Post by Vivian Flynt on Aug 13, 2005 2:36:15 GMT 9.5
© English Shepherd Advocate, 1999
This story was told to me by my childhood best friend. I’ve changed the names of everyone except the dog to avoid causing her or her family any embarrassment.
To the casual observer, the Morrises were a happy family: The lovely home situated on a knoll just outside of town; the hard-working, church-going husband and wife with the clean-cut kids. Looks, though, were deceiving. For beneath the happy exterior was a family under tremendous strain because of the father’s alcoholism. R.L. was a mean drunk and was capable of extreme violence against his family, especially the children, when he drank.
Katie and her little brother Robbie noticed with dread the way their dad had been secretly quaffing down the booze after the family returned from church that Easter Sunday. Busily preparing dinner inside, their mother was oblivious to the smoldering rage the alcohol was releasing in her husband.
Since it was such a lovely Spring day, Zetta had decided lunch on the picnic table in the backyard would be perfect. Calling from the kitchen window, she instructed R.L. to supervise as the two children set the table. The Morris’ black & white English Shepherd, Wags, laid by the backdoor, lazily wagging his tail as each new armload was brought outside.
Trying to carry four drinking glasses to the picnic table was too difficult for little Robbie and one of the glasses slipped from his grip. It struck a paving stone and broke into a million pieces with a loud crash.
“Why you little @#$%&*!,” their enraged father bellowed. “I’ll teach you!” With that he grabbed the axe from the woodpile and came after the kids. R.L., axe raised over his head, began chasing the kids around the picnic table in a murderous rage. Katie and Robbie were terrified and ran around and around the table screaming in terror as their father pursued them.
Suddenly Wags leaped at R.L., knocking him flat on his back. One paw was firmly planted on the hand that held the axe. Hackles raised and muscles taut, Wags kept R.L. pinned to the ground. As he stood over R.L., growling furiously and showing every tooth in his head, Wags lowered his snout until he was nose-to-nose with R.L. For several long minutes, no one moved.
Only when R.L. relaxed his grip on the axe did Wags release him. As Wags stood in front of his kids, blocking them with his body, R.L. slowly got up, reached down for the axe, and without saying a word placed it on the woodpile. Brushing himself off, he walked into the house.
R.L. never took another drink of alcohol. And, although to this day he remains a curmudgeon of a man, he never again struck Zetta or his children.
This story was told to me by my childhood best friend. I’ve changed the names of everyone except the dog to avoid causing her or her family any embarrassment.
To the casual observer, the Morrises were a happy family: The lovely home situated on a knoll just outside of town; the hard-working, church-going husband and wife with the clean-cut kids. Looks, though, were deceiving. For beneath the happy exterior was a family under tremendous strain because of the father’s alcoholism. R.L. was a mean drunk and was capable of extreme violence against his family, especially the children, when he drank.
Katie and her little brother Robbie noticed with dread the way their dad had been secretly quaffing down the booze after the family returned from church that Easter Sunday. Busily preparing dinner inside, their mother was oblivious to the smoldering rage the alcohol was releasing in her husband.
Since it was such a lovely Spring day, Zetta had decided lunch on the picnic table in the backyard would be perfect. Calling from the kitchen window, she instructed R.L. to supervise as the two children set the table. The Morris’ black & white English Shepherd, Wags, laid by the backdoor, lazily wagging his tail as each new armload was brought outside.
Trying to carry four drinking glasses to the picnic table was too difficult for little Robbie and one of the glasses slipped from his grip. It struck a paving stone and broke into a million pieces with a loud crash.
“Why you little @#$%&*!,” their enraged father bellowed. “I’ll teach you!” With that he grabbed the axe from the woodpile and came after the kids. R.L., axe raised over his head, began chasing the kids around the picnic table in a murderous rage. Katie and Robbie were terrified and ran around and around the table screaming in terror as their father pursued them.
Suddenly Wags leaped at R.L., knocking him flat on his back. One paw was firmly planted on the hand that held the axe. Hackles raised and muscles taut, Wags kept R.L. pinned to the ground. As he stood over R.L., growling furiously and showing every tooth in his head, Wags lowered his snout until he was nose-to-nose with R.L. For several long minutes, no one moved.
Only when R.L. relaxed his grip on the axe did Wags release him. As Wags stood in front of his kids, blocking them with his body, R.L. slowly got up, reached down for the axe, and without saying a word placed it on the woodpile. Brushing himself off, he walked into the house.
R.L. never took another drink of alcohol. And, although to this day he remains a curmudgeon of a man, he never again struck Zetta or his children.