Poor Clarence showed up in our back yard one day, skin and bones, wearing a collar that appeared to weigh more than he did, and suffering from a whole-body tremor. He appeared to be a cross between a Chihuahua and a beagle. He was desperately fearful of everything that moved, and of many things that did not. 

So, first thing we did was feed him and name him Clarence. Next thing we did was try to pet him. He never, in all the years he lived with us, willingly let us touch him. He would take a nap sometimes, but never in the shed or a corner of the house.  I watched him from a distance one time as he was settling down for a nap. He looked all around, evidently making sure he had several clear lines of escape. The few times I trapped him (hoping to teach him forcefully that I was a friend), he screamed like a lost soul until I let him go. 

After a few months he regained his physical health. His poor little bones no longer showed through his scruffy dead looking fur, and he was better able to run away from threats both real and perceived. He looked almost sleek and shiny. 

Emotionally, though, he was damaged goods. I’ve mentioned his fear of being trapped. Somehow, his early trauma also led to sexual confusion. We had no less than four other dogs on the place, all much bigger than Clarence, and they did not appreciate his advances. One day they, collectively, had had enough. They roughed him up pretty good. One dog got his feet, the other had him by the head and the others growled and snarled and nipped at his body and sides. He commenced the wailing of the damned. My mother came storming out with a rake and a bucket of water and scattered them all. We didn’t see Clarence for three days. 

Later at a family picnic hosted by my Aunt Helen, the subject of poor Clarence came up. Everyone was laughing ruefully at his treatment by the other dogs. I, the youngest and most innocent, piped up to ask why the other dogs had been so mad at him. The conversation stopped, and everybody sat in painful silence, avoiding eye contact, trying to think of a way out. Aunt Helen stared around at all of us. Then she, genteel Southern maiden lady that she was, snorted and proclaimed, “Clarence is a sex maniac.” Then she proceeded to overload everybody’s plate with extra helpings of potato salad.

I’m sorry to say that Clarence did not learn his lesson. He was more careful, though, and only succumbed to his compulsion when he came upon another dog individually, and he was also careful to cut and run before his victim got too angry.

So, the only question that remained was, did he eventually try his moves on a bear? He disappeared for several weeks, and later my father found his poor little bug-eyed severed head down behind the barn. The rest of him never turned up. We had a somewhat macabre funeral, and never again mentioned his fatal proclivities.