By Neal Wooten
You never forget your first pet, which is why the name of that pet is a standard security question when you open an account online. I sure remember mine. I was only three when someone gave us two chunky pit-bull puppies, which were brothers from the same litter. One was solid black, so we called him Blackie. The other was all white except for a brown circle around his left eye. We called him Whitey.
Blackie died. Looking back now, it was probably parvo, something I hadn’t heard of back then. Living in a rural area, we didn’t take dogs to the vet. Ever. We didn’t get their shots or ever have them spayed or neutered. Even when they got bitten by venomous snakes, and their necks would swell, they just had to ride it out. Spending money on a dog or cat was just not something people did.
But Whitey was an awesome dog. He resembled Petey from The Little Rascals, except his patch around his eye was solid and not a drawn-on circle. He was stocky and bowlegged with a permanent smile and tail waggle. He was always with me as I spent most of my days in the woods or at the creek. I taught him to sit, shake, and roll over.
We could never break him from chasing mom as she left early to go to work, and several times he got too close and was run over. But he was built like a miniature tank and would recover and go right back at it. Eventually, he couldn’t even run in a straight line but ran at an angle. But he kept on smiling.
When I was nine, we moved to Rome, Georgia. It was the only year I didn’t live on the mountain as a kid. Our second day there, we heard a horrible commotion and rushed outside. Three very large neighborhood dogs were not welcoming and were attacking the newcomer. Whitey was the most loving dog, but he gave back as good as he got. We ran the dogs off, but Whitey was left with an open wound a foot long in his belly.
Even then, we didn’t go to a vet. We took him to Uncle Roy, who lived above Rising Fawn. Uncle Roy carefully stuffed all the inner parts back inside the wound and sewed him up. The operation was successful, and Whitey recovered and lived the rest of his life there at a quiet country home. Whenever we would visit, he’d rush to greet me, ready to run and play.
I’ve loved many dogs, but none occupy my memory like Whitey. I hope to see him again.
