DUFFY'S CORRESPONDENCE

Duffy’s writing career began in St. Thomas when he received a letter from the St. Thomas General Services Coordinator. There were two explanations as to why City Hall would write to a dog. The letter told him that the last national census had indicated that he didn’t have a license and it was time to pay up. None of us humans believed that, but Duffy did.

St. Thomas is a small city and dogs getting mail is big news, particularly when the dog writes back, so a reporter from the Times-Journal newspaper came to the house to interview him. He put a hat on his head and a pipe in his mouth and took his picture. Duffy was pretty patient about the whole thing, but he didn’t have much to say. The reporter also interviewed Mr. Lindsay at city hall. His explanation was that someone had taken Duffy to the free rabies clinic and had given them Duffy’s name instead of their own. Our daughter, Barbara had actually taken him to the clinic and because he was the one getting the shot, when the Vet said, “name please”, she said, “Duffy.” A natural mistake, I would have done the same thing. At any rate, the letter came addressed to Mr. Duffy at 42 East St., so Duffy felt it was only polite to respond. Duffy was like that. They published his picture, his letter, and a write-up in the newspaper and Duffy became the most famous dog in the city for a while.

Shortly after that, we moved to a farm down on the Lakeshore Road. Duffy loved it there, once he got used to it, and so did I. He must have got the writing bug pretty bad in the city, because he began writing to the editor of the Port Stanley Beacon and they became quite close friends. He introduced us and I got to know him quite well myself.

Duffy hated anything that made loud noises such as motorcycles and snowmobiles. It’s funny though; he didn’t mind lawn mowers at all. One day a snowmobile cut through our yard a little too close to the house. This insult was too much for him to bear and he ran out and grabbed the track with his teeth. When the snowmobile had finished with him he was badly injured. We used an old wooden door from the barn for a stretcher and placed him in the back of the pick-up truck and drove him to the Vet. They wired and pinned his broken jaw, set his dislocated hip and we brought him home again all bandaged up. He seemed to get better for a while, but gradually he went downhill. His jaw and hip healed, but he never recovered mentally. When his sight started to go and all he could do was lay in a corner trembling, I had no choice but to take that last sad trip to the Vet. And so it was that Duffy’s pen was silenced.

Regrettably, his habit of using the dictionary term for his female friends is sometimes disturbing to those who have become accustomed to hearing the word used in an abusive sense in regard to humans. I spoke to him about this many times, but he always insisted that referring to his friends in human terms, would be subjecting them to an indignity he would rather avoid.

So, Duffy, wherever you are, these are your letters, forever enshrined in the realms of Cyber-space for the whole world to see. Enjoy.

Mr. William Lindsay,
General Services Coordinator,
City Hall, Talbot Street,
St. Thomas, Ontario.

Dear Mr. Lindsay;

Your letter arrived the other day. I must say I was surprised and pleased. I don’t get very much mail. In fact, as near as I can recall, yours is the first letter I have ever received. I turned the dog license part of it over to the boss. Since my funds are quite limited, he usually pays for things like food, vet bill and licenses. If you would like to bring your records up to date over there, his name is Don Edmiston. He lives here at the house with us.

To be perfectly honest about it, I did see one small error on that notice. I’m a male dog, not a female. What’s more I’m still a bachelor. I thought we were going to be able to do something about that last week, but it didn’t work out. I met this nice little bitch down on the corner and boy she just knocked me right over. Everyone was against it right from the start. I’m confined to the yard as a rule, but I just had to see her. The fence isn’t very high, but being a poor jumper, I climbed it. Actually, I’m not much of a climber either, but oh! Mr. Lindsay, this bitch was something else. I rose to heights I never dreamed possible.

Well, this really turned everybody right around at our house. They just couldn’t figure out how I was getting out of that yard. They never would have guessed that a collie that was too dumb to jump would ever learn to climb. Last Saturday the boss spent most of the morning spying on me. I got away twice, but he finally caught me climbing the fence. Well sir, that did it. He fixed the fence and the romance was over. It was sad. I cried all day. Yes, Mr. Lindsay, I’m a male dog and if I could just get out of that yard for an hour, I’d prove it.

Well, I’d better not sit here telling you all my troubles. I’ll bet you have plenty of your own down there at city hall. It looks as though you have a real problem with the Federal Government. They’re always getting things mixed up. That list they gave you is a list of dogs, not dog owners. By the time they get that straightened out, it will be time for a new census. I never could figure out how they could snitch on us dogs and not say a word about all those marijuana farmers they found. Not that it matters to me. Except for medicinal purposes, I don’t use marijuana. Any dog will tell you that grass is good for a sick stomach. Now that you’ve taken to writing dogs, you’ll probably get a great deal more good advise like that. I asked the boss to include the license fee with my letter. The tightwad will likely take advantage of the two-dollar discount.

Yours truly,
Duffy.




November 28, 1977

Dear Mr. Prothero;

One of my friends in Port Stanley said that you might enjoy hearing from a dog. They tell me you’re a great defender of the canine point of view. I always feel a certain warmth for people who appreciate letters from dogs. When I lived in St. Thomas, I occasionally wrote to Bill Lindsay at the city hall, but I haven’t heard from him in some time. He’s probably miffed because I left town without telling him. I suppose it was unkind of me after all the interest he showed in me while I was there. There wasn’t time to say goodbye to half my friends. The old man simply marched into the house one night and announced that the city was no place for man, child, or beast, and moved us all to the country. It was sad.

After we got used to it, we were all glad we moved. It’s lovely in the country and I enjoy being a real watchdog. Although, since I watched half the people in St. Thomas pass through our back yard, I suppose you might say I was a watchdog there as well.

I like the work, but all that barking is not as easy as it sounds. On the other hand, the job has its lighter moments. In fact, some of them are down right funny. For instance, the night someone came to the door at three in the morning. Naturally, I barked. That’s the sort of thing any decent watchdog would do. Thinking I wanted out, the old man came trotting downstairs dressed just the way the stork dropped him. His hand was almost touching the doorknob when he heard a little knock on the other side of the door. Well, that woke him up in a hurry. Back upstairs he tore, bare feet and bare everything else just flying. Naturally, I thought it was a great deal funnier than he did. I don’t mention it anymore.

St. Thomas didn’t offer much in the way of a social life for a fenced in dog, but here in the Port Stanley-Union-Sparta area, I have made many good and fast friends. Mostly fast. The very first friend I made was the sweetest little bitch a dog could ask for who lived about a mile down the road. Beejee was her name. Ah, sweet Beejee, dear sweet Beejee. Her memory saddens me even today. I’ve never spoken to anyone about Beejee, but it may do me good to tell you about her now.

She was part Beagle, so I suppose that’s how she got her name. Since she was small in size, she probably seemed an unlikely mate for an adult collie, but I have found that size is not everything. She and I were great friends from the beginning. She was warm and tender, and every once in a while she wore a heavenly perfume that smelled like all the flowers of summer bursting at once. Sometimes she got all cuddly, and- well, frankly, one day I discovered I was no longer a bachelor. I was so proud of her when the puppies came. I’ve never seen such a perfect little mother. She spent three quarters of her time feeding those little gluttons. Even though she lost weight and nearly wore herself out, not once did she complain. “Look Duffy,” she would say. “Aren’t they sweet. See how fat they are. Don’t they look healthy?”

They certainly did, I had to agree. Fat, healthy and just like me. (Strange how thoughts of Beejee always move me to poetry like that.)

They all looked exactly like me except for two little black ones, but I forgave her that one small transgression, besides, it wasn’t her fault. Black Gilligan, from down the road, who was certainly no respecter of the married state, chased her right into her doghouse. But Black Gilligan’s pups were cute and we loved them too. As the summer wore on, I found it difficult to believe that two dogs could be so happy; then suddenly our lives changed.

It was the weekend of the annual hawk migration. Since Beejee lived right on the corner of the Hawk Cliff Road, her boss thought it would be a good time to put up a sign advertising the pups. The activities had been so well publicized in all the newspapers, people were there from miles around. Of course, the hawks failed to show up again, but that never seems to matter much. If the hawks ever get it right, if they show up just once when they’re suppose to, they’ll scare half those people to death.

Anyway, some of the people had driven long distances and not wanting to go home completely empty handed, they picked up a puppy. When the weekend was over, all of our babies save one were gone. She was a cute little bitch who looked exactly like me. They called her Buffy. I thought that was a nice touch. However, soon even she was gone. Poor Beejee was a long time getting over that. I was kept busy with all my watching, but she ran all over looking for her babies. She was never the same again.

Late that winter, I was hanging around the house, just watching, when I caught a whiff of her perfume. (My! How she poured it on sometimes!) I made a mental note to visit her that night. When I arrived, although her heavenly perfume still lingered, she was gone. I waited there for three days, neither eating nor sleeping, but she never returned. I know it’s unfair of me, but I have always suspected that the hand of man was involved in Beejee’s disappearance.

Eventually, I returned to my old habit of roaming at night. I had often noticed a truly handsome St. Bernard across the road from Beejee’s house, but being so involved with Beejee, I had never paid much attention to her. As I passed her house one night, she was outside. Since I always try to be a good neighbor, I stopped to say hello. She proved to be the unfriendliest bitch I have ever met. As a matter of fact, she told me to “hook it,” whatever that means. Every night for months I stopped to pay my regards, but the same thing always met me. It seemed to me there was something different about her- something I couldn’t quite put my toe on. Even though I’m considered a handsome dog with a decent personality, in spite of everything I tried, nothing warmed her up. I noticed that she never wore perfume the way Beejee had, and I began to suspect the hand of man in this case as well. I was never able to determine what it was, but that bitch seemed strange- somehow altered. Finally, I gave her up.

Well Listen, I’d like to tell you about Princess and a few more of my friends out here, but I have some rather pressing business, perhaps another time. Right now, I have a formal complaint to lodge about those dog traps I hear they’re using out in Southwold, my watching is piling up out in the yard, and some idiot just pulled in on a motorcycle. I hate motorcycles. The old man had one here for a while, but I think there was something wrong with it. It kept falling on top of him. He finally gave up on it and sold it. What a relief. Now one of the kids has one. It seems to stand up a little better, but it still sounds like a bulldog with a head cold. I saw the kid ripping around the yard the other day standing on the seat. He’s as stupid as his old man.

Drop me a line sometime, Mr. Prothero, I’d love to hear from you. I haven’t had a lick of mail since Bill stopped writing.

Only Me,
Duffy





Dear Mr. Prothero;

Things are a little slow around here with corn all off and the fall plowing finished. Since I have no one to bark at, I may as well catch up on my correspondence.

The last time I wrote, I think I told you about Duchess, my unfriendly St. Bernard neighbor. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only St. Bernard in the neighborhood. I found one over on the next road, named Princess. (You’ll notice how these St. Bernards tend to lean toward royalty.) Of course, Princess wasn’t her real name. She had a pedigree as long as your leg, Frank, and her real name was so ridiculous they just called her Princess.

She was friendly enough. On occasion, she even displayed those same wanton eyes that Beejee had. She wore Beejee’s perfume too. However, whenever she got those roving eyes and started splashing that perfume around, her folks locked her in a cage. My reputation as a climber must have followed me from the city, because her cage had a lid on it.

Except for her pedigree I could have been happy with Princess. She told me it was because of her pedigree that she spent so much time in her cage. I never met a dog that was prouder of its pedigree than she was. She would go on for hours about her ancestors. Black Gilligan told me they were all a bunch of drunks who never went anywhere without a jug strapped under their chins, but I don’t trust him anymore.

She once told me one of her ancestors had crossed the Alps with Hannibal. I had always heard that Hannibal crossed the Alps riding on an elephant and while I could see she had the size for it, I knew she had no trunk. Just trying to be friendly, I asked her at what stage in their evolution had her ancestors lost their trunks. She didn’t speak to me for three weeks.

When she finally got over it and started seeing me again, it didn’t take her ten minutes to get back on her pedigree. She began boasting about the long line of champions she came from. Although it crossed my mind to ask her what they had been champions at, I thought better of it, just listening politely. When she finished, I thought I should say something nice considering all the trouble I had recently got into over her ancestors, so I remarked, “My! Aren’t you an aristocratic bitch though?”

Frank, have you ever seen a St. Bernard’s teeth? Well I have. They are huge and she showed me every one she had. “Don’t you call me a bitch, you cur!” Well sir, that did it. A bitch is a bitch, and that’s what she was. It wasn’t my fault that I was a dog and she was a bitch, but a cur, that was something else. I wasn’t going to take that kind of talk from any offspring of a long line of brandy swilling hillbillies even if she did out weigh me by a hundred pounds. Right then, I didn’t care if her ancestor had ridden Hannibal across the Alps bareback with spurs on, trunk and all, I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. “Not only are you an aristocratic bitch, Princess, you’re a tattooed one as well.”

Fortunately, her cage was a stout one, but I split anyway. I never went back. Even with a pedigree as long as hers, she was still ashamed of what she really was. I don’t suppose humans ever get that way.

I heard later she had a litter of pups that looked so much like her that everyone thought they were clones. Rumor had it, they were sired by an import. I think they must have been, for Duchess is the only other St. Bernard around here, and even if she had the inclination (which I doubt), I can assure you she isn’t equipped for it. One thing I’ll say for Duchess, Frank, she may have been a snarly bitch, but she never pulled rank on me the way Princess did.

All dogs with pedigrees aren’t like Princess though. You take Jake, my best friend. He’s a blue merle collie who lives over near Sparta. Jake has a pedigree nearly as long as his nose, but you would never know it to talk to him. He’s as down to earth as any dog you could meet. The night I met Jake, I thought I had met my first genuine mad dog. He was standing in his yard looking every inch a champ. I trotted up and Said, “Hi, I’m Duffy. What’s your name.?”

“Jake,” he replied. “What’s your brothers name?”

Now, I haven’t seen any of my brothers since I was weaned. I haven’t the faintest idea where they are. I have a sister over that way, but I wasn’t in a hurry to admit that. According to the dogs over there, she’s plagued with the same ailment that Duchess suffers from. Although I didn’t think he knew where his brothers were either, I thought I had better humor him. “Which one?” I asked.

“The one standing beside you,” he replied.

I looked around to make sure I was alone, and then I spotted his eyeballs locked on his long nose. The poor dog was cross-eyed and saw two of everything. Naturally, he thought I was twins.

It was obvious as we chatted that here was a fine animal, but I could see he was almost worn out. Since he was a cow dog as well as a watchdog, he was spending half his time chasing cows that weren’t even there. I knew if he didn’t do something about it soon, he would either lose his job or collapse from over work. It occurred to me that his problem was similar to the one humans have when they try to sight down a rifle barrel with both eyes open. I suggested he try closing one eye, but try as he might, poor Jake just couldn’t close one eye without the other. Finally, between us, we discovered that by looking sideways at everything, he could see much better. So from then on, Jake cocked his head off to one side. He certainly looks funny, but he says he would rather see good than look good anyway. Jake and I have been the best of friends ever since. Why don’t you drop out and visit him sometime, Frank. You won’t have the slightest trouble finding him. He’s the only cross-eyed, cocked-headed blue merle in Elgin County.

I wanted to tell you about Blue, but the garbage men are coming down the road. If I’m not out there it will ruin their day. The garbage men and I are at war. Unfortunately, the first time I saw them picking up the garbage, I thought they were taking something the old man wanted. It was a natural mistake. After all, I saw him put it out there with my own eyes. They threw sticks and stones at me- one even kicked me. Actually, it was the worst ten minutes I’ve had since I came out here. Finally, I decided if they wanted it that badly, they could have it. I know better now, but the garbage men don’t, so the war goes on. I just stand back a little further now.

Only me,
Duffy







Dear Frank;

What a miserable day. With the wind blowing the snow around the way it is, I’ve had to keep my tail down all day. I hate winter. The old man threatens every year to move to Tahiti. I sure hope he takes me with him.

Blue certainly likes the snow though. As soon as he saw it starting to pile up, he went ripping around rolling and sticking his nose in the stuff until he was so wet and snowy they wouldn’t let him in the house. He’s not the brightest dog in the world, but he’s been a laugh a minute and I’ve really enjoyed having him around the place. He is a big black Bouvier de Flanders that the folks picked up somewhere about three years ago. I guess they thought I was lonely or something. You have probably surmised by this time that I never get lonely, but he certainly has been a great help with the watching.

I gained quite a reputation in the city as a climber because of that darn fence, but compared to Blue, I’m no climber at all. He’s what you might call a high altitude dog. If they ever call for dog volunteers for a flight to the moon, Blue will be first in line. He got started in the climbing business by following the kids around. They like to play in an old barn that has part of its tin roof rolled back by the wind, exposing the loft inside. It’s great sport for them to climb through that hole and jump off the roof into a snow bank. While watching the kids disappear up the ladder one day, he decided to climb up after them. Of course, when he reached the loft it was empty because the kids had all jumped off the roof. He could see daylight through the hole, so he decided to go out and take a look around. The next thing we knew he was right up on the peak of that barn, looking around as if he owned the whole world.

Everyone thought that was pretty funny until it became clear that Blue was not nearly as good at climbing down ladders as he was at climbing up them. Kids sometimes have a rather direct approach to solving problems and one of them got the idea that if it didn’t hurt him to jump off the roof, it shouldn’t hurt a dog either. While Blue sat there howling about his great predicament, the kid went up and shoved him into the snow bank. From then on, Blue climbed onto that roof every chance he got, sitting on the peak like a king on his throne. Sooner or later he always got tired of the game, or got hungry, then one of the kids would have to go up and kick him into the snow bank again.

Later that winter, he had a little run in with a snowmobile. The old man determined that there was nothing broken, but it was obvious that Blue would be laid up for a few days. My wise old man said, “Well, I guess that will end his climbing for a while.” Two days later he came home from work pleased to see Blue outside. Although he was still limping, at least he was up and around. After supper he came outside and was just about to get in the car when he heard Blue howling. A black dog is difficult to see in the dark and it didn’t occur to him that the dumb dog would be up on the roof, but of course, that’s where he was. Right on his favorite spot on the roof, howling like a banshee.

The old man had sense enough not to push the dog off the roof with his injured leg, even if he was calling him everything but a dog. It was obvious his only other choice was to go up and carry him down the ladder. Well, Frank, that was a sight. I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole seven years. He finally got Blue into the loft, but that was only half the battle. That loft is so full of machinery and piles of old lumber that you have to keep your eyes wide open to get through it in broad daylight. In the pitch black, with eighty pounds of squirming bouvier in his arms, it was all he could do to keep the flashlight pointed in the right direction long enough to find the ladder. I’ll never know how he got down that ladder without killing them both. It’s a good thing all the kids were in the house. I’ve never heard such language in my life. They have a picture of Blue sitting on that roof, but I’d give a whole case of milk bone for a movie of that night’s work.

After supper one night, later in the spring, Blue and I were lying around the house when we overheard the kids talking about flying saucers. At that time, everyone was seeing strange lights in the sky and all manner of funny things. Now Frank, I have been roaming around the countryside every night for years and I have yet to see a moving light that didn’t belong to a set of wheels, or a set of wings. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of talk, but Blue was still a pup and I could see he was upset. I tried to tell him not to take it too seriously, but he was still worried and I know he didn’t sleep most of that night.

A few days later we were lounging around the back yard, Blue was almost asleep, when the Port Stanley foghorn sounded. Blue had never heard it before and he was on his feet in a flash. “Listen Duf! That’s it! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever heard one!” Of course, he had never heard a space ship, or a foghorn, but he dashed across the lawn at a dead run. “Wait!” I barked. “It’s only the foghorn!” But, it was too late. He was off across the cornfield as fast as he could run. Each time the foghorn sounded he stopped, cocked his head and listened, then away he went again toward the noise. When he disappeared into the woods, I thought it would be wise to follow him in case he got himself into trouble. Since I have more sense than to run through a new field of corn, by the time I caught up with him, he was standing on the beach at Port Stanley.

“Look at that darn thing!” he snarled as I ran up. “Look at that thing flashing! It’s just the way the kids said! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever seen one! Let’s get it!”

Of course, he had never seen a space ship, or a lighthouse either for that matter, but he ran down that pier as if pursued by every demon dog in Hades. When I arrived at the end of the pier, he had already broken off two teeth chewing on the side of that lighthouse. That little episode was very embarrassing for him, but he never chased foghorns again. Whenever anyone mentions flying saucers, he just covers his ears and growls to himself.

Well, I guess I’d better get back on the job. I don’t think I’ll have much time to write for a while. Now that the snow is here, I’ll have to keep an eye on the hunters and the snowmobilers. They never hurt anything, but if I’m not out there barking and making a fuss, the folks think I’m not working.

Drop out and see me sometime, Frank, and bring Nancy with you. Just say, “Hi Duffy, I’m Frank.” I won’t bite. And don’t worry about Blue. He does everything I tell him, besides, with two of his teeth missing, he’s pretty careful.

Your old pal
Duffy