When We Had Mooch

Mooch came to us from a rather carefree hobo-style of life. He had shown up in the little town near us and started his rounds as if he knew the place. He would begin his day at the hardware store, all 60 pounds of his big brown eyes and black Labrador smile convincing the owners to share their lunches. From there, he made his way to the grain elevator, the dairy freeze, and the furniture store where he made more friends. At the local grocer, it was guaranteed that he would arrive around the time that they were tossing out meat scraps. He was an extremely social animal; in between snacks with his human friends, he would get together with his dog friends. Due to his party-animal mentality, the town was developing a running dog pack, and concerned citizens felt like something unfortunate was just over the rise. So one day, Dad invited Mooch to come home with us in the pick-up truck. He described our acres of running space, the expected chores that went with being a farm dog, and kids to play with; Mooch accepted.

In spite of our far-flung location, Mooch still managed to lead an active social life. He would bring a pair of smaller Labs, a beagle, and a Saint Bernard female over to our house for a confab. Mooch was a bit like a wonderful carefree uncle who hung out with a sordid crowd, but who himself could be charming in any circle. The Saint Bernard female was especially mean; it got so bad that we couldn’t go outside our own house if she were around. But one day, it couldn’t be helped and all the vehicles were in use. Grandma just said, “Well, well,” armed herself with a broom, and marched down our long lane with me in tow. Halfway down the lane, the Saint Bernard came at us, barking and snarling. Tiny Grandma pushed me behind her and took a defensive position with the broom—until Mooch stepped between us and the Saint Bernard. He did it casually as if he were at a cocktail party and didn’t want to spill his drink. The Saint Bernard tried to duck to the left; he stepped in her way again. He kept maneuvering himself into position between her and his people until she gave up. Funny enough, she wasn’t invited to any more of his social events.

In spite of his mooching ways, he wasn’t a lazy dog. He took his farm-dog duties of rabbit chasing and ground-hog termination seriously. He even found a way to get rid of pigeons in our barn. He would run back and forth under the rafters. The pigeons, unaware that he couldn’t reach them, would fly back and forth trying to get away from him. Eventually, they flew lower, and lower, and Mooch would jump…and that was the end of the pigeon problem. He considered skunk chasing grand fun, and didn’t seem to understand why he was getting a bath in Mom’s good tomato juice. He and I developed our own mouse-hunting game. I’d tell him, “Let’s go catch mice!” and he understood perfectly. We’d stand together in the middle of the barn, absolutely still, until we heard skittering and scratching. We’d creep closer and closer, and at the last second, I’d yell, “Get him!” Mooch would pounce like any cat, and almost every time, come up with a mouse snack.

He always left our cats alone; in fact, when it was explained to him on the day of his arrival that the cats were family, he was their friend. He protected them from his doggy buddies and tolerated their snuggling. He only feared one thing: kittens. He didn’t know what they were, and wanted no part in their mewing, stumbling over his toes, and nuzzling at his belly. He only showed any ill will the day we acquired a puppy. A feral dog had winter puppies in our barn; only one survived. He was weaned and learning the ropes, but still very much a puppy when Mooch decided this roly-poly bundle of adorable was getting far too much attention. So in that charming-rogue-uncle way of his, he coaxed the puppy to a neighboring farm and gave him away. They kept him.

Mooch was one of those dogs that was very nearly human. He understood English better than most people I know. He left behind a whole file of stories, bruises from his enormously happy tail, and that sweet taste of happy-sadness when you’ve lost something wonderful. I wish you a Mooch, at least once, to wander through life with you.