Pittsburg Tractor: the stage for Duke, who kept trying until he found a home
By HUDSON OLD
Journal Publisher
Duke died in February.
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He's survived by everything continuing to draw breath.
"He was anybody's dog," Larry Shrum said.
He was the cowardly lion of Oz, 95 pounds of mutt that moved like a Great Dane in a Black Lab coat. He had white stocking feet with Dalmatian spots.
His date of birth was reckoned back from the morning he showed up at the door of Pittsburg Tractor. Mary Shrum brought the big pup in the office, fed him, scratched his ears, talked to him.
He moved in at her feet.
Time passed.
One day a man named Bill Coker showed up.
"That's my dog," he said.
"Well, he's been here about three months and you're gonna have a hard time getting him back," Mr. Shrum said. Duke may have been anybody's dog, but Mrs. Shrum was his human.
Duke had a back story, Mr. Coker said.
He outgrew what the family that rescued him from the pound had expected. They gave him to Mr. Coker. There were two dogs at the Coker place. Duke got whipped so regularly that out of pity he was given to a relative in Mt. Pleasant.
It's conjecture, but everybody figures he was on his way home to Pittsburg when he made his fateful stop, finding shelter for the night on the tractor yard.
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Duke was as perceptive as he was gentle. Coming to understand that Mrs. Shrum's blessing gave him absolute run of the business, he moved his home base out in the showroom, first under the grease shelves. When they remodeled, Duke took a spot in front of the tool display, where it was easier to watch for friends coming in the front door.
His sport was tug of war. He especially liked playing with children of a size he could pull around the tile floor.
Two UPS men taught him to tell time.
"Those guys run on a tight schedule," Mr. Shrum said. "One came in about noon and he'd always have a treat in his bag."
Duke learned to make the UPS man laugh - the routine was always the same - to get his treat, Duke needed only to nuzzle the man, his whipping slab of wagging tail slicing the air to shreds.
The other UPS man arrived at the end of the day and came in through the shop door. About ten of five, Duke's biological clock nudged him out of his afternoon siesta. He'd stand, stretch, and lumber out back for his UPS ADBD - Afternoon Dog Biscuit Delivery.
Office personnel taught him to count. A snap of fingers accompanied by the calling of his name was his cue - three barks got a dog biscuit.
As they say in the business world, Duke was pro active.
About food.
When the pizza place opened next door, Duke learned that food came out its drive in window. He knew how to show people he'd like to have food. If they wanted to give him some, that was good. If they didn't, that was okay.
Live and let live. That was his code.
He recognized people who knew his mission.
"All J.S. Hackler had to do was open the door and Duke was up on his feet," Mr. Shrum said. Mr. Hackler never required counting or nuzzling - he just pulled food out of a pocket.
With scraps from the barbecue joint up the road, Frank McAlear's arrival signaled a feast that made him one of Duke's favorites.
Employees jokingly dubbed him the Security Director. When it came to conflict, Duke's standard operating procedure was flight.
One day he was ambushed by a pair of heelers who'd have been morsels in Duke's heavy jaws.
They were in a pickup just outside the door - when Duke went out they both launched full body aerial assaults. Stunned to find his world raining snarling dogs Duke fled - think of cartoon mice chasing a cartoon cat.
Duke would have loved being the butt of a joke that made you laugh, a sound that launched that wagging tail.
Science these days claims the mix of DNA that shaped Duke is unique. There was never one like him before, there never will be again.
But there are plenty just as potentially full of joy that creates affection.
It comes out when they're treated right.