. I don’t really recall Vixen, either, or perhaps only vaguely. I was surely close to graduating high school, by that time, and my mind was no longer keenly attuned to the going-ons at the farm. Thanks for sharing that story.
Hey Mary –
Vixen sounds like a great dog. I am a huge dog lover… and was drawn to this story. I have a long standing habit of picking up stray dogs and finding their owners… or keeping them. I worked with a rescue group briefly, “fostering” a couple big German shepherds. I kept one. Still have her.
She’s a great gal. You wouldn’t recognize her if you saw her when I got her, and how she looks now. She was in rough shape.
Some idiot had kept her on a short chain her whole life (probably 4-5 years), no shelter, and tried to use her as a brooding bitch for $ until some neighbor finally turned him in. It was the middle of winter – and she was out there in the snow chained up, no food, no shelter, and with pups that were still nursing. They took her and her puppies away from him… and while the puppies would be “saved”, she was due to be put to sleep. They figured no one would want her. A rescue group I had just became involved in stepped in, and asked if I would take her temporarily. I said ok…
She came to me with one ear half gone… along with a chunk of her tongue missing. They said it was probably frost-bite, or black flies. She stunk to holy high heaven. Thin. Matted fur. Every parasite you can imagine. Her stomach still hanging low, ready to nurse. She was about 4-5 years old, but had bad hips, no muscle, literally cried when she moved much, and seemed much older.
She was confused… but, came into my home… no fear, full speed ahead, tail wagging, wanting to kiss everyone to death. Not your typical German shepherd attitude. She was like a kid in a candy store… just wanted to see everything… go everywhere… so happy to have a home and family. She must never have been beaten… just severely neglected… and she didn’t like other dogs much at first…. unless it was a pup.
A few months later, she looked like a whole new dog… and she was well trained, well mannered, and had adopted our two cats as her own pups.
She still gets happy every time we let her in the house after she’s been out in the fenced in yard. No chains for this gal… ever again.
She loves everyone…. but, is protective when she feels she needs to be…. or on my queue. She’s a great family dog, but definitely MY dog. She gets along great with other dogs now, but she’s a tad on the dominant side. Won’t take crap from any male dogs. I fostered a couple huge males dogs while I had her, and she liked them, as long as they didn’t try to jump on her back… If they did… boy did they hear it from her! I guess she had enough of all that crap with the breeding. Can’t say I blame her! LOL
She’s my “tough mamma dog”…. She’s getting up there in years a bit now (had her for about 3 years now) but, you can’t tell her that.
I like to think she and I are sort of kindred souls…
From some of the other stories I’ve heard from you (fighting then making friends?) – maybe you and Vixen were a bit a like too.
LOL
~smj
Vixen was a Groundhog-Dog; she slayed groundhogs. While groundhogs might be considered cute critters, the holes they dig in pastures and crop fields are dangerous; they are not a farmer’s friend. Vixen would flatten herself to the ground and creep along inches at a time to position herself. She then sprung high in the air and landed hard on her prey; it was quick death. (I had the opportunity to witness this once.) I don’t think she ever ate of the kill; I could be mistaken. Dad reported that Vixen brought the gift of a groundhog to him often on a summer’s day when he shut down the tractor for the purpose of switching hay-making equipment or to exchange a full wagon for an empty one. He petted her and praised her for the good dog she was. He put the dead carcass on the tractor and did not throw it in a hedgerow until she was well out of sight.