At the age of three my niece Sandra was given a little puppy. He was a black and white toy short hair terrier, and even then he had a very inquisitive face. Skippy, as he was named, quickly shifted his allegiance from Sandra to my father. He started following him wherever he went and in no time the two had created a strong bond.
My father worked on the railroad and left home about 6:30 each morning. Skippy waited at the door for him and the two walked to the train station together, with Skippy running ahead, excitement in his every step. At the station Skippy waited while the men boarded and when the train left, he then came running home, his escort duty for the day finished. Sometimes my father did not want him to come. Perhaps it was too cold, or the snow was too deep. My father would tell him, in Italian of course, to go home. Skippy would stop and look at him with an inquiring look as if to say, “Are you sure?” My father would tell him again to go home. So Skippy would turn around, head down, tail drooping, with a very dejected look, and slowly come home. At three in the afternoon, Skippy went to the door to go out. He ran up to the corner and sat there to wait for him. If he did not soon appear, Skippy would go half way down the block to a bar. Waiting for the door to open, he quickly slipped into the bar. He sniffed everyone’s shoes, and when he found my father, he would jump up with paws on my father’s leg, and give him a joyful welcome. Then the two would walk home. He stayed close to him as my father took off his work shoes, all the time talking to him in Italian. For the rest of the day you did not see one without the other.
The living room was off limits to Skippy by my mother’s orders. However, when my father was in there, Skippy would saunter in, head held high, almost defiantly, and sit right next to his master. Mother would go in and tell him to leave, but he did not budge, not as long as his buddy was there.
At times, my father hand fed Skippy his breakfast. In this way he would be sure to have breakfast and still accompany my father to the station. Skippy loved my mother’s pasta, with bits of meatball and sauce. However, Skippy had developed a gourmet’s appetite, as he would not touch the pasta until Mom sprinkled some grated cheese over it.
When Skippy was l4, he became ill and the doctor said it was cancer of the throat and it would be a long painful death. So one day my father and Skippy took their last walk together. He took him to the vet to be put to sleep because he could not let his buddy suffer. What a sad day that was for all of us, especially my father, who came home crying. Now, almost 60 years later, we still talk affectionately of this great little dog.
