Digger Dog



Digger O'Dell in his first home



      In the little city of West University Place, surrounded by the big city of Houston, my down-the-street neighbor was a PhD who taught at Rice University.  Another PhD lived next door.  On the other side lived a lawyer who was married to a lawyer. Four other lawyers lived on my block, along with two stockbrokers and an architect.  Having grown up in Lubbock, I knew the value of diversity and learned to look beneath the surface for inner beauty in everyone. In spite of their obvious shortcomings,  I became friends with these strange people.   That made me feel really good about myself.

     Dr. Rudolph P. Nydegger, the Rice professor, allowed me to call him Rudy.  I taught him how to barbeque and play dominoes and he tried out big words on me.  I’ll never forget when he discovered “bourgeois.”  He used it in every other sentence for two weeks.

     My friend Rudy was a bit quirky.  He wanted a dog as a companion for his five-year-old daughter, Ashley, and he wanted an Irish Setter.  I suggested that Irish Setters were large dogs and needed running room and our yards were relatively small, especially the fenced back yards.  I should have known better than to try to be logical with Dr. Nydegger, because he had seen a picture of an Irish Setter in a magazine and his mind was made up.  In a week or so, he brought home a registered Irish Setter puppy to live in the back yard and play with Ashley.

     Rudy named this new dog “Digger O’Dell,” after an undertaker on an old-time radio program.  The big red dog grew quickly and immediately began to live up to its name.  Within a few months, Digger dug under the fence at will and roamed the neighborhood while Ashley was at school and her parents were working.  Digger was far too bright and quick for the West U. animal control officers, and he always came home for dinner.

      Almost a year later, as I supplemented my income by playing poker with Rudy and some of his Rice friends, Rudy said, “Jim, your dad lives on a farm.  Do you suppose he might like a dog?"

     My parents had “retired” to a 250 acre farm outside Vashti, Texas, near Bowie.  Dad had fifty head of cattle and mother tended a garden and raised chickens.  They had gone back to their roots and were very happy.  Dad was partially crippled, but he managed to get around with a cane, and could still fix anything that broke.  He had to sit in a chair to do it, but he rebuilt the transmission on his John Deere tractor.  Turns out, he had always wanted a good dog.

     Dad drove the four hundred miles to Houston one Saturday and I nervously took him to meet Digger.   As Dad and I walked down the sidewalk to the Nydegger’s house, Rudy and Digger stood on the front porch.  Dad wobbled along with his cane and Digger headed for us.  The dog ignored me, but approached Dad with his head lowered, submissive, tail wagging wildly.  Dad was past the point of squatting or hunkering down, and the big dog sensed that; he stood on his back legs so dad could pet him.  No need to be nervous, it was love at first sight for both of them.  Digger happily ran around in circles and Dad cleared his throat several times.  When I wasn’t looking, he wiped away a tear.

     The next morning, after breakfast, Dad drove his Ford pickup down the street to Rudy’s house.  He hobbled out and held the door open.  Without hesitation, Digger darted from the porch past Rudy and me, bounded into the front seat of the pickup, and sat up on the passenger side.  Dad climbed in, cranked up the truck and headed north.  He told me later that after about a hundred miles, Digger lay down with his head in Dad’s lap and took a nap.

     From that day forward, they were inseparable.  Dad drove to the pasture to feed the cattle, and Digger Dog ran alongside.  Digger flushed quail and dove and chased them as he ran through the underbrush, but was always there waiting when Dad stepped out of the truck.  As Dad finished his chores and climbed back into the pickup, Digger, hot and tired, jumped in ahead of him and pawed the air conditioner, asking for it to be put on high speed.  He stuck his head in front of the vent and let the cold air blow directly into his face.

     Digger Dog did not chase cars.  His favorite thing to chase was birds.   One day, he flushed a covey of quail from the bar ditch next to the paved road that ran alongside the farm.  A neighbor lady was driving by and Digger, chasing a bird, darted in front of her.  Dad rushed him to the vet in Bowie.

     Digger’s left front leg was mangled and the tendons controlling it were severed.  The young vet said, “This dog is going to be crippled.  We will have to put him down.  There’s no other choice.”

     “By God, I’m crippled and I ain’t gonna be put down!  You figure out a way to fix him, boy,  and I don’t mean maybe.  Don’t you let my dog die.”   Dad was as serious as a heart attack.

     The operation took over two hours.  Digger’s entire leg was removed at the shoulder joint, and the skin where it had been was patched and sewn up.  Once Dad explained the gravity of the situation, the vet did a thorough job.

      Digger Dog recovered completely and was a three-legged Irish Setter for the rest of his long and happy life.  Beautiful silky red hair covered the wound and it was invisible.  The last time I visited the farm, Digger chased birds across the pasture as Dad and I fed the cattle.  Then he jumped in the pickup between us and pawed the air conditioner with his single front leg.