Old Blue

Barney Fife was in a pickle of sorts. A week’s vacation to Florida was coming up and he was having trouble finding someone to look after his dog Blue. Mrs. Mendlebright wanted nothing to do with the old fellow since she was allergic to him, so it would have been nothing but sneezing fits for her at feeding time. Andy knew that the only place for Blue would be his garage since Aunt Bee, likewise, was allergic to dogs. Others fell out of line until Barney called upon me at the last moment on Friday morning last. I hesitated at first because I wasn’t sure I was responsible enough. We bachelors sometimes have this inner sense where we feel we’re not capable of taking care of anyone but ourselves. But, I grudgingly gave in and took a chance with the gentle creature. Little did I know it would change my life dramatically.

Blue had been the local hero, as you know, vital in the capture of Ralph Neal, the desperate and dangerous escapee from Lintwood Federal Prison. After getting off the phone with Barney, I took down from my shelf a scrapbook of old Mayberry Gazette news clipping and sifted through looking for the story of Neal’s capture. Sure enough, as I remembered, Blue was given full credit.
The headline read:

Dangerous Criminal Caught By Bloodhound
and the story went:

‘……and though Neal tried to make the slip, the Sheriff Department’s alert and skillful bloodhound managed to track down and capture one of the most dangerous and cunning criminals this county’s ever encountered. The brutish strength of the adroit police dog was overpowering as he tackled the incorrigible escapee to the ground….’

I could almost hear Walter Winchell’s excitable voice as I read it, fully expecting to read about Elliot Ness and his men, and I smiled as I recalled that Andy told me once that it was a miracle if Blue could even find his own dish.

Shortly afterwards, upon the passing of Henry Choate, his owner, Barney gladly took in the blazing bloodhound and kept him. Mrs. Mendlebright agreed to let him stay as long as their paths didn’t cross. She might have raised his rent a quarter a week, but that’s only speculation.

So, on Friday evening Barney and Blue, with a sack full of dog food and a water dish, showed up at my front door along with a very special whistle.

“If ya have any trouble calling him,” Barney said, as he held up the whistle as though it was a doctor’s delicate instrument.
“Ok,” I said. “How often do I feed him?”
“When he’s hungry,” he answered, with a straight face.
“Ok,” I said, knowingly. We bachelors have an understanding.

Barney said he was on his way to visit Cape Canaveral, but I figured he went down there to chase those blonde Miamians he tried to get Andy to go after. I remember that morning back in 1961 when Alan Shepard made his fifteen-minute flight, and Barney and I stood outside the Courthouse looking upwards into the bright May sky thinking we had a glimmer of hope seeing a reflection off the capsule. Just like a couple of kids. A loafer walked by and stared at us with our eyes squinting, searching the heavens.

“What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen two guys look for a spacecraft before?” Barney cried.
Awhile later, he sent me a card from Florida with Shepard, in a silver suit holding his helmet and grinning from ear to ear. On the postcard he wrote:

‘Here’s to another Al that’ll go to the moon one day. Haha!’

I made a bed for Blue of old soft quilts and fixed it up in the corner of my office in the back of the house. A nice little cozy place near the fireplace. I was proud of the work I put into making it for him. He walked by it and jumped, or I should say pulled himself up onto my favorite reading chair instead. I reached into my pocket for the whistle but it wasn’t there. ‘In the kitchen with his stuff’ I figured. I let it go. He was behaving and seemed like a good companion. I got used to him and he got used to me. Twenty two hours a day he slept it seemed. Sometimes, as I worked at my desk, I’d look over at him lounging on my chair twitching as he dreamed about….I don’t know…maybe squirrels, his dish, Ralph Neal, annoying whistles….who knows? Every once in awhile I noticed he had one eye opened watching me as he slept. Here I was typing away trying to meet a harried editors deadline, and midway through the day he’d get up, face the other direction and plop right back down. ‘Adroit skillful bloodhound.’ Hmmph.

In the afternoons around two I’d take him and his special whistle for a walk. I’d read somewhere that women were attracted to single men that were walking dogs, so I gave it a try on Tuesday. I took Blue down Main Street, over to Maple, back through Elm, back down Main….slowly….but to my horror the only woman that seemed interested at first was Mrs. Spears exiting from Norman’s Groceteria! Yes, the same Mrs. Spears that was standing inside when that shaved collie came in…..I don’t want to tell ya what happened. Anyway, she knelt down to pet Blue and gave a start when she saw it was me at the other end of the leash.

I yanked on the leash and hightailed it out of there. Good old Blue seemed as spooked as I was.

“An extra heaping of slop for you, my fine lad,” said I, mimicking Malcolm Merriweather.

We did make one stop in town. I waved at Floyd and he motioned for us to drop in and sit a spell. He chuckled with delight upon seeing Blue, and the two gentle souls seemed to bond. I think the lollipop in Floyd’s pocket helped a little bit too.
“He’s such a smarrrrrt dog!” the barber chuckled, as his face lit up with joy. “You will bring him by again won’t you Al?” he asked, as we headed out. I nodded.
“You bet.”

Rather than return to my office on such a nice sunny day, I took Blue and just headed nowhere in particular. He stopped for a few on the road out of town, and clawed at an old gas can that was lying off to one side. I wondered if that was Ernest T.’s old unsuccessful courting can. We wound up in Thatcher’s Woods just outside of town, and I unlatched the leash from his collar. To my surprise he bolted, the last thing I would’ve expected from an overfed hound. At first I jogged after him but he left me in the dust and I lost him. It immediately felt like a cold hand around my heart as I thought of the worse. I scampered amongst the pine trees scanning each direction as I went. I saw a few squirrels playing in a field nearby, and figured Blue might have been after their companions. I must have gone two miles when I suddenly stopped. The whistle you fool! I blew into it and heard nothing, and my heart just sank.

I tried again. Nothing. Once again and this time I heard barking and growling in the distance. I followed, like a Deputy tracking the elusive Lake Loon, as the barking grew louder. It was near the caves at a clearing before them, and I stumbled and fell down into a shallow ravine hidden by overgrowth. A youngster, like Opie or Arnold, would’ve enjoyed the slide down, but it was like riding a rockslide for me. As I lay there a bit shaken, Blue shuffled over and licked my face. At first I tried to push him away, but then I laughed and gave him a bear hug, more amused than alarmed at my adventure. I felt his stomach growl and it reminded me too how hungry I was.

What was this place? Along with Andy, in our youth, I’d spent so much time here near the old caves but never recalled this lower plateau along the western edge. A little ways off, a clear steady stream rode silently by. As I steadied myself and began to rise, I felt something hard sticking upright out of the ground. First one, then another and then another as I dropped back to my knees and searched around pushing brush and overgrowth away. It was a burial ground. Headstones, flat markers, and then I found a small old ragged flag. A Confederate flag. Was I hallucinating? All doubts vanished when I felt my torn britches and scratches on my hands. My eyes widened as I dug and scraped dirt away and made out some of the names. Mason, Hunt, Briggs…..William Becker.

I started to cry as I knelt by my great-grandfather’s marker. Blue quietly came over and layed his head on my leg and let out a huge sigh.

I had heard of my grandfather’s history. Like other young men, he’d joined for fun and never expected the fight to last long. Born in Mayberry in 1843, he enlisted in Company E, Fifth N.C. Infantry Regiment on May 16, 1861 at Salisbury. He was promoted to first lieutenant on September 17, and participated in battles at Seven Pines, South Mountain, Antietam, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg. At Bloody Angle in Spotsylvania, Virginia, he was wounded May 13, 1864 during the most ferocious sustained battle of the war, a battle which continued unabated for nearly 20 hours. He died the next day.

I rose and slowly climbed out, Blue tagging along behind me. I stopped by the Courthouse to see Andy, and along with the information I had already researched, the old and tattered documents that overflowed the nooks of my library back home, he was on the phone to the State Capitol. I had detailed documents, pension documents, muster rolls….all required for the State to provide us with Memorial Markers. I wanted to see the gravesite re-dedicated and perpetually cared for….not just for my ancestor….but for those boys who lied beneath the old chiseled stones in that neglected corner of Thatcher’s Woods.

On Friday, Barney returned and stopped by my place. Funny, he still looked pale. I handed him the leftover sack of dogfood, a water dish, and a whistle.

“He wasn’t any trouble was he, Al?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Just as he turned I stopped him.
“Barney?”
“Yes?”
“Can I keep him another week?"

There were more walks, more attempts to attract Mayberry phillies, more visits to Floyd’s BarberShop, and visits to the revered hollowed grounds. I took Blue everywhere and he never left my side.

And yes, I showed him a photo of my great-grandfather.

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