Barrie The White Dog

Barrie wasn’t MY dog. He belonged to the farm. My grandparents’ farm, where he lived in the corner of the yard, between the barn and the stables, chained outside of his kennel. Barrie hated that chain…

Like everyone on the farm, Barrie had a job to do. My grandad would not suffer any idle mouths. “You want to eat, you work for it,” he would say, sometimes with a smile in his eyes. Barrie’s job was to guard the farm.

Theft wasn’t uncommon in the village in those days; with both four- and two-legged perpetrators. Chickens often fell prey to foxes, but it was the martens that were the real menace of the hen house, somehow always able to find a way in, despite all efforts of my grandad, dad and two uncles, devouring the eggs and killing a chicken or three for good measure. And then there were the two-legged ‘scoundrels’; there were stories of horses and cows stolen in the middle of the night, right out from under a farmer’s nose, whilst the family was all sound asleep.

There was no chance of that with Barrie around. His deep “woof-woof” was enough to wake up Uncle Joe in a blink, no matter what time; his window was facing onto the yard and Barrie's kennel. And it would wake up half the village, too, if Barrie saw something he really wasn’t happy with.

Barrie came to the farm as a puppy, but he wasn’t small even then. Uncle Joe told me he looked like a big ball of white fluff, with just the tip of his black nose and black eyes peeping through, more like a polar bear cub than a dog. I first remember Barrie as a white giant pushing me down to the ground with his big soft paws and licking my face to say hello, before laying his head across my chest waiting for me to scratch him behind the ears. He loved it. I enjoyed it some, but not as much as some ‘casual onlookers’, especially my two Uncles. To hear them tell it, Barrie and I would always have a fight; I was fierce, apparently, still shouting “sit!” at the dog, even as my arse was hitting the ground, and I was fast and strong, so I wouldn’t just roll over and be salivated upon. But I was only three or four then and Barrie always won.

Growing up on the farm with Barrie around would have been a childhood to dream of, but when I was five, my parents were allocated a flat on a new built estate in the nearby city and the idyll of my village life was replaced by the never-ending clamour of the construction site surrounding our block of flats, as other similar concrete monstrosities raised into the sky around us. On our last day on the farm, I cried and begged them to let me take Barrie with me to the city. But Barrie belonged to the farm.

My dad would be going back to the farm regularly, to help out with work, and I would often hitch a ride with him, even if for a day. But when the school started, my visits became less frequent, just a weekend or two a month. “You’ve got to give your grandma some rest”, my mother would say when I kept pestering her to take me back to the farm, “Grandma has a lot of work to do and no time to be looking after you. And I don’t have the time to be faring you back and forth either. You’ve got school and homework to do, not running in the fields”.

Still, it was the weekends and the summer holidays I lived for, when I’d spend my time causing mischief around the farm or playing with Barrie by his kennel. More than forty years on, I still remember his thick white fur clinging to my fingers as I scratched his head, behind his big floppy ears and along the back. And the black eyes focused intently as I was trying to teach him another trick. Alas, it was seldom the thirst for learning that I saw in those eyes… more like he was looking out for a chance to bring me down to the floor, for another wrestling match, until my inevitable submission and a full-face lick. Or my escape beyond the reach of Barrie’s chain. But then his deep, sad “woof-woof” would ring in my ears, and he would look at me accusingly, as if saying “That’s cheating, come back and play”.

The best treat was taking Barrie for a walk in the fields beyond the farm compound. At first, I was too young and not strong enough to hold Barrie on the leash, so I was constantly pleading with one of my uncles to come along. Only, they had their own duties on the farm, and taking Barrie for a walk wasn’t an easy undertaking, so they always had plenty of excuses at the ready. It would usually be a Sunday afternoon when, following hours of my relentless persuasions, Uncle Joe or Uncle Mark would finally give in.

The tricky bit was taking Barrie off the chain. He hated that chain so much that the moment he felt it off, Barrie was off too. And it was hard work to hold on to him. Sometimes it ended up with Uncle Mark being dragged across the yard, desperately clutching to the end of the thick hempen rope normally used for cows and horses, all the time shouting at Barrie to stop. It was entertaining to watch, most of the family agreed, but it also meant that persuading Uncle Mark next time would be more difficult, or costly; at least till his scratches and bruises healed up some.

But Uncle Mark was only nine years my elder, more like my big brother truly, and I found that if I saved some of my chocolates and sweets, my powers of persuasion were substantially bigger. And Uncle Mark loved our dog walks, even if they always started as ‘dog runs’. Typically, the first few hundred yards of headlong gallop was enough to leave all three of us gasping for breath, and even Barrie would be content to slow down to a gentler pace and start exploring.

By then we would be out of sight of the farm and approaching our favourite place, the bank of the old river, where trees and bushes grew thick and were covered with fruit and berries in summer. It was a bit of a forgotten corner, not truly part of our farm, but a neglected orchard owned by a neighbour who gave up on it years ago. Some apple trees and plum trees still stood, bearing small and ugly looking fruit, but the gooseberries were to die for. Especially the big red ones, which turned deep purple, almost black, when fully ripened. We would spend hours there, lounging on the soft grass, stuffing our mouths with sweet berries, and chatting about all things ‘boys’. We would let Barrie off the leash and leave him free to explore and chase any birds or rabbits. He would come to us from time to time, for a cuddle and a little rest, but he would soon be off again.

The hard part was getting back home and putting Barrie’s chain back on. He knew it was coming and didn’t resist, but the sad stare he would give us as we walked away was enough to make tears pearl up in my eyes. Perhaps Grandpa was right. “The dog’s place is in the yard, lads, guarding the farm”, he would say. “Every time you take him off the chain and let him run around, you only make that chain harder for him to bear”, but he never refused us permission to take Barrie into the fields.

Barrie hated that chain, and he was strong. Immensely strong. Strong enough to break free regularly. Initially, the chain was fixed to an iron spike driven deep into the ground, but this soon proved to be the weakest link. The hard packed earth of the yard was no match for Barrie’s fury, and he would run off in the night, chain and spike still attached to his collar when he came back in the morning. Whether he was chasing a fox or just breaking free for freedom’s sake, nobody knew.

After a few such escapes, the spike was set in concrete, in the hope that it will be enough to keep the dog where he belonged. But it was never enough. Next time, the collar clip would snap, or a link in the chain, and another link. In time, Barrie’s escapes became legendary in the village. Neighbours would come around to tell Grandad they saw Barrie chasing after a fox across their fields, a length of chain still flying from his neck collar. But Barrie never did any harm to any person or livestock. Well, maybe with the exception of an occasional chicken that got too bold or too careless.

Barrie was a Tatra Mountain Sheep Dog, one of the largest dog breeds, but even so, he was huge for his breed. Tatra Shepherds are bread for the harsh climate and the hard life of the Tatra Mountains; fighting off wolves in defence of the sheep is their bread and butter. Old Highland sheep farmers would still tell stories of wolf packs numbering in their tens, recklessly attacking the flocks, even in pens and shelters, especially in winter, when the life in the mountains grew harsher still. They remember with pride their fearless dogs that would sooner die defending the sheep, than back off or run away. “May they never know winter on their heavenly pastures”, they would say, raising a glass of ‘slivovitza’, a homemade plum spirit, so potent that apparently only Highlanders could drink it safely. The kind that burns your throat and sets your guts on fire; just the right thing to warm you up on a cold winter day.

Winter was when Barrie looked his best. White as freshly fallen snow and glistening in the bright sunshine, his winter coat was long and thick, and soft as lamb’s wool against my face. And when deep winter snows fell, Barrie was in his element. He loved rolling in the snow and then vigorously shaking off. And again, and again. “This is why his fur is so white, there is no better cleaner than fresh snow”, Grandma would explain, picking up a handful of snow and rubbing her hands in it. Her hands were strong, darkened and calloused from decades of toiling the fields and tending the animals. No amount of snow would ever clean the deep ingrained dirt, but these were tender, loving hands too. She would stop and gently ruffle Barrie’s hair and he would lick her hand. “When you and Mark take the dog out, make sure he doesn’t run away, don’t ever let him off the leash,” she would say sternly, walking away. She knew our secret, I’m sure; Barrie would be off the leash as soon as the farm disappeared from view. We would seek out the deepest snowdrifts and jump into them, Barrie leading the way. Or he would first knock me in and then roll over on top; another wrestling match in the snow, lost.

Our visits to the farm were less frequent in winter, but there was one occasion when the whole extended family would come together, the Christmas Eve supper. Delicious aromas permeated the house right from the very morning, with Grandma, my Mum and Auntie busy in the kitchen, and us children making Christmas tree decorations or just getting under their feet. The kitchen was Grandma’s kingdom and men were not welcome. “Go and find something useful to do, we’re busy here,” she would say. “And stop pinching food every time you pop your head in!”.

So, the men would tidy up the farm animals and then go to the forest to bring in the Christmas tree. Usually, they would be gone for much of the day. As a child, I could never understand why it needed five or six men to fetch just one tree, or why it took so long. “Finding the right Christmas tree takes time and careful consideration,” my dad would explain solemnly. Upon their return, their faces reddened from the winter chill, the men seemed happier somehow. All laughing and joking when putting up the tree in the living room and helping the children dress it. Years later, I found out the secret to their high spirits; a bottle or two of ‘slivovitza’, smuggled out of the house the night before and hidden in the stables. But Grandma didn’t mind, as long as everything was ready before nightfall.

The Christmas Eve feast would start when the first star appeared in the night sky, to celebrate the star that brought the three Wise Men to Bethlehem when baby Jesus was born. Grandfather would read the passage from the Bible, thank God for all His blessings throughout the year and say a short prayer asking the baby Jesus to bless all the family and farm animals with good health and plentiful harvest in the year to come. Then we would break the holy bread and say our best wishes to each other. You had to make sure your wishes were truly meaningful and personal; ’Merry Christmas and Happy New Year’ simply would not do! It took some time, but not too long, lest the food grew cold.

By tradition, twelve dishes would be served, but never any meat; Christmas Eve was the last day of Advent and prescribed fasting was rigorously observed in those days. Still, the food was scrumptious and rich, prepared with love and the best ingredients the farm could offer. The wild mushroom soup, thickened with double cream and served with tiny mushroom filled tortellini. Potato and cottage cheese dumplings, my favourite. Sauerkraut stewed with beans. Crispy carp fried in breadcrumbs, accompanied by creamy, buttery mashed potatoes. Dried fruit compote sweetened with honey… Everyone had their favourites, but you had to try every single dish before you could leave the table. Later, we’d light the candles on the Christmas tree, unwrap our presents, sing Christmas carols and tell stories, until it was the time to go to the midnight mass.

There was one more job to do, and it was mine. Barrie had to have his feast, too; after all, he belonged to the family. Grandma would fill a big pot with what was left on the table, and I would take it to Barrie’s kennel.

“Don’t talk to Barrie for too long, or you’ll get lost again,” was my Dad’s usual opening line. As old legends have it, animals could talk with human voices on Christmas Eve night, but that wasn’t what Dad had in mind.

“I won’t, don’t worry,” I’d say, but there was no stopping Dad now.

“It was harvest time, soon after your sister was born,” Dad would settle into his story. “That was before Grandad bought the tractor, so all work was done with horses, or by hand. Hard work it was, I’ll tell you”. There were nods all around the table.

“We were bringing the harvest in that day. Wheat it was, I remember.” Well, some years it was wheat, some others rye, or barley, but no one would dwell on such details. “Everyone was out in the fields. Everyone, but Grandma, your mum, your baby sister, and you. You were too small to be of any help, anyway.” He would glance at me as if it was my fault. “We were out since daybreak and we were getting hungry, so it was time for lunch.”

“You know how Grandma is. Lunch is at 12 noon, that’s it. You’re never late for lunch, no matter what, or you might go hungry,” he would glance at Grandma, but her face gave nothing away.

“It was hot and dry that day, just perfect for the crops, but hard on the horses. Poor things, bone tired and thirsty, and slow.” More details would normally follow, slightly different each year, but somehow, they all managed to get back home just in time.

“So, we’re all sat around the table, just like now, except you,” cue dramatic pause here. “It’s not like you, to miss the food, I thought.” Another pause. “Now, Grandad will not wait and we’re all hungry, so we start eating. Grandma says not to worry, she’ll feed you later. Soon, the soup is finished. Then the mains, and you’re still nowhere to be seen. And it’s time to go back to work, but how can we?”

“Mum checks around the house, nothing,” Dad would continue. “I go to check the barn, with Uncle Joe. Grandad checks the stables, but still nothing.” Others would sometimes join in here, relating their part in the search: the cellars, the loft, the orchard, empty barrels behind the stables, even the well. Still not a trace.

“We looked everywhere, and not once, but twice, and three times and more. Your mum is crying her eyes out. Something bad must have happened. Maybe you were snatched away by Gypsies, she says.”

“So, we’re all stood in the middle of the yard, debating what to do next. Mum wants to ask the neighbours to help with the search. Grandad says to take Barrie. The dog will find him all right, says Grandad.”

“We all look at Barrie, our last hope. And he’s asleep in the shade behind the kennel. What sort of a guard dog is he, I think,” Dad says, mock anger in his voice. “My son’s gone missing, we’re all going crazy here, and this lazy so and so is lounging in the shade. That was too much!” Dad takes a sip.

“Barrie, I shout, but he just opens one eye and looks at me. And then he rolls over and goes back to sleep. Oh, in that moment, I wanted to kick the living daylights out of that dog, I promise you!” Another sip.

“Suddenly, there is a movement in the back of the kennel, and then you crawl out, rubbing sleep out of your eyes, all covered in Barrie’s hair, head to toe,” Dad’s nearly done now. “We couldn’t believe our eyes! We wasted so much time looking for you everywhere, and this traitor dog of yours never said a word!” That’s the only time when Barrie is ‘my dog’, but he’s not a traitor, and he can’t talk, so what did you expect, I would think, but I say not a word.

“And you know what the worst thing about it is?” My Dad would demand. “Your very first words after you crawled out of that doghouse,” he looks at me, smiling now. “Is the food ready yet, you asked!”

I was too young to remember this, but yes, the story could be true, I admit to myself, walking out of the kitchen and leaving the laughter behind.

I would pour the food into Barrie’s bowl and watch him eat. I knew dogs couldn’t talk, yet it didn’t stop me talking to him. It wasn’t a good idea to touch Barrie when he was eating; I tried once, and he just looked at me with his eyes black as coals and a deep rumble came out of his throat as he bared his teeth. He didn’t snap at me, but he didn’t need to, I understood. Barrie was not a pet. He never hurt me, even in our craziest plays, when I was pulling his ears and tail, or sticking my hand into his mouth, but to most other people he was just too scary to even come close to. He respected the family members and maybe even liked some of the neighbours, especially those who came regularly to the farm, but Grandad wasn’t happy if anyone tried to be friendly with Barrie.

“He’s a guard dog,” Grandad would say when people asked if they could come closer and pat Barrie on the head. “If you want a pet, go and buy one, but best leave this one alone. He might bite your hand off.”

True, Barrie was fearsome, but he wasn’t vicious, and I never believed he would have bitten anyone’s hand off, unless that hand was trying to steal something from the farm. Then that would be a fair game, wouldn’t it?

There was just one boy, however, that I wouldn’t be so sure about. Jack lived across the road a few houses down. He was of an age with Uncle Mark and they went to school together. As such, Jack was a frequent visitor, but unlike everyone else, he liked teasing Barrie, trusting to be safe with Barrie chained up. Uncle Mark told him to knock it off many times, but he just wouldn’t listen. Finally, Grandad forbade Jack to come to the farm, but it was too late; Barrie hated his guts by then.

It was a frosty winter again and it was snowing for days at the time, so the snows grew deeper and deeper. The tarmac on the village road disappeared under a layer of compacted snow and ice several inches thick. It was so slick that you had to take extra care when walking or you could end up on your backside on your next step. And this was perfect for our plan.

Uncle Mark and I found an old sled, rusting away in the corner of one of the outbuildings. It was big and heavy, all wrought iron, with two thick wooden planks on top. It certainly wasn’t a children’s toy, but a heavy-duty farm implement gone obsolete. Still, we had Barrie. It took us a day or two to make a harness from some old leather and a few pieces of rope. Persuading Barrie to wear it and pull the sled was another matter, but a few sausages and a big bone finally did the trick. And we were ready.

There were few cars in the village then and most people only used horse-drawn carts or sleds, so the road was empty most of the time and we had it all to ourselves. After a few short trial runs, we decided on a longer trip, to the end of the village and back, a couple of miles or so. I sat in front, with my uncle behind me, controlling the dog and steering the sled as and when needed. It was a heavy load, to be sure, but Barrie was strong, and he could easily keep a good pace. The ride was exhilarating. The freezing wind blowing into our faces made our eyes water, but we just shouted at Barrie to go faster and faster. On the way back, Barrie was getting tired, so we had to slow down, and we were just cruising back home.

Until we saw Jack, about a hundred yards up the road, approaching his gate. Barrie saw him too. The next thing I remember, I was cartwheeling in the air and the ground came up to meet me, knocking my breath out. Then I saw Barrie hurtling towards Jack, the sled still attached to his harness, swaying from side to side and bouncing against the hard snowy road. And Uncle Mark, chasing after the sled and shouting, “Run Jack, run!”

Jack saw us too, and he needed no warning or encouragement. He sprinted towards his gate, but he would never have had the time to open it. Instead, he vaulted over the gate, landing on the other side, in the same instant as Barrie and our sled slammed against it. The gate held. When I got there, Uncle Mark was holding Barrie firmly by his collar and Jack was still standing where he landed, pale-faced and speechless, with the snow slowly turning yellow between his boots.

It was a short walk back home, too short. Grandad was standing by the gate to welcome us in. He was not amused. It was our last sled ride ever.

But we were still young then, Barrie and I, and we still had a few good years together. Beautiful hot summers that we spent exploring the fields and orchards. Cuddling up in wintertime and causing havoc all year round. Creating memories that will last me a lifetime.

I was a teenager when I saw Barrie for the last time. He was very old and weak then, and one of his coal black eyes was gone; Uncle Joe said it must be from the old age, or maybe an injury, but no one really knew. Barrie died a few days later.

To this day, whenever I see a big white dog out there, I can’t help myself. I have to go up and talk to the owner, ask the dog’s name and breed, and maybe scratch him behind the ear.

One day, I keep dreaming, I will have a dog of my own. He will be all white with coal black eyes. And I will feel his rough tongue licking the gooseberry juice off my fingers and face. I know his name. And he will know no chain.