"A Riverside Boy & His Hole-Digging Dog"

Back in the day when Atlanta was a much smaller city, farming communities ringed the outskirts of town on all sides. This writer's family lived on an eleven acre farm in the Riverside community of Northwest Atlanta (now known, affectionately, as the "Upper West Side"). There were other industries in the Riverside area, such as Whittier Cotton Mills, but most folks farmed. Some did both, just to put food on the table and a roof over their family's heads.

Families were large in those days. Born in 1920, this writer's father was the baby in a "litter" of nine children. Gaggles of offspring provided much needed help for mothers and fathers. Girls worked in and around the homeplace with their mothers, and boys went to work the fields with their fathers. There were many mouths to feed, but also many hands and backs to help bear the burden of the work that had to be done.

Scattered among the humans were the neighborhood animals. Mules, cows, goats, an occasional stock horse, and several varieties of dogs were commonplace in farming communities like Riverside. Most of these animals served a utilitarian purpose. The mules plowed, the goats kept embankments and other areas free of underbrush and briars, and the cows provided milk and cheese. The neighborhood dogs, however, were another story. The majority of their everyday lives was spent lying around on front porches, waiting for a cat, or a mule and wagon, or sometimes even an occasional automobile or truck, to chase.

Most Riverside dogs were not of an elite pedigree. A good many were of the "Heinz 57" variety - a mixture of whatever species of male dog that had been fortunate enough to mate with the mother dog while she was in heat. The one lone exception to this was a frumpy looking English Bulldog owned by this writer's family.

His name was, "Doc Decker."

Doc was far too lazy to chase the few cars that infrequently rumbled down Forrest Avenue. And, he certainly was not about to trouble himself in pursuit of a prowler or hobo that might have come through the neighborhood. Doc would chase cats, because they annoyed him, and because that's what any good, self-respecting dog would do. He did not climb trees, however, so the cat's danger ended at the base of whatever tree that was chosen as a getaway.  

Like most Riverside dogs, Doc spent the majority of his time lying on the front porch. Whenever one of the Decker girls came outside with the scraps from the family meal, Doc would follow like a kid at Christmas. When the scraps were dumped in his bowl, he attacked the meal with great fervor. There were few other things in life that Doc had such passion for.

During the summertime, he would often accompany the Riverside community boys down to the Chattahoochee River for a swim. He seemed to instinctively know where they were going and why. His rolling, shuffling gait made him humorous to watch as he followed this gang of whooping and hollering boys down to the river bank.

Doc loved the water. The boys would pick him up under one arm, swing out over the river on a long tree rope, and release him while in mid-air. Doc would hit the water, disappear for a second or two, and then surface, flipping and flopping madly with his dumpy legs and body as he made his way to shore.

He was truly just, "one of the guys."

Doc was also the "church dog." The family attended the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church on Bolton Road. Doc would ride with all the children in the back of the family's 1927 Ford Model A truck. He would stand at the door of the church building, accepting pats on the head from all the parishoners, and then run and play with the kids after services. In the summer, he would lie on the cool, marble porch of the church building during the worship service. In winter, he was allowed to come into the foyer, and lie just inside the front doors on the large welcome mat. This was as close as Doc ever got to a "conversion."

Male dogs in Riverside had a healthy array of "bitch" dogs with which to carouse. No male dog in Riverside ever suffered from a testosterone build-up. Doc, along with his fellow Riverside canines, helped father many a litter of puppies. Like singer David Lee Roth of the rock group, Van Halen, Doc Decker had offspring scattered all over the countryside. Occasionally, a neighbor would bring a puppy to the Decker home that was obviously one of Doc's. He seemed to know his "children," and would shower them with licks and sniffs when they came around.

Everyone in the Decker family loved Doc. But, Ernest, the baby of the family, loved him the most. English Bulldogs, though hopelessly indolent and lazy, are very loyal. They also seem to have a deep affinity for children. When Ernest was a boy, everywhere he went, Doc went. Bolton School became his second home during the school year. He would follow Ernest there every morning, hang around the back door and the school yard, and filter through the ranks of the student body at lunch, panhandling scraps of food from each student's lunch pail. Doc was always standing at attention near the front door of Bolton School when the dismissal bell rang in the afternoon.    

The lone, annoying habit of Doc Decker's was his propensity to dig holes in the yard. Some species of dog, such as Labradors ("Labs"), seem almost possessed with a digging "demon," especially during their puppy years. Doc's personality was not "OCD" in any way nor with anything, but he was obviosuly partial to the smell of fresh dirt. And, one particular spot seemed to be his favorite place to dig.

In front of the Decker farm house at 2525 Forrest Avenue, was a long, split rail fence. Running from one end of the property line to the other, the only opening was at the front sidewalk (which ran from the mailbox to the front porch of the house). The rails of the fence had been split off a large hickory tree from the back part of the farm, and were heavy as a pregnant mule. The bottom rail of the fence was positioned very low to the ground.

Doc Decker did not seem to understand that the opening in the fence was the designated entrance to the property. Or, he was just too lazy to lumber another hundred feet or so in order to access the front walkway. Instead, Doc would dig a deep hole or passageway under the bottom rail of the fence. Never mind that this excavation required far more effort than would have been necessary in shuffling up the road a few extra feet. Doc seemed to enjoy his labor. Perhaps it was just his way of getting in his cardio workout for the day.

The trouble with Doc's practice was that it did not please the patriarch of this writer's family.

Grandaddy Whitfield Decker not only farmed to feed his family, he also served as a Deputy Sheriff for Fulton County. He was a tall, stocky man with a ruddy complexion and a serious demeanor. Grandaddy Whitfield carried a long barreled, nickel plated, Smith & Wesson .38 caliber pistol, along with a set of handcuffs, on his lawman belt. He was a respected man in the Riverside community, and one that kept his life and his family under control at all times.

Grandaddy Whitfield found Doc when he was still a young puppy. On his way home from a Sheriff call one bitterly cold Winter night, he saw Doc lying next to a trash bin, shivering from the cold. When he brought him home, Grandaddy Whitfield told the family that they could keep Doc, but only if the children took care of his needs and kept him out of trouble. The two youngest boys, Ernest and Hubert, immediately volunteered. They fell in love with Doc the instant their father brought him through the door, and were actually the ones who named him.

Years later, they were also the ones who buried him. Doc died during the "Dog Days" of summer, following a severe bout with distemper. Both Hubert and Ernest were young men when Doc died. But, they cried like two brokenhearted little boys as they dug his grave.

Whenever Doc dug holes under the fence, Grandaddy Whitfield did not like it even a little bit. He made Ernest and Hubert go behind their dog and fill in every single hole. It was uncanny how Doc seemed to know the most opportune times for such. Late at night when the family was asleep, as he came home from a mating session with one of the neighborhood bitches, Doc dug his way under the fence. When the family was seated around the supper table eating the evening meal, Doc dug his way under the fence. On the days that Doc chose not to go to school with the kids, or to the fields with the older boys, Doc dug his way under the fence. Over and over, Ernest and Hubert filled in the holes, cursing Doc with each shovel of dirt.

Finally, on an afternoon in early May, Doc Decker's, "chickens came home to roost." Staying around the homeplace that morning instead of following the boys to school, he had ventured out into the community in the early afternoon looking for some female "action." He arrived back at the Decker farm only minutes before Hubert and Ernest came walking up the road from school. They spotted Doc, same as always, digging his passageway under the bottom fence rail. Both boys, so tired and frustrated from their dog's incessant digging, and from having to fill in the endless stream of holes he left behind, sprang into action.

Doc heard the boys coming and sensed from their angry screams that he was in trouble. He hurriedly tried to finish the hole. Not digging quite deep enough, when Doc tried to slide under the bottom fence rail to get away, he got stuck. He couldn't go forward, and he couldn't back up. Hubert jumped over the fence and held Doc by the scruff of the neck. Ernest pulled off the belt from his school clothes and began whipping Doc's hind quarters. Similar to the whippings they had both endured from their parents, Ernest and Hubert were in no mood to, "spare the rod." They each took great joy from being on the delivering end of a thrashing for once.

What a scene it was. Two young boys, shouting with glee, lecturing this English Bulldog with every lash of the belt (just as their parents routinely did to them). Doc, the hole digging machine, was growling, squirming, barking and whining - trying desperately to break free from the torment that was being inflicted on him.

Finally, the boys saw that Doc was beginning to gradually extricate himself from the hole. They also realized that this normally docile English Bulldog was now furious with rage. They immediately stopped the beating and took off in a dead run for the house. Doc quickly squeezed his dirty, aching body through the fence hole and took off after Ernest and Hubert. The front screen door slammed loudly as the two brothers barely and breathlessly made it inside, just a few feet ahead of their extremely angry English Bulldog. The sound of their mother's voice could be heard coming from the kitchen, threatening them for slamming the door in such a violent manner.

Hot on their trail and bent on revenge, Doc hit the front porch and charged head-first into the now locked front screen door. Standing on his hind legs, he fitfully barked and clawed at the screen. He wanted in that house, and he wanted some payback. Ernest and Hubert knelt just inside the screen door, egging him on. Doc's vicious tirade increased to an almost fever pitch.

Finally, Georgia Decker came to investigate. Grandma Georgia was half Cherokee Indian. She was a little woman, with high cheekbones, and a normally quiet and submissive nature. As the mother of nine children (six of them - boys), Grandma Georgia had learned to hold her own in a fight. She was a tough disciplinarian when the situation dictated, and could swing a razor strap or tree limb with surprising power for such a little woman.

Grandma Georgia scolded Doc severely and ordered him to quiet down and get away from her front door. As she listened to Hubert and Ernest try to explain and defend their actions, she acknowledged that they had acted correctly, and praised them for taking charge of the situation. As with every good mother, she also attempted to seize this "teachable moment" and drive home a life lesson for her two youngest.

She sat them down in the living room and asked them how they felt during the experience of whipping Doc. Ernest spoke up and said, "I enjoyed every single lick...That'll teach him not to dig holes all the time." Grandma Georgia was careful to explain that merely beating the dog was not enough. The boys would have to, in some way, teach him not to resume the practice after the memory of the beating had faded.

She instructed her boys that when Doc had been given sufficient time to cool down, that they would need to go back outside and reconnect with him. This would show Doc that they did not hate him, and that the whipping was not just for sport. "Because," she explained, "just like I have to whip you boys every other day for the same things, this is probably not the last time you'll have to whip Doc...He probably isn't through digging holes."

Grandma Georgia was correct. Ernest and Hubert did restore their bond with Doc later that day. But,  Doc kept right on digging holes under the fence - until the day that he finally decided that either he was too old or just too tired to dig anymore.

Ernest and Hubert Decker did, in fact, remember this valuable experience later in their lives. Both genuinely tried to apply it after growing into manhood and becoming fathers themselves.

They learned that day that disciplining those we love is just that - an act of love. It is one of the things that deepens the familial bond, and trains the next generation so they will know when it's okay to dig holes under fences, and when it's not.

Long live the memory of a Riverside boy and his hole-digging dog.

Long live the memory of Doc Decker.


"Well I'll Be John Brown"

- David Decker
  February 15, 2011