Old General

by Alan Bell

Copyright 2024

No one in the small town of Boyer could remember exactly when Old General started hanging around. It was probably in 1965 or 1966. He wasn’t a young pup when he arrived. A nondescript, unkempt mutt of indeterminable parentage, he hung out on Main Street patronizing the few local businesses still open.

            Boyer, like Old General, had seen better days. It had been a railroad town, and a relatively lively one, at the end of the 19th century. But as the railroad faded, so did Boyer’s importance and so did the town’s population. From a peak of well over 1,000 residents, the village had dwindled to less than 300.

            Main Street consisted of a grocery store, a barber shop, a post office, two service stations and one diner that opened for breakfast and closed soon after lunchtime. Most days were slow and lazy – as were many of the residents.

            Old General found his way into this scene and pretty much fit right in. No one owned the dog. Who would want to? He was ugly, with matted, course hair in shades of gray with various bits of brown peeking out here and there. He wasn’t a big dog; he wasn’t a small dog. He probably weighed about 40 pounds, maybe less. The only remarkable thing about him was that he possessed one brown eye and one blue eye. The combination somehow gave him the appearance of being both sincere and knowing.

            Dick Larson, the barber, could never figure out why, but most people in town kind of liked Old General. Larson was a 40-ish man who had always liked animals, particularly dogs. He was prematurely balding (like every male in his family), wore large, thick glasses and had a friendly manner that helped make his business relatively successful.

            Men could’ve driven to the much larger town of Eaton, just 12 miles north. But most of them continued to come to Larson for their haircuts, even if it sometimes appeared they really didn’t need one. Truth be known, some of the local men dropped in almost daily to discuss pertinent events – none of them would ever call it gossip – at Larson’s business.

            Larson may have been the friendliest man in Boyer, and he extended his friendly manner to the ownerless stray. The barber soon became a primary means of the old dog’s support.

            Larson, in fact, had been among the first to start calling the dog Old General. Several men were gathered in the barber shop, and conversation turned to the ugly mutt who apparently had adopted Boyer as its new home. The barber’s customers laughed at how the old dog would lounge in the shady doorways during summer’s heat and curl up near any source of heat during winter’s cold.

            One farmer who was patiently waiting his turn, Sam Brohamer, had actually named the dog. He thought the mutt’s gray and butternut – other people saw a yellowish-brown – fur looked like a collision of the two most prevalent Confederate uniforms during the Civil War.

            “He looks like some worn out, old general,” Brohamer mused. The others in the store latched on to the description. For them – and soon for almost everyone else in town – the canine officially became Old General.

            Old General had no qualms about depending on the kindness of strangers. And soon those strangers became acquaintances, if not good friends. He subsisted on handouts from the locals and never seemed to want for a meal. He left the other dogs of the town alone, and they likewise accepted him as part of the scenery. All things considered, it was not a bad life for a former hobo. The shabby mutt had been in town about four or five years when an event occurred that had everyone in and around the town talking for weeks.

            By this time, most people in town accepted Old General as a bona fide inhabitant. But there were two people who had strong feelings about the dog. And their feelings couldn’t have been more different.

            Davey Ferrell was a red-haired, seven-year-old boy. Like many boys, he liked the outdoors, sports and animals. He craved a dog of his own. His mother, Leona, didn’t share her son’s yearning for a pet. In fact, she didn’t like animals at all, particularly dogs. No one knew why. Maybe she was bitten or frightened by one when she was young. Maybe her mother had disliked animals and passed that trait on to her. Maybe she felt animals were dirty, germ-laden beasts that would contaminate any human who touched one.

            Whatever her reasons, she refused to allow her son to have the dog he wanted so badly. Not that Davey ever gave up trying. He regularly asked for a puppy, promising to take care of it all by himself and never to let it into the house. Leona flatly refused and her husband, Tom, though more sympathetic to his son’s yearnings, backed her refusal. There would be no dog in the Ferrell family.

            So, with no dog of his own, Davey naturally adopted Old General. Man’s best friend became boy’s best friend. Every time Davey went downtown, he looked for Old General.

            The old dog was usually pleased with any attention from anyone, but maybe there was something behind those sincere and knowing eyes. The dog seemed to realize how much Davey needed him. When Davey was in the neighborhood, Old General followed him around faithfully. He even roused his tired, old bones now and then to play with the red-haired, freckle-faced lad. On hot summer days, he only played a minute or two, true, but those minutes filled Davey with happiness.

            People going about their business, standing around or looking out the windows of the buildings that surrounded the town square would see the old dog and the young boy playing and remark – to themselves if not to others – that they looked like they were meant for each other.

            One man who often looked out his window at the boy and dog had no such kind feelings for either creature. He absolutely hated the dog. He also developed a negative impression of the child because he saw the two of them together so much.

            Ralph Schmitt was the local grocer. He was, in many ways, the opposite of Dick Larson. In fact, there were people in Boyer who wouldn’t do business with Schmitt because of his sour disposition. In truth, it was becoming tough for him to make a living. The residents of the town could easily drive the dozen miles to Eaton to buy their groceries. Many of them did most, if not all, of their shopping at the supermarkets springing up in the small, nearby city. Some came into his store only for a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk or some other emergency purchases. It was really no wonder that he met the customers at his counter with so much gloom.

             Schmitt could have done more to attract and retain customers. It sometimes seemed like waiting on people was an imposition. Many a God-fearing elderly lady would leave the store with pointedly unchristian feelings toward its proprietor.

            Schmitt had little tolerance for anyone who was hard up for money. He didn’t offer credit to adults or children. If a little kid was a penny or two short, the old grocer couldn’t be moved to mercy. He wasn’t running a charity.

            Davey Ferrell was one of those children who’d felt the wrath of Ralph Schmitt. One day, when he was about five years old, he’d decided to buy a Three Musketeer bar and an orange soda. They were a nickel apiece. When he got to the counter with his merchandise, he could find only one nickel – not the two required – in his pocket. Somewhere during the day’s play, he’d lost its companion.

            Schmitt glared down at Davey, who was searching each and every pocket in his jeans and shirt multiple times and coming up empty.

            “Don’t have the money, son?” Schmitt asked impatiently.

            “I had two nickels, but I can’t find one of them,” Davey said.

            “That means you can’t buy a candy bar and a pop,” Schmitt informed the lad.

            “Well, I guess I’ll take the soda,” Davey said, still not giving up on the missing coin.

            “Then put the candy bar back,” Schmitt growled.

            “Yes, sir,” the boy said. He backed away from the gruff, old man and replaced the candy bar on the shelf. He took his orange soda and left, feeling the Schmitt’s glare on his back as he went out the door.

            Velma Carson, who lived across the street from the Ferrells, was in the store, picking up a few ingredients she found she needed to make a peach pie for her husband’s dinner. She was a 40-year-old woman who’d always wanted children but never been able to have any. She was trim, attractive and respected in the community. A Sunday school teacher, she enjoyed the energy and innocence of young people.

            “Ralph, that was a mean thing to do,” she told Schmitt. Schmitt stared at her asking without asking why it could possibly be any of her business. “What’s a nickel to you when that boy obviously lost his money and had every intention of paying for what he picked up?”

            “Velma, I don’t tell you how to keep your house,” Schmitt said, wagging a beefy finger at her. “Don’t tell me how to run my store.”

            “Then you put these things back on your shelves,” Velma said, plopping her grocery basket on the counter in front of the surprised grocer. “I won’t be shopping here again.”

            She stormed out the door in Davey’s wake, leaving the astonished Schmitt to restock the items. Velma made a beeline home. By the time she’d marched the three and a half blocks north to her house, the color that had risen to her cheeks was barely paling. Her husband settled for Jell-O pudding for dessert that night. Schmitt did without her business – even for last-minute ingredients – for a long time after that.

            In fairness to Schmitt, Old General had proved himself a nuisance in at least one respect. The dog, being a dog, liked to get into Schmitt’s garbage cans, which he kept in the alley behind the store. Old General wasn’t the only dog in town attracted to those cans. Many others had tipped them over and strewn the contents up and down the alley, searching for a few tasty scraps. The difference was that Schmitt generally knew those dogs’ owners. He could call them up and complain, telling them to keep their damn mutt tied up.

            It was different with the stray dog. No one owned it, so there was no one to call and complain to. Schmitt took to chasing Old General away any time he found the dog near his store. If the cans were disturbed and the grocer hadn’t seen the culprit, he blamed the ownerless mutt. Sometimes that blame was justified, but many other times it was not.

            Schmitt was never shy in complaining about Old General. He’d tell any customer that he hated that mutt. He more than hinted that, given half a chance, he’d blow the “mangy cur” to kingdom come. To emphasize the point, he sometimes nodded to a .22-caliber rifle he kept behind the counter, supposedly to thwart any robbery attempt.

            Most people – even those who didn’t like Schmitt – believed it was just bluster. They understood Schmitt’s difficulties with his garbage cans, but they also placed part of the blame on him. Most other businesses had locked up or put barriers around their trash cans. Others at least secured the lids so dogs couldn’t get into them easily. Schmitt simply sat the lid on the cans and left them in the alley. Any dog worth his salt could knock them down and scatter the contents.

            Schmitt’s continual grumbling about dogs in general and Old General in particular dropped the grocery store owner another notch in many people’s opinions. Most of the residents of Boyer either owned dogs or had kept one as a kid. Dogs were an accepted part of the town, so anyone who hated them – be it Schmitt or Leona Ferrell – earned a silent demerit from the majority of the populace.

            Larson, the barber, good-naturedly kidded Schmitt about his unprotected trash.

            “You ought to build a little fence around those garbage cans, Ralph,” he mock lectured the grocery store owner. “I don’t have any problems with dogs getting into my trash can.” Larson made it a point not to mention a certain cat that sometimes climbed over the fence he’d installed and pawed around in his “protected” trash can.

            “Aw, hell with that,” Schmitt grumbled. “I don’t have time to build fences. If people can’t keep their dogs at home, they deserve to be shot.”

            “Who deserves to be shot?” Larson asked with fake sincerity. “The dogs or the people?”

            “Both!” Schmitt snarled.

             The day that sealed Old General’s fate came in mid-August. It was typically hot with cicadas performing their late-summer symphonies. This summer, it seemed the days had been hotter and lazier than usual. Like the good citizens, Old General curtailed his activities even more severely, sought shade and drank from the bowl of water Larson kept outside the barber shop. He also panted a lot.

            About mid-afternoon, after grudgingly cleaning his room (or at least making a fair attempt), Davey got Leona’s permission to walk downtown and spend an hour or so with his canine friend. Despite the warm weather, the dog wagged his tail when he saw Davey approaching. The boy was crossing the square toward the barber shop, where Old General lay on the sidewalk trying to keep cool. Suddenly, a creature no one in Boyer had even seen before appeared at the south end of the square.

            A large, black dog, it might have had some Doberman in it, but it certainly was no purebred. The beast had a lean, hungry appearance and a surly, unsettling disposition.

            Because Boyer sat to the east of Route LL, a blacktop highway that led from Eaton in the north to Spurling in the southern part of Riverside County, lots of cars passed by the small town. Few ever had any reason to stop, but occasionally people driving between those two larger towns would drop a dog off along the road to get rid of it.

            Sometimes these were new mothers with helpless pups. Sometimes they were old dogs dropped off by families who couldn’t bear or afford to have them put down. Sometimes they were dogs that were dangerous or had bitten someone.

            It was the easy way out for the owners, but it was hard on the dogs and hard on the residents of Boyer and other small towns along the highway. Perhaps Old General had arrived in Boyer via this same route. No one would ever know.

            However he got to Boyer that summer day, the intimidating black dog found his way down Pear Street, which led from the highway to the middle of Boyer. Velma Carson saw it first, as she was leaving the post office after picking up her mail. Something about the big black dog made her immediately uncomfortable. She saw him head into the park and looked up to see Davey Ferrell walking straight into the mongrel’s path. The dog noticed Davey before the boy noticed him. For some reason, the black dog decided the child was a threat.

            First it stopped, ears laid back and hair bristling. Then it let out a low growl. Davey’s attention had been on Old General, who was lying still, awaiting the lad’s arrival. But when Old General heard the growl of the newcomer, his ears perked up to determine the other dog’s intent.

            The black dog, which Larson later estimated weighed in at over 60 pounds, took a menacing step toward the unaware boy. Old General rose with surprising speed in reaction. As the black fiend launched its attack on Davey, Old General summoned all his energy and bounded forward to intercept the black dog. The interloper, now aware of the old dog, changed course and veered toward the new threat.

            The dogs met in a vicious collision. Paws clawed, teeth slashed and fur flew as ferocious sounds erupted from both animals. People on the sidewalks turned to see the cause of the sudden commotion. Those in nearby buildings heard the ruckus and headed to their doors and windows to see what was going on. Davey stood immobile as he watched the two mongrels battle. Velma Carson froze as she watched the fierce conflict.

            The two dogs went after each other with tremendous fury, but the black dog was larger, stronger and younger than Old General. Soon it was getting the best of the town’s adopted mascot.

            Larson ran out of the barber shop, electric razor still in hand. He was followed closely by Nelson Wertz, one side of his head trimmed, the other not yet attended. He was so curious about the violent sounds from the square that he still wore the apron Larson had placed over him to keep stray hairs off his clothes.

            By this time, the black dog had Old General pinned and was maneuvering for a death blow, aiming for the unfortunate victim’s neck. Everyone watching was concerned this might be the end for Old General, but no one could think of a thing to do to save him.

            Suddenly a gunshot cut the air, followed by an animal’s harsh cry, a softer whimper and finally silence. The black dog lay dead on the ground, its blood staining the grass where it fell. Old General whimpered loudly, obviously hurt badly. He tried to get up and retreat, but his wounds were too serious for him to move.

            Larson looked over to where he thought the shot had come from. Standing outside the door of his store was Ralph Schmitt, lowering his .22 rifle, a grim look of displeasure on his face. Larson watched the old grocer turn and reenter his store.

            By now, Davey and Nelson Wertz were at Old General’s side. Larson ran to the spot, arriving just about the same time as Velma Carson. Larson took one look and knew the situation was not good. Old General was ripped open in several places, including an ugly neck wound that was bleeding badly.

            His first thought was to get Davey away. He didn’t want the boy to see the dog die. Larson whispered something to Velma and then bent over the dog.

            “Davey, we need some antibiotic ointment and some bandages,” the barber said. “Can you go over to Schmitt’s and get them?”

            Davey, tears rolling down his face, nodded but couldn’t manage to speak.

            “Come on, Davey,” Velma said, her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll go with you.”

            Davey took off on a run as Velma did her best to keep pace. When she got to the store, Davey was crying and asking Ralph Schmitt for the medical supplies Larson wanted. The old man, hands shaking, fetched Davey a tube of antibiotic cream, gauze, tape and bandages. As he handed them over to Davey, Velma thought she saw tears welling in the grocer’s eyes.

            “I don’t have any money now, but I promise to bring it back as soon as I can,” Davey told the grocery store owner.

            “Never mind,” Schmitt said, turning his back on the boy. “Just go.”

            “I’ll pay you for them, Ralph” Velma said. Schmitt, his back to her, just shook his head no. She saw his shoulders heave and realized he was trying not to cry. She felt like telling him it was a thoroughly decent thing he had just done. But Davey had already turned and started back to his wounded friend. She followed him. Together they hurried back to where Old General lay on the green grass of the square.

            Nelson Wertz had stood up by now and only Larson was leaning over the dog. A few other people had gathered, a semicircle of somber faces looking down at the stricken canine. Davey dropped down beside Larson and Old General with the ointment and bandages.

            “How’s he doing?” Davey asked breathlessly.

            Larson looked through his thick glasses as the young boy. Davey saw teardrops, magnified by the large lenses the barber wore, and suspected the news before Larson ever spoke.

            “Not good, Davey,” Larson said. “Let’s try to bandage these wounds.”
.           It was a futile effort. Old General was near the end. Davey cradled the dog’s bleeding head in his lap. The old mutt’s whimpering grew softer. Then, suddenly, he stopped breathing. Larson let Davey hold the dog for a while before gently laying his hand on the boy’s head.

            “He’s gone, Davey. There’s nothing we could do.”

            Davey had to be pulled away from his dead companion. Velma and Larson tried to console the inconsolable while Wertz and two other men made arrangements to remove the two bloodied bodies. Velma walked the child home, holding him against her side and crying silently as the boy wailed in sorrow. Leona, once aware of the situation, hugged her son and didn’t bother with the fact that his shirt and clothes were stained with the dead dog’s blood.

            The people of Boyer spoke of Old General as a hero. He gave his life saving one of their residents from a vicious monster. Even people who hadn’t paid much attention to the ever-present dog now spoke of him as the best animal they’d ever known.

            The town held a regular human funeral for Old General. They buried him in Adams Cemetery, just like he was a lifelong resident of Boyer. Davey attended with his parents. So did Velma Carson, Dick Larson and a host of others. Ralph Schmitt worked the counter of his grocery store the morning of the funeral, but the door was locked and the lights out that afternoon.

            Davey grew up remembering Old General, vowing to get another dog like him someday. His mother never wavered on her resistance to a pet, so Davey went through grade school, junior high and high school never getting to have a dog of his own.

            When the boy was entering high school, Ralph Schmitt passed away. The stored had fared better after the gruff, old grocer had shot the black dog that killed Old General. Velma Carson, for one, immediately started doing more of her grocery shopping at Schmitt’s store. She wasn’t the only person in Boyer who began giving Schmitt a greater percentage of their business.

            The store stayed profitable for another five years before Schmitt, deciding he was too old to work anymore, sold it to a young couple. They soon went out of business, and the store closed for good.

            The day before the grocer’s funeral, Velma went across the street to see Davey. She had a story to share with him. She told the teenage boy how Schmitt had reacted on the day Old General died. She explained how Schmitt had been shaking and seemed to know the old dog was dying. She told Davey how the cantankerous old man wouldn’t let her pay for the medical supplies. She quietly recalled how he’d had tears in his eyes when she left the store. She then told Davey something she’d never told anyone else.

            She’d been walking past Schmitt’s house the afternoon of Old General’s funeral. The tough, unfeeling old man had quietly closed his store early that day and gone home. Schmitt’s windows were open and, as she passed, Velma heard the faint sound of sobbing coming from his house. She paused a minute, not sure what she was hearing. Then she realized Ralph Schmitt was crying over a stray dog who’d been nothing to him but a nuisance before the day the black stray arrived.

            A few years later, as soon as he left home and got his own place, Davey drove into Eaton and picked out a friendly young dog from the city’s animal shelter. He named the dog Ralph. Davey and Ralph became inseparable friends for the next 11 years.