The Frozen Dog A Winter’s Tail The winter of 1979-1980 was a cold one, and, with the coming of January, a long spell of sub-freezing temperatures held the hills of Scotty Road in an icy grip. Boyd Lake and the beaver pond froze over, and, in the woods, maple trees snapped and popped as their sap froze. At night, the temperature dipped into the low teens, while rarely getting above the mid twenties during the day. 1 had just turned 21, and was living at home. Several of my hoodlum friends had rented a place together out on the Robe-Menzel Road, which we called “The Dude Ranch”, the scene of many a wild bacchanalia. They had bad habits for renters, such as riding motorcycles indoors, painting the bedroom walls black so they could sleep during the day, running chainsaws in the house in the middle of the night, and shooting at their pet white rats with spear guns. The kitchen windowsills were lined with dozens of empty half-gallon whiskey bottles, all of which arrived at the house with contents intact. Sheriff deputies visited frequently, and not because they wanted to be neighborly. Oddly enough, my friends eventually were all evicted and didn’t even get a good referral! I worked part time at a record store in Everett, named “Ruedi’s Records “, and I spent the majority of my earnings on record albums and alcoholic beverages, much to the dismay of my mother. But I digress! One Saturday afternoon, as I sat in the living room of our house on Scotty Road, watching television and waiting for the evening festivities, brother Ben came in. “Hey, Joe. Guess what I found?” Ben had been out traipsing around the woods, and as he returned up the driveway from the old Osborne place he had come upon a dog. Not a regular dog, but a dog that had apparently died and been dumped by it’s owner. We thought it over and decided that a good dead dog is hard to pass up, especially one that is frozen solid, so we hopped in Ben’s little green Ford Courier pickup and drove up the road to get it. Lying in the grass at the edge of the old pasture was a medium sized German shepherd, its open eyes glazed, looking out at nothing and its lips pulled slightly back into a permanent snarl. The dog was frozen stiff, and when we picked it up, the bottom side was flattened out and had clumps of grass and leaves frozen into the matted gray fur. We gently chucked the dog into the back of the Courier and headed for home. After having dinner and plotting out some activities, Ben and I donned some cold weather clothing and took a drive into the booming metropolis of Granite Falls. At the time, many of the street corners and sidewalks of Granite Falls had large round concrete planters, which some of the city fathers had installed in an effort to beautify the streets. In their attempt, they had planted flowers and small fir trees in these concrete containers, and it made for a lovely display of vegetation. Unfortunately, most of the flowers died, and each passing year with the coming of Christmas some of the locals helped themselves to the little firs for use as Christmas trees, so the planters were all pretty much empty, their only occupants being little stumps. Between Rochon’s Timberline Cafe lounge and the building next to it there was a space about three feet wide, and one of the planters was on the sidewalk in front of this opening. We stood the frozen dog up in the dirt and hid in the darkness behind the planter, and when the , Author: , Accession/Object ID: 2005.141.6, Object Name: Short Story, Title: , Description: The Frozen Dog - Sixth in a series of short stories written by Joe Beckett about growing up in the Granite Falls area, OCR Text: The Frozen Dog A Winter’s Tail The winter of 1979-1980 was a cold one, and, with the coming of January, a long spell of sub-freezing temperatures held the hills of Scotty Road in an icy grip. Boyd Lake and the beaver pond froze over, and, in the woods, maple trees snapped and popped as their sap froze. At night, the temperature dipped into the low teens, while rarely getting above the mid twenties during the day. 1 had just turned 21, and was living at home. Several of my hoodlum friends had rented a place together out on the Robe-Menzel Road, which we called “The Dude Ranch”, the scene of many a wild bacchanalia. They had bad habits for renters, such as riding motorcycles indoors, painting the bedroom walls black so they could sleep during the day, running chainsaws in the house in the middle of the night, and shooting at their pet white rats with spear guns. The kitchen windowsills were lined with dozens of empty half-gallon whiskey bottles, all of which arrived at the house with contents intact. Sheriff deputies visited frequently, and not because they wanted to be neighborly. Oddly enough, my friends eventually were all evicted and didn’t even get a good referral! I worked part time at a record store in Everett, named “Ruedi’s Records “, and I spent the majority of my earnings on record albums and alcoholic beverages, much to the dismay of my mother. But I digress! One Saturday afternoon, as I sat in the living room of our house on Scotty Road, watching television and waiting for the evening festivities, brother Ben came in. “Hey, Joe. Guess what I found?” Ben had been out traipsing around the woods, and as he returned up the driveway from the old Osborne place he had come upon a dog. Not a regular dog, but a dog that had apparently died and been dumped by it’s owner. We thought it over and decided that a good dead dog is hard to pass up, especially one that is frozen solid, so we hopped in Ben’s little green Ford Courier pickup and drove up the road to get it. Lying in the grass at the edge of the old pasture was a medium sized German shepherd, its open eyes glazed, looking out at nothing and its lips pulled slightly back into a permanent snarl. The dog was frozen stiff, and when we picked it up, the bottom side was flattened out and had clumps of grass and leaves frozen into the matted gray fur. We gently chucked the dog into the back of the Courier and headed for home. After having dinner and plotting out some activities, Ben and I donned some cold weather clothing and took a drive into the booming metropolis of Granite Falls. At the time, many of the street corners and sidewalks of Granite Falls had large round concrete planters, which some of the city fathers had installed in an effort to beautify the streets. In their attempt, they had planted flowers and small fir trees in these concrete containers, and it made for a lovely display of vegetation. Unfortunately, most of the flowers died, and each passing year with the coming of Christmas some of the locals helped themselves to the little firs for use as Christmas trees, so the planters were all pretty much empty, their only occupants being little stumps. Between Rochon’s Timberline Cafe lounge and the building next to it there was a space about three feet wide, and one of the planters was on the sidewalk in front of this opening. We stood the frozen dog up in the dirt and hid in the darkness behind the planter, and when the , Granite Falls Historical Society,Documents (articles, clippings, letters, papers),General Articles & Documents,General Articles,General Articles 08,Short Story (2005.141.6),Short Story (2005.141.6) 1, Short Story (2005.141.6) 1