The chicken pen was only an interim solution. We hadn't planned on getting a dog. Certainly our parents hadn't. We had dog pens, proper ones, but they were filled with stinky hounds who were transported into the country at night to chase foxes and wolves. They'd kill Julie with happiness, they'd be so glad to have her in the pen.
They never met a dog or anything else they didn't like. They'd jump on her to say hello until she couldn't stand up, then lick her and nudge her till she'd die just to get away from them. We couldn't possibly put her in that pen.
The only other enclosure available was a chicken coop, but we'd never had chickens, not really, unless you count those little green and blue chickens we got at Easter some years. They never lived very long, though we fed them and tried to take good care of them.
We usually found them dead after a few weeks. Mother never liked the idea that they were dyed a color. She said yellow was good enough. She always thought the dye killed them once it got in their systems. She only bought them to save a few from the fate she felt most of them met.
"People buy them like they're candy. And they don't even have a place to keep them or kids who have any idea how to treat a chicken," she'd say as she put a tiny feeding center in the coop.
We had the coop all right, but it wasn't meant for a dog. Still, it was all we had for Julie until Daddy found time to build her a better one. We kept her out most of the day and played with her endlessly. We ran, she chased us. We hid, she found us. We fed her, she ate. We got drinks for ourselves out of the cistern and filled her waterbowl with the same fresh rainwater. We sipped, she lapped. Mother said she couldn't come in though. She never wanted a housedog.
So we put Julie in the coop when we went in the house for meals or to get in out of the worsening heat. It was May, and the Texas thermometer was starting to simmer. We placed the pen under the large oak tree beside the house. We rolled the chickenwire coop over, its spare framing holding it taut, so that the small rectangular door was on the top.
We'd pick her up, drop her gently through the opening and latch the door. She showed her dislike of this arrangement by jumping up and bumping the door repeatedly with the top of her head, trying to get out, whining loudly all the while. I found her behavior upsetting.
This behavior concerned all of us, but bothered me so much that I rushed through meals, often stopping midmeal to run out and check on her. We had only had her three days, and Daddy had set posts for a new pen in the pasture beside the house. He would bring the wire home to finish the new pen after he left the gin today.
Today, though, Julie seemed to sense impending freedom and to resent the restriction of the coop even more. Her jumping was turbocharged, her whines louder than ever. For some reason, during supper, I felt the need to jump up and check on her and rose suddenly from my chair.
"Are you through eating?" Mother asked.
"No, I'm going to check on Julie," I said as I moved quickly toward the backdoor.
"Now, you need to finish supper," she said, but for some reason I ignored her, heading with singleminded determination for the backyard, moving like a piece of iron drawn by a powerful magnet. Opening the back screened door, I let out an odd screaming sound I didn't recognize as my own voice. Now frozen, with wooden legs and arms, I watched as several people ran past me toward the coop.
Julie hung suspended, her head trapped in the partially open door of the pen, legs pedaling furiously. There was no sound from her. Her brown eyes were huge, bulging, filled with fear.
My brother Elton grabbed the pen door, opened it and swooped Julie up by her torso. I was at his side in an instant. She whimpered, and he handed her to me. We were both quivering. Elton patted my shoulder and patted Julie's head.
"She's okay now. Lucky you went to check on her," he consoled me. "Daddy, where is that wire for the new pen? I'll go ahead and get that done."
That night Mother didn't say anything when Julie slept on the foot of my bed. She just didn't acknowledge it. Starting the next day, Julie had a nice large pen to stay in when we weren't playing with her. But Julie ended up sleeping on the foot of my bed every night until the end of her life; Mother never mentioned it. After all, she didn't approve of dogs in the house.
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I want to read more.
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