Oliver
By Wayne Pike

Oliver is a dog and this is the story of his life. As dog stories go, you can expect that Oliver has done something brave, has done something stupid, or is dead. Those are the basic themes for dog stories. Unfortunately, the last option is now true.  

Oliver came into our lives about ten years ago. He was raised by owners who could not seem to quell his desire to spend time on the road. Their solution was to have him put to sleep. Another kind - hearted person rescued him from that fate and took him home. They could not keep him from wandering either. He turned up with our neighbors, Ted and Thelma. They thought that maybe Oliver would be a good dog for us and that maybe he would stay with us without wandering away. After wandering in and out a few times, Oliver decided to settle down with us. 

He was a good dog, but his wandering ways did not vanish entirely. Most of the time he stayed around the buildings, but every so often, he would be off to the neighbor's. He loved to ride in vehicles, especially pickups, and this was one way that he could finagle a ride home. He seemed to know that certain neighbors, like Steve, would give him a ride if he showed up at the right time. To our knowledge, he never caused any damage at the neighbor's, although he once stole a rawhide bone from a young, innocent neighbor dog named Duchess. He must have been very good at his petty larceny as we never heard any complaints when he came home with a store - bought frozen turkey a few Thanksgivings ago.  

Oliver was always friendly to strangers and good with the kids, but he was terror to the sheep for a while. He had a habit, as many dogs do, of chasing whatever would run away. Keeping him chained up next to the sheep pen for about six weeks broke him of the habit. I don't know what transpired between the species during that time, but Oliver lost all interest in jogging with sheep. 

Oliver never actually hurt a sheep, but the poor chickens were not so fortunate. I understand that the Irish Setter is a bird dog type, but I could not understand why a well - fed dog that should know better would suddenly take to plucking live chickens. On two occasions, I drove into the yard to find Oliver holding down a live hen with his front paws and pulling her feathers out with his teeth. That is relatively hard on a hen and has a tendency to wear them out rapidly. The experience was a total loss for dog, hen, and humans, as no one in the family seemed eager to dine on a chicken that had been plucked by a dog. Oliver must have gotten bored with the hen activity, because by the time I was getting around to solving the problem, he lost interest in chickens and never bothered them again. 

Digging, on the other hand, was a lifelong obsession for Oliver. He was the "digging - est" dog I ever met. He always dug his "foxholes" deep enough to lie in so that only his eyes stuck up above ground level. He could snooze and keep an eye out for any threat from the chickens that way. He dug in the lawn, under shade trees, in the barn, and next to the steps going into the house. I tolerated most of the holes he dug because I realized he was only trying to get comfortable. A few small holes on twelve acres did not make a lot of difference to me. Oliver's favorite digging spot was the most troublesome. He loved digging in the flowerbed that my wife spends a good deal of time trying to make beautiful. Oliver had no time for the flowers; he just liked the soft earth kept moist and cool by watering. That earned him a few whacks with a stick and soakings with a hose.  

Yelling at Oliver was a waste of time. He was not sensitive to it in his younger years and he was quite literally deaf to it in his later years. He survived quite well with the aid of his "hearing - ear" sidekick, Rusty, the tomcat. Rusty was also a wanderer who came to us injured and starving. We helped him a little, so he decided to stay with us and care for Oliver. The two became inseparable. They hiked off into the woods during the day where they hunted, explored, and napped together. When we had some food for them, we called Oliver's name and whistled. Rusty heard us and came running. They must have had some kind of signal system because Oliver was never far behind. Rusty supplied the ears for their partnership while Oliver supplied the leadership. Now that Oliver is gone, Rusty seems to be at a loss for something to do. 

It was a tribute to our careful neighbors that Oliver survived as long as he did. It is a sad fact that a wandering dog usually doesn't last long if he doesn't stay off the road. Oliver's luck ran out. A car finally bumped him. I doubt that the injury would have been life threatening to a younger dog, but Oliver had not been strong for most of the summer. We thought for a day that he was going to recover, but soon it was clear that unseen injuries were taking their toll. 

Oliver got one last ride in a pickup. He and I wandered just a bit down our township road as we went together to the vet's office. Afterward, our family held a short service for Oliver in the pasture where we laid him to rest next to another of our long - time dog friends. The kids built a marker out of used lumber to mark the spot.  

As I think of it, Oliver may have been our dog, but he wandered through the lives of many people as he went about his career as a family dog. The neighbors who thought that he would be a good dog for us were right. We are glad that he wandered in.