Clarence Goes to Town

On one summer in the early 60s a family visiting Ouray, Colorado lost their dog. Maybe they were from Texas or Minnesota; maybe they just came up from Montrose or Delta to escape the heat down valley. Either way, someone lost their dog, they never found him, and he came scratching on the side door of our motel.

Kids that we were, my brothers and I just flipped for this new visitor, and wanted to keep him.

Out of the question. My dad already had punk kids pulling up in front of the lodge and laying on the horn in the middle of the night. Drunks followed families back to their room because their daughters were so irresistible. The motel itself was as close to the highway as building regulations would allow. He didn't need a dog around. Dogs bark.

But he was a softie, and rarely said no outright, he was more inclined to set up a deal killer, some arrangement where it was in someone else's hands. I've seen him make this mistake at least twice, and Clarence was the first mistake.

"The first time this dog barks, he's out of here."

Clarence never barked again for all the years we had him. Oh, he tried. Within minutes of arriving he was protective, and wanted to voice his defense of the pack. But we grabbed him around the muzzle – not knowing what we were dealing with – and shushed him. He got the idea pretty quick. Soon, there was not a peep to be heard from him. Even in the heat of one of his legendary fights, he'd only growl. And he'd never tangle with another dog unless he was up town, out of earshot from home.

We had bought a book in one of the many book fairs at school, "Clarence Goes to Town." This dog had no resemblance to the cocker spaniel on the cover, but we immediately thought Clarence was the proper name, and so it was. Perhaps we somehow knew he would head for town a lot. So the name was very appropriate.

Ouray had no leash law. Packs of dogs ran on main, teams of up to eight harassing each car that went by. A rigid pecking order was constantly being sorted out by all these free souls. Nobody used a leash, though if you liked your dog it was a good idea to accompany him on his rounds, carrying a big stick to fend off all the worthy opponents (or suitors, if you're dog was unfortunate enough to be female).

We went through a book of dogs, and declared Clarence a beagle, though there wasn't an exact match with the picture. His nose lined up some with his forehead. His jaws looked like an ad for wannabe marines. His front legs swung in a pigeon-toed manner because his chest was so muscular. Yup, the book didn't have a picture of that dog; otherwise we'd have known our mutt was a cross between a beagle and a pit bull.

In the coming years, dogs resembling Clarence were born all over town. Gilbert Martinez once came out of his house and asked my mom – all in good fun – if her dog would like to come in and support his puppies. More than once I was walking home with him well out in the lead. I'd see him approach some tourist's unchaperoned pet, and it was too late. I could come running up and yell at him, and apologize to the horrified visitors, but no one was going to deny Clarence what he saw as his due – no dog, no human, not even Ronnie.

Alan, maybe.

Clarence was Alan's dog. He always gravitated to Alan. They went hiking a lot, as many photos of Clarence up Black Bear or Horsethief trails will attest. When Alan left for college, you could tell. Clarence was Alan's dog.

Alan was also a tough kid. Eric and I could put in a respectable day's work, but Alan was built, well, a bit like Clarence. He was never a bully. Like all of Hal Hall's sons, he would have caught hell and shame if sent home for fighting. "That's what stupid people do." Anyone who gave Alan crap – or any of us for that matter - had Hal Hall to thank for the preservation of their weenie egos. They were nothing.

Few took their pets to the vet in our town. Rather, a vet would come once a year and vaccinate the canine rabble for rabies for little or no cost. It was a matter of public safety, what with dogfights breaking out all day every day. Untrained dogs are not above going after humans, and if you were a kid on a bicycle, God help you, especially if you were going by the Silver Shield Mill . . .

. . . unless, of course you had Clarence along =:]

Anyway, it was Clarence's turn to get his rabies shot, and we tried to hold him down, but when that needle went it he headed for the ceiling, and it snapped off.

"Damn dog" said the vet, and set about attaching a new needle.

"Hey, what are you going to do? Isn't that needle still in his hip? What do you do when this happens?"

He just glowered at us. Even humans didn't have health insurance. If a dog had to run around with a needle in his but for the rest of his life, that's just the way it was. Like I say, this was one tough dog.

In his later years, Clarence would whine during the winter months. He lived to be at least 14, so it was probably arthritis. But that needle couldn't have helped, unless it somehow worked its way out, which may have been the case. Looking back with my middle class sensibilities, I think what you're probably thinking. Why not pay to have someone remove that damn needle? Well, we weren't middle class. You'd have to be there to understand. A dollar can mean a lot if you're not "rich".

One day after Alan had been gone to college for several years, it occurred to me I hadn't seen Clarence for a couple weeks. I was caught up in my own things and we were all working our usual 14-hour days. I asked my mom, and she said something like, "Oh, you know he's an old dog. He probably just wandered off into the woods and died." I developed a too-little, too-late concern and asked around. No one knew.

My dad was an old farm boy. He had raised all sorts of stock, and slaughtered all sorts of stock. He knew what to do if an animal's time came. That's probably what happened to Clarence. The pain was probably too much, and it was clear what had to be done. I'm glad someone knew what to do. I wouldn't want to think Clarence wandered away. He was loved. He wouldn't have done that.