Written by:  Thomas J. McMahon 

ADAM

 

I really do not want to write this story.  I would rather play golf these days, not that I am a good golfer, but that there’s quiet out there in a trap or the rough.  But there is no quiet here when I procrastinate on recording the stories of our dogs and cats and birds.

 

My mother would never have a dog or cat in the house.  We could have a dog, but not in the house.  And no McMahon dog or cat would ever think of crossing that threshold.  But the Kellams were different.  My wife, Vivian, had a dog when I first met her.  His name was Adam.  He was a little mongrel, white with several dashes of light brown.  He looked like one of those dogs who do tricks. 

 

When we first met, I had a Ford roadster.  That was 1931.  And when we went for a ride, I would not only put the top down, but also the windshield and Adam would climb out and stand right over the radiator cap on the hood.  He loved to feel the wind on his nose and he made quite a sight there holding his balance with every stop and turn.

 

I even came to like him, though I found the affection he received something to be envied.  It seems man never quite reaches the height of understanding a woman has for her dog.  That Adam could do anything and get away with it burnt me.  On occasion, that rascal would go in the house.  On a cold or rainy day when the outdoors was nasty, he would relieve himself in a corner.  His chastisement was never really harsh.  I could not leave a pair of socks around with such understanding.

 

That was another thing.  Vivian had a real compulsion about dirty clothes.  The quickest thing she did was get dirty clothes in the wash.  She was that way about dishes, too.  And she was that way about Adam.  This was my one joy, watching him get that tub treatment when he got messed up.  Man, he did not like water.  And Vivian could not stand a dirty dog.  It was about the only thing Adam could not understand.  On several occasions, he would go out from his bath and toweling, all fluffy and clean, and roll in the dirtiest thing he could find, sometimes the end product from some other animal.  Then, stinking horribly, he would trot triumphantly back to the horror of Vivian who would promptly put him through the bath routine again and then make him stay in. 

 

Adam would then trot around the house like the lord and master who had established his priority by this doubly bath test.  I couldn’t leave a dirty wash cloth around.  He got bathed and toweled and combed with only a slightly upset manner.  And the sight of him with that 70-and0curled tail – he did have a great tail --- always thrilled Vivian.  “Isn’t he beautiful?” she would say.  And I had to allow as how he was, but he always at these times appeared to be telling me who still number one in that girl’s life was.  Vivian thought my observations on that dog’s being jealous were imaginary. She said I was the one who was jealous, and how could I be that way.  After all, Adam was only a dog. 

 

But, then, along came our first child, Mary Louise.  I do not know why we named her Mary Louise.  I said she would be “Mary Lou,” and Vivian said we would call her Mary Louise and not Mary Lou, but she is Mary Lou and that is what Vivian calls her.  Just the same as Michael.  I said he will be Mike McMahon and she said we will call him Michael.  Now she calls him Mike.

 

But it when Mary Lou came along that this Adam revealed his real colors to her.  She would play with Mary Lou and that Adam would stick his nose in between Vivian and Mary Lou and try to be the one petted.  And Vivian would say, “I believe Adam is jealous.” And I would say, “I have been saying that all along.”

 

And Vivian would laugh, amused.  And she would think more of the dog for his jealousy.  I have to say, though, that Adam loved Mary Lou, too.  He would lick her face if you did not watch him.  But he watched over her, and even if I went to pick up Mary Lou, it seemed he was there seeing that I did it correctly.

 

When we moved to Syracuse in 1939, Adam, now putting on the years, moved with us.  We had Mary Lou and Michael then.  In Syracuse, Kathie and Jerry were born.  It was when Jerry was a baby that I got the chore of having Adam put away.  He became paralyzed in the back hops and there was nothing left to do.  Adios Adam.

 

 

WALDO

 

In 1942, I think it was, we moved to Feasterville, Pennsylvania, which is on the lower end of buck County, just north of Philadelphia and Bustleton.  That was as close as we could get to Philadelphia, so scarce were homes.  We rented a house which was alleged to be one of the original three built under the William Penn Grant.  There were solid stone walls, 21 or 22 inches thick.  There was a fireplace on each of the three floors, all one above the other feeding into a single chimney with a triple flue.  Each fireplace had its separate flu.

 

This house was painted white.  It stood an eighth of a mile back from Street Road, on the north side, about a half mile or more from the Feasterville Post Office.  In the summer it was great, but in the winter it was cold.  Never take a house with a solid stone wall.  Cold comes right through to the inside. 

 

It was here that Michael one day came home with this dog he named Waldo.  Waldo was a cross between a German Shepherd and a Hound.  But his nose was like that of the Shepherd, or the police dog, as this breed is sometimes called, I think.  He had hunting instincts of the hound and the speed of the Shepherd.  At times he bayed like a hound.  He followed a scent like a hound.  He always chased the car, and one day up Street Road, the children said he was with us at 40 miles per hour.  I am not sure he was that fast.  They may have stretched it a bit, but run he could. 

 

In Feasterville, one dog was not enough, it turned out.  I came home one night to find Michael had brought a little black dog home.  It was a cute thing, black as could be.  Her they named Beulah.

 

I must not forget the cats.  There was a barn where Mr. Steele, Jack Steele from whom we leased this spot, stored hay and things.  We noticed some cats peeking around the barn.  They were wary of us and kept their distance.  We were never sure how many there were, only that they were there.  It was a kitten which ventured up one day, and that was the beginning.  I never could keep up with the cats.  But I was informed one day at the end of summer that they estimated the cat population at that barn around our house was 39!

 

Not all came to the house, only ten or fifteen.  And Vivian always took good care of all her pets.  Three dogs and x number of cats.  Mice did not have a chance. The great number did not seem alarming, for it was a quarter of a mile over to Steele’s house and we had nothing but fields all around.  We were truly isolated.

 

And then we got some chickens!  There was a chicken coop and pen at the rear and my wife Vivian who had lived on a farm yielded to the children’s persuasions to get some chickens.  That was a great contribution.  Rhode Island Reds, they were.  And the rooster was a majestic bird who was claimed by Michael.  He named the rooster George.  The only trouble was there George turned out to be belligerent.  When anyone entered the coop, he strutted and threatened like a cock at a fight.  You did not dare to turn your back on George.  He even belted me one in the back one day.  If I could have caught him, I would have given it to him, but he scampered away, just beyond my reach.  But he did not scare.  If I turned, he would be right back.  And he was that way with the children, too.  And they seemed to take a pride in George’s constant fearlessness.

 

Kathy had no fear of him.  She would take a broom with her into the coop to pick up the eggs, and first thing she would poke George with her broom.  He would back off, but she had to keep that broom handy.  All this pleased Michael who was the possessor.  Michael would feed him and try to make friends and he came as close as anyone could.  That bird just had no affection for humans.

 

One day when Kathy was in the pen, we took some 8mm color movies of her with her broom chasing off George.  I still have that film around here someplace.

 

The time came when we had to do away with the chickens.  This was a problem because the children loved every one of them.  We started to eat the hens, and finally we decided it was time for George to go.  How could we tell Michael?  We did not.  I suppose this was the wrong way to do it.  What is the right way?

 

At any rate when the Crowleys came one weekend, and when Michael was away, we prepared George and served him up for Sunday dinner. 

 

Michael and the rest ate with a relish.  We wondered what Michael would think.  Dinner was finished and somebody asked Michael hw he enjoyed the dinner.  He said it was great.

 

Even now I hate to write this part.  Somebody said, “Do you know who it was?”

 

That look which came over his face.  He seemed to know.  He looked shocked.

 

 “You just ate George,” a voice said.

 

And Michael ran from the room.

 

What a traumatic experience for a boy! To discover that he has just eaten his favorite rooster.  Some laughed as he left.  I felt low as a dandelion.  Some felt it was part of growing up.  I felt it was not.  There and then I resolved if such a situation ever arose again, I would sell the chickens and go buy some strange rooster.

 

We still had Waldo, Beulah, and the cats.  There was a horse they rode, but that was when Ellen Steele rode over to visit.  It was here that Kathy developed her love for horses.  She rode every chance she got, but we never did get to own a horse.

 

Waldo was a study.  When he caught game or had a chunk of meat, he would race down by the stream, 150 yards to the east, and there he would bury it.  I do not know how he knew when that meat was properly aged, but he did.  Some time later, he would suddenly make off from the stream and we would watch him recover his catch and feast.

 

About 1943 I was transferred from the Philadelphia office of Ayer to the New York office.  I was told I would get moving expenses.  Then began a series of weekend trips to the New York area to look for a house.  I think I had never encountered such confusion.  My sole objective was to get a house with a big yard.  Meanwhile, we notified Jack Steele what we were about to do.  And he assumed I would move at the appointed time.  But I never did find a house.  Meanwhile, somebody told us about a house in Newton, about 15 miles north, but still in Bucks County.  Warren Custer owned the house, another historic stone structure with a big yard and back to back to the St. Andrew’s School separated by a stream 150 feet to the rear, but with a foot bridge.  For sheer convenience, this was it.

 

The only trouble was I would have to drive 20 minutes to Trenton and commute to New York.  Many people did commute and because I had a deadline with Steele, I had to make the best of it.  My transfer to New York ended with my moving twenty miles closer, let us say, but closer to the Trenton station.

 

During this time Beulah had puppies.  This began with a shocking situation we drove smack into one Sunday afternoon in the side yard where the rascal Waldo sired this first litter. As the weeks rolled by, everybody was excited about this coming event.  I drove in one afternoon, just in time for the excitement.  Poor Beulah was in a little shed by the side of the road off the back of the house.  Each puppy arrived in Saran Wrap.  I had never seen such an event before myself.  And to see those little things enter in their individual wrappings was indeed amazing.  And to see the prompt and orderly way Beulah went about taking care of each one was quite amazing.  Nancy Steele was there, too, and it was all quite a reverential scene.

 

When we moved to Newtown, Yes, we took Waldo, Beulah, the puppies, and one cat.  The only trouble I had was explaining to Hya McClinton at Ayer how I could submit a bill for transferring to New York when all I had done was travel up the road a bit.

 

It was at Newtown that a second tragedy occurred.  Somebody got banged up and had to be taken to the hospital over US1, Nazareth Hospital.  While there, Vivian had met a woman who was all upset because her little boy’s dog had been killed.  How could the mother go home and face her son?  She dreaded the scene which lay ahead.

 

Well, there were we with all those puppies, now grown past the being a true puppy stage.  And what a thing it would be for that boy to have a dog.  And Vivian, who, I think, feared the certain consequences of another repeat performance by Waldo, picked Beulah for the little boy.  She felt quite noble and joyful as she took Beulah to the woman who was waiting for her return.

 

I think I have never seen a more graceful dog than Beulah.  What breeds she came from, I would never know; but her jet black gleaming body was set on a pair of slightly longer legs than one would expect.  And she moved with a grace unduplicated.  Moreover, like Waldo, she had that tremendous understanding of everybody.

 

That night I came home to find Michael looking for Beulah.  I think it was then that Vivian realized the puppies were no replacement for Beulah.

 

“You gave away Beulah?!” I said in disbelief.

 

“If you could have seen that mother,” she said, “You would have given her Beulah, too.”

 

“Couldn’t you have given her one of the puppies?” I asked.

 

“But those puppies would be nothing compared to Beulah,” she said.  “They needed Beulah.”

 

That is the second painful experience of my life with pets.  George the rooster was bad enough, but when we had to tell Michael about Beulah, he could not understand.  Even to this day, he remembers so vividly this event.

 

How can anyone become so involved with an animal?  I began to understand why my mother would not let us have dogs or cats, though later on we did have a dog.  But not until I was in college.  But that is another story.  Pets are a wonderful thing, but then you have a family where each one is an individual with equal rights, they all think, and then the precedent which is set gets to be the norm.  And it goes right down through the years like a stream through forests.

 

We started with Adam.  “Love me, love my dog” is no idle saying.  And from Adam onward through our ten children, the stream of pets flowed.  And it was good.   Animals are really a part of man’s life.

 

I recall one day we were driving out of Newtown toward Yardley.  There was a farm on the north side of the highway.  Suddenly, Mary Lou said, “Daddy!  Look!  A cow with six legs!”

 

That stopped me.  A cow with six legs!  Michael, Kathy, Jerry, Mother…..all excited as I turned around to see this sight.

 

“Where?  Where?”

 

“There,” said Mary Lou proudly.

 

Sure enough there was a cow lying down in the pasture and there were six legs, but two were protruding from her rear aperture.  She was about to….she was giving birth.

 

Mother laughed.  Six legs, indeed.  She explained what was taking place.  Maybe we should tell the farmer.  We drove down his lane to a red barn.  There he sat calmly with another man.  Everybody told him at once.  He never moved.  He just looked at us quite calmly.  He had the kindness not to laugh, I guess.  He said he would get down there soon, but maybe it was a bit early now.  But he thanked us.  The way one thanks a busybody, and we drove out subdued.  There lay the cow, still with the two protruding legs, unhurried, and it was too hot to wait.  We drove on to Yardley.

 

But from then on, we had to take that same road to Yardley to see the calf and her mother there in the field.

 

You learn a lot from children.  They always have two questions:  “who” and “how”?  Later will be a  “Why?”

 

When Bonnie was on the way, Michael wondered why Mother was getting so fat.  She explained that there was a baby inside.  She explained there was a seed which grew inside until ready to be born.  Later she came upon him sitting thoughtfully on the back steps.

 

“What are you thinking about now?” she asked.

 

“I’ll bet,” he replied, “that God throws that seed down your mouth when you sneeze.”

 

At that age, she did not volunteer further explanation.  And having solved his problem, he went about the things of a boy.

 

The daily trip to New York got to be quite a chore, and we seriously began to think again about locating nearer New York.  I now had more time to look.  That is the way it goes, sometimes.  King was gone; Rory was gone.  Dixie remained.  But things had happened in Nashville.  Hazel Davie had gotten her German Police Dog.  And it was the daughter of one of those show dogs she had wanted.  She wanted to breed them and soon her first litter arrived.  It was soon after this big event that we went to Nashville, and there was great excitement.  Edgar had fenced in a section of the side yard and there mother and puppies had plenty of room.   Hazel said she wanted Vivian to have one of the puppies.

 

We left Nashville after Home with only Dixie whom we had brought.  Not long afterwards, however, we received notice to pick up a large package which would arrive at LaGuardia on this specific date.  We did and our package was an American Airlines dog carrier in which was a beautiful German Police dog, Susie, one of that litter which Vivian had so admired.  This was Mother-in-law’s gift to mother-in-law.

 

On arrival, Susie was so shy; she did not seem at all like a police dog.  She was as shy as a school girl from Spokane.  Soon she was Vivian’s shadow.  Wherever Vivian went, there was Susie.  Susie seemed so smart to Vivian that it was decided to take Susie to the local dog training classes.  It seemed she was there only a few weeks. Bonnie took Susie there one evening a week and then followed the instructions with daily walks.  Soon Susie would heel, and sit, and stay, and lie down, and come on oral or sign commands.  It was quite remarkable.  And yet, Bonnie, said Susie would tremble at classes.  She was like an actress before her first appearance.  And Susie had one fault, -- she anticipated commands.

 

Before Bonnie could give the command, Susie would do what Bonnie was about to order.  The man at training class said Susie was just too quick.

 

I thought we just had a rare dog, smart but too shy; but one day a stranger came to the door and much to our surprise, there came a deep growl and an authoritative bark.  I looked at Susie.  There she was in a menacing pose, objection to this newcomer.

 

“Susie,” said Vivian.

 

At once, Susie dropped her menacing posture and with her characteristic shyness gently moved to Vivian’s side, totally docile.  And there in “heel” position, she stood obediently.

 

Susie made not a move as the door was answered.  But the caller was surely aware of her presence.  As the days went by, Susie demonstrated this protective authority in the back yard.  She gave a bit more latitude to callers than King.  Susie admitted those who had been there on previous occasions.  Strangers were threatened with that growl and bark.

 

Ronnie Vanderlinden, the 13 year old boy next door, wanted to enter a dog in the contests the local summer school playground directors ran. Vivian let Ronnie take Susie. Ronnie came back from the contests all excited. The judges had agreed that Susie was best in all things, but one award was all one dog could receive.  So they gave Susie the Cleverest Dog Award.  In now hangs in our kitchen.

 

Shortly after the arrival of Susie, Jerry came home with a little dog.  This stray had been hanging around the Emerson Lab, with no place to go, it seemed.  After several days, Jerry decided to bring the dog home.  He called the dog “charley.”  Charley is a cross between a Pomeranian and a Dachshund.  The only trouble is Charley is a she.

 

This fact became evident when Charley delivered her first litter last week.  Who is the sire?  One of Sparky’s many dog citizens of Tenafly, the Anniversary present Rick Young gave his parents!

 

So turns the wheel of life in this quiet street of Tenafly.  And once again, the case of four puppies to be disposed of is before us.  Already the children are gathering and then dashing home to get permission to bring a puppy hone.  What will happen next, who can say, but someplace, somewhere in the near future there will be another Rick and another Wedding Anniversary and I know a lady with a big white ribbon already to be tied, labeled and presented on the gift which cannot be refused.  If you have a wedding anniversary coming up and you live in Tenafly, do not tell your 11 year old son, if he knows us.  That is, unless you want your share of this world of pets.