THE HOBO'S DOG

"Sit!.... Rollover!... Play dead!.... Speak!.... Beg for a biscuit!.... Now, chase your tail!"

With each command, the small, wiry dog obeyed immediately. He eagerly responded to the crisp directions issued by the raggedy-dressed man and would wait expectantly for the next order to perform.

"Jump!!", the hobo said, and the little dog leaped into his arms, licking the weathered face of this so-called "King of the Road".

We lived next to the railroad, with only a narrow, dusty street and a bar ditch between us and the coal-burning monsters that chugged in front of our home daily.

I knew that, somehow, hobos marked homes that were good for a meal. I also knew that our home was marked. There was at least one or two gentlemen who had fallen on hard times who stopped at our house daily. They would walk around the house to the back door and patiently wait for someone to notice them.

As I remember it, none of them actually asked for anything, but would advise me to tell the lady of the house that they were there.

Mother didn't ask them what they wanted, but would soon arrive at the back door with a heaping plate of cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, purple hull peas, okra, or whatever she had. Sitting on top of this would be a wedge of cornbread or a couple of large, homemade biscuits and a slice of onion. She always had sweet tea or coffee to wash it down with.

While they were consuming this free meal, my Sister Martha and I had strict instructions to leave them alone, but being normally inquisitive kids, we couldn't help staring at them and wondering what their story was. Where you from?....what's your name?.... where you going?....How come you're riding the rails?....How did you know about our Mother giving out free meals?

In 1939, many men had lost their jobs during the depression and they were criss-crossing the country looking for work. Government projects were beginning to fire up including new highways, dams, state and federal parks where these men might find jobs, but they had to leave their homes and families and travel great distances to get to the worksites.

They were just coming out of the horse and buggy era and the railroads provided the cheapest means of transportation at the time. If they could avoid the railroad "bulls", whose job was to keep them off the train, and find an occasional handout, they could make the trip and earn a few dollars as day laborers.

In shabby clothes, with hair grown long and no shave for weeks at a time, they looked pretty rough. Mother warned us not to trust them, because some may be outlaws and desperate, but we found most of them were ordinary men with families back home somewhere, who were just trying to survive a tough time in their lives,

The hobo with the trained dog wolfed his food, while we waited for him to finish. I noticed he saved a little for the dog who also waited patiently for his share of Mother's bounty.

After feeding the dog and drawing a bucket of water from the well which they both shared, we asked him more questions...where did you get the dog?...what's his name?....can he do any tricks?....is he a circus dog?

The hobo, wiping his mouth after drinking deeply from the dipper which hung from the bucket, began to talk about his dog.

"I used to have several trained dogs", he said, "but when the circus folded, I had to sell them because I couldn't afford to feed them. Trixie here is the last one and I haven't found a good home for her yet."

"This is a hard life for a dog", he stated, "I'd hate to give her up, but I guess if someone offered me the right price and would promise to take real good care of her , well, maybe I could be persuaded to part with her." He hung his head and sadly considered life without Trixie would be awful lonely.

Two weeks before, our dog, Rex, had started chasing cars and try as we might, we couldn't stop him. Predictably, he was caught beneath the wheel of one and was killed. My Sister and I cried for a week about the untimely death of our friend. This could be his replacement!...and we immediately ran to Mother, begging her to buy this dog from the hobo who could no longer provide for her.

Mother resisted for a while, but we told her this was the greatest dog we had ever seen and begged her to come and see the tricks it could do.

After a command performance just for her, which made her laugh as she saw the little dog's antics, we could see her weakening. After a while, she discussed the price with the hobo and they agreed on two dollars.

In those days, two dollars was a lot of money and I never knew how much sewing she did or how many strawberries she picked or cotton she sacked to earn that much money. I just knew that, somehow, she came up with the two dollars the hobo required to part with Trixie.

As he was leaving, the hobo sadly hugged the little dog, and with a tear in his eye started walking down the road by the railroad track. The little dog tried to follow, but he told him to STAY!! and, of course, the little dog finally obeyed.

Trixie watched her ex-master until he was out of sight and then laid down in the shade by the house, put her head between her paws and looked real sorrowful.

We decided to allow her time to get over the change of ownership and let her alone for the rest of the day. After all, we would have her a long time and she would amaze all our friends with her bag of tricks the next day.

That evening, we fed her again, but she didn't seem too hungry. After a bite or two, she returned to her place next to the house and assumed the same position as before. We discussed the fact that she was in mourning for her previous owner and decided she would get over it in a couple of days.

Excited by the days events, and a little disappointed that the little dog didn't share our enthusiasm, we went to sleep that night still talking about what a great dog she was. We made plans to show all our neighbors how many tricks our dog Trixie could perform, hoping we could remember the proper commands that the hobo had used.

Basking in the glow of owning such a well-trained dog, we fell asleep and dreamed of large groups of people who would probably pay lots of money to see Trixie go through her repertoire. We would smile and bow as the audience cheered and threw coins for Trixie to fetch to us( for we had plans to teach her even more tricks).

Next morning we jumped out of bed, ready to begin our new life as Trixie's manager. We put a biscuit and a little gravy on a plate and went outside to find our new friend who would make us famous.

Trixie was not beside the house where we left her the night before. We ran around the house and looked under the back porch. We looked under the big oak tree in the backyard, still no Trixie. In desperation we ran to the back fence and behind the outhouse and the storage building. No little dog could be found.

Finally, we searched for her at the neighbors' houses who lived on our street, calling her name, "Trixie, come see what we have for your breakfast!" One of the neighbor's dogs showed interest in the plateful of food that we carried, jumping up to smell the bacon gravy that covered the home-made biscuits while we raised it as high as we could to protect it ...still no Trixie.

We searched up and down the railroad track, looking in the tall weeds to see if she was hiding in the drainage ditch ...but no sign of our dog.

Remembering the fate of our dog Rex, we went down the road both ways, looking for any sign that she might have met the same fate...but still no Trixie.

Tearfully, we returned home to tell Mother that her two dollar purchase was nowhere to be found. We expected her to be furious that we had not taken better care of such a valuable dog, but, surprisingly, she took it better than we expected.

"I told you them hobos weren't to be trusted!", she said sternly, while drying her hands on her apron. "I'll just bet you that hobo spent the night down the track aways ...then sneaked up here after dark and called that dog ...they caught the first train that rolled through here about midnight. Long gone by now, I imagine!".

Our hearts sank as she spoke, for we knew she was probably right and we had seen the last of that dog.

"Why, that hobo was just a common thief!", I exclaimed angrily, "He needs to be put in jail! Mother, are you going to call the Sheriff?", we asked. "Two dollars! ..why he ought to be put UNDER the jail!!".

"We sure ain't gonna feed no more tramps that come around here!", Sister said, "I'll just tell 'em to GIT!!" "Yeah!", I added, "No more free handouts."

Our rising indignation had about peaked when Mother stopped us with an angry look.

"Now hold it, you two", she said, with an edge to her voice, which was always a bad sign, "You can stop right there. I'll decide who gets fed or not."

"These are hard times and everybody is NOT a thief. Most of these men are just trying to survive. Sometimes they will do things like this just to make it to the next town."

"We are not rich, but we have plenty to eat, and it's our Christian duty to share what we have with others less fortunate. Now, don't let me hear you talk like that again."

"That little dog may be that man's only meal ticket and I sure don't begrudge him the two dollars." And with that, she returned to the kitchen to finish supper, which would include a little more than we needed, in case some poor hungry hobo happened to stop by.

Sister and I were shame-faced for a while, thinking over her remarks and trying to get over the loss of Trixie. In some ways, losing this dog hurt almost as much as having to bury old Rex.

Our Mother almost never went to church, preferring to stay at home and cook dinner for all of us. She always insisted that we attend every Sunday. Most nights she would read the Bible, saying that was all the teaching she needed.

We had to go to Sunday School and morning church service. Our Sunday School teachers were always telling us to love our neighbor and to be kind to those in need, even the stranger.

Reflecting on this event, many years later, we agreed that we had seen these principles in action by a woman who didn't just read the Bible, but responded to need as naturally as breathing.

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3-11-99

Billy P. Hall

3405 Cottonwood Ln.

Temple, Texas 76502