TOBY

The Dog From The Wrong Side of The Tracks

His name was Toby. He was about a six-month-old pup, purportedly half Springer and half Brittany Spaniel. He was basically all white, long haired, with a black head and a black ring around his stubby tail. Toby lived under the kitchen range in an apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, in a neighborhood called the “Gut” in Ridgewood, New Jersey. At that time I was a seven-year-old boy, an only child, just waiting to turn eight so I could join the Cub Scouts. My Mom and Dad took me to the “Gut” and we adopted Toby and he was to become my best friend and my constant childhood companion.

Toby and I grew up together in Florida, during the fifties and sixties, in a bygone era of orange groves, sand, gopher turtles, and other things, about three miles from the Gulf of Mexico and the Beach. We listened to WOWO in bed at night and listened to the Whistle of the Orange Blossom Special. We chased birds, captured rattlesnakes, fished and did all the hundreds of things a boy and his dog do together.

Now, Toby was a gentle soul with people. You could practically reach down his throat and retrieve food out of his belly and he wouldn’t complain a bit. But with other male dogs, it was a different deal. Toby was somewhat of a ladies man a la Disney’s “Lady and the Tramp”. Now in those days, nobody tied their dogs up; they all ran free just like the kids. Once a year, like clockwork, Toby would take off and be gone for a week or two. My Dad would drive me around town, we’d yell for him and I’d go to bed each night praying for his safety. Eventually one night, we’d find him, on the wrong side of the tracks, full of dirt, insects, matted hair and dried blood. We’d bring him home, clean him up, bandage him, he’d have it out of his doggy system, and he’d be good to go for another year.

I don’t know how many fights he fought, or how many little Toby’s may have been running around, but I do know he was the boss dog for miles around. One spring, a boxer bitch was in heat on our street. Every day, after I got home from school, I’d have to drag Toby’s sorry butt off their front porch and take him home. All the other neighborhood dogs sat a safe distance away, across the street watching, because Toby had whipped their collective asses for the privilege of sitting on the porch. That boxer must have slipped out of the house unaccompanied at some point, because she had a litter, and they weren’t little boxers, but Toby and I kind of laid low about that time. Tobe had a long and successful career at this sort of thing and had the scars to prove it…including an ear with a two-inch tear in it.

A boy couldn’t have had a better pal than old Tobe. I did join the Cub Scouts and went on to become an Eagle Scout. When the time came, I went away to college, but when I came home summers to work, there he was, that stumpy tail wagging a little slower, and you could tell he was getting old. When I was done with University, I had the opportunity to spend a year in the Orient. My Mother wrote often, telling me the news of home, and always mentioning Toby. Then came the letter that said nothing of the old dog. And he was never mentioned in another letter. My mom hadn’t the heart to put it in words, but I knew. The old boy had passed to the Rainbow Bridge, to wait for me and chase birds and butterflies and be young again, and who knows? Maybe a trip or two to the other side of the tracks. ---Lead Dog

Pvt. Lead Dog & Toby