I was raised near East Ridge. (To make this story clearer, we lived near the western end of East Ridge.) Many days were spent there, riding bikes, following ditches, and building forts. When I was a boy, my family always had a pet dog. Years later when I married, our first home was one of the new ones on Cedar Glen Circle off Frawley Road in East Ridge. This was the eastern end of East Ridge, definitely “Old School”.

When our first child was born, we just had to have a dog. We kinda thought we wanted a white dog. Soon a young medium-size white female wandered into our yard. It was sort of built like a German Sheperd. We looked for the owners, even putting up fliers throughout the area. Thankful, our first born, was a toddler. She called the pup “Dee-Dee”.

The name stuck. Our young daughter played with him often. Dee-Dee was gentle…or at least we thought!

One day at work, my wife Sally called me, all upset. When Sally and Thankful were in the front yard, a big, hairy, roughly-dressed man in a green and white pick-up truck had roared into our driveway, thrown down a dead, bloody rooster at my wife’s feet with our two-year-old at her side.

“Your dog killed my bird! If I ever see him again, I’ll kill him!” With tires squealing, he roared away. In the western part of East Ridge where I lived as a boy, I had never heard of such carrying on.

My first reaction was shock. You don’t threaten a young woman and a baby. And this was my wife and my child! I instantly realized I had to act. I must defend and protect my family. But how? Was Dee-Dee a chicken killer? Was he right, but ill-mannered and violent? What should I do?

Once home, I found out Dee-Dee had been in the house. In fact, she stayed inside. Perhaps, if I went to the man and explained he would calm down. And at the very least, he must be told, not to carry on this way with my family again. Oh, man! I don’t like confrontations. And in my mind, this could go south quickly. Should I call the police, arm myself, call a lawyer? Perhaps, I had seen too many Westerns. I drove unarmed by myself down Frawley Road looking for a green and white pick-up truck. I saw it. It was pulled in the back yard of an old house. A fire was burning in the back. I am sure I prayed. As I pulled down the winding drive, I soon saw, not one man, but many, around an open fire, sitting on their haunches, drinking beer and Jack Daniel. Many searching eyes turned my way. It’s no wonder. I was driving an old Volvo.

I parked and got out. “Hello”, I announced, “I’m looking for the guy who owns that pick-up”. I was scared as you know what, but determined, feeling I had to confront this threat. “Yes sir”, came one tall man about 35 years dressed in boots, jeans and a worn flannel shirt. “What can I do for you?” “I think you may have confused our dog with another dog. You came to our house down the road earlier today and threatened my family about a dead chicken.”

“Oh, that. A big white dog killed my prize cock.” At that moment, I noticed that his back yard was full of small, round fenced cages, and ALL contained roosters. This guy raised fighting cocks! Oh my. This was different, very different.

“Yes sir, I see. Our dog is an indoor dog. She doesn’t wander.”

“Yeah,” he responded, “but that is the only white dog nearby. Do you know for a fact that she didn’t come down here and kill my rooster?”

What could I say. “No sir, I don’t. I will make sure she is chained if she is outside. And if anything else happens, call me, don’t scare my wife and baby again.” I handed him my card. He looked at the card, then looked at me. “I will. But I will kill the dog who kills one of my birds, the next time I find him on my property.”

He added, “Sorry about your wife and kid. I was mad.”

I was satisfied. I drove home, adrenalin high fading. Did I really do that, I wondered? Yes, I had. It had not gone south. Praise God. Sally was waiting. We hugged and she praised me. (Hey, that was a sweet reward.)

We kept up the dog.

A few weeks later, the pick-up truck with the big, hairy man pulled into our driveway. He was calm. “It wasn’t your dog. It was another one.” I didn’t ask the animal’s fate.

We never saw the man again. Dee-Dee lived a long life.

It is hard to know what to make of it all. I do believe God was watching.

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Doug Daugherty can be reached at dedsr1952@gmail.com