Hilda

“Mom, I need a snack,” I said in my four-year-old voice.

“How about a bowl of potato chips?” Mom replied. “But you need to eat them on the front porch—I’m cleaning.”

I found myself sitting on the front steps of our house with a huge bowl of potato chips. Life was good on that warm summer day—not a care in the world—until something caught my eye by the big blue spruce tree next to our house. Wolf! Was my first thought, then I saw that it was a dog—a very large dog. Later, I learned that she was a German Shephard, a police dog. She was staring at me or at least staring at my bowl of potato chips. Then, she started walking toward me. Not knowing exactly what to do, I reached into my bowl, took out a large chip, and threw it at her. A lightweight chip doesn’t travel very far and landed about three feet in front of me. I froze. She walked up slowly, smelled the chip, then gobbled it up, and asked for another with kind eyes and a wagging tail. I knew I had done the right thing—and that I now had a friend, forever.

I have lots of memories about Hilda—how she came to be our dog because the neighbors, who owned her, were moving and didn’t want her anymore, and how we used to stalk robins in the yard—never coming close to catching one. But this story is about an incident down by a small creek next to our neighbor’s house. This memory haunts me. 

Over the years, Hilda freely roamed our property, mostly sitting on the porch, where she had received the potato chips on our first meeting. Mom and dad bought a chain to hook her to the clothesline in the back of the house, but she mostly just whined and barked until she was freed. They also bought a leash and a choke-chain collar. The collar was supposed to prevent her from pulling. Therefore, my mom allowed me to take her for a walk on the horse trail which used to be and old train track and was across the street from our house. 

The walk was going great, but she wanted to go faster, so I obliged and picked up the pace. Still Hilda was not satisfied, and soon we were running. Because a young boy cannot keep up with a full-grown German Shephard, I found myself face down in the black dirt of the horse trail, being drug like a Trailer. I let go, watching Hilda disappear out of sight. Dejected, I hung my head and walked home. Hilda came back later that day dragging her leash. I was scolded for allowing her to get away and possibly getting her leash caught on something where she wouldn’t be able to come home. Overall, it was lesson for me to stay in charge and not to let the dog set the pace. 

A few weeks later, I was allowed to try again. This time, I walked her past the neighbor’s houses to a small creek that meandered down from the mountains. The creek was shallow and about six feet across in some places. It was bordered on both sides by large scrub oak trees—the kind that produce acorns and turned dark red in the fall. Hilda was splashing in the stream and I was looking for bugs that live under rocks and others that scooted across the surface like ice-skaters. I had a good grip on the leash and Hilda stayed close. Then she started growling and baring her teeth—I had never seen her do this before. 

“Hi, what’s your name?” asked an unfamiliar voice down on the far side of the creek. It was a man in a lightweight red windbreaker, standing amidst the scrub oak. Had he been there all this time, and neither Hilda nor I had noticed until now?

“That’s a good-looking dog you have there—does he have a name?” the man said with a smile, as he started walking closer. By this time, Hilda had gone completely enraged, pulling at the leash despite the choke-chain collar. She was going at the man and I was being pulled into the stream after her, unable to stop her advance. I had my legs straight out in front of me, digging my heals into the soft mud of the creek bed, and holding onto the leash with both hands.

“He’s a she,” I groaned. “…and I don’t think I can hold her back much longer. The hairs on the back of Hilda’s neck were standing straight up. The man’s facial expression changed to fear, as he realized his situation.

“Okay, hold on to her, son,” he said. “I’ll go.” He backed away from us, through the scrub oak, and disappeared. 

After a short time, Hilda settled down. She then turned around and licked me in the face. “Good girl,” I said, as I gave her a huge hug. I got up from the stream, brushed myself off the best I could, and we walked back to the house, side-by-side. 

I will never know if I was in real danger that day—I never saw that man again. However, I have thought about this often, and know in my heart, that on that day, Hilda was worth her weight in gold. I miss you, girl.