Air Pilot Sam that’s what the crate said. A yapping English Pointer puppy was clawing the side of the crate. Dad just brought him home from the Tampa airport where he had been flown from Illinois. 

A previous puppy had died from distemper so dad made the arrangements and bought Sam. The registration papers said he was a pure bred English Pointer and his dad had won prestigious awards. Sam was named after him.

I lifted him from the crate and he ran down the driveway around the pecan tree into the backyard. He rolled on his back then jumped on his feet giving a puppy bark. I tried to pet him but he turned quickly bounding after a yellow butterfly. He was so full of life. 

A chicken wire enclosure with a wooden dog house was where he slept and ate but most of the time he was playing with me in the yard. He would chase me, sometimes nipping at my ankles, or I would throw a ball for him to retrieve. Sometimes he wouldn’t let go and I almost had to pull him off the ground to get the ball. 

Sam grew fast that first year becoming long and lean with perfect markings. His ears were solid brown and on top of his head was a perfectly placed roundish brown dot. The rest of him was white with scattered brown flecks. Dad said he was the perfect picture of an English Pointer.

As he filled out his second year it became obvious he was a remarkable dog. Perfectly proportioned with a deep chest he would eventually weigh sixty five, large for his breed. A picture of sleekness and power he could really run. He would bolt from the station wagon and be half a mile in the woods before dad and I even started walking.

Sam would be flushing quail a mile away while we trudged through the woods trying to keep up. After about an hour and a half we would go back to the station wagon and Sam about thirty five minutes later. Hunting with other people, Sam rarely stopped while their dogs would come in for water several times. He just had incredible stamina.

One time dad was so frustrated we took off in the station wagon with me on the tailgate. Sam caught up with us as we were going forty five and stayed at that speed for several minutes until dad stopped and he jumped in the back and gulped down some water.

When he was around three Sam began staying closer so we were able to find coveys and bag some quail. However he would suddenly spring off in a different direction leaving behind single birds. It wasn’t until he was six and had slowed down some that he would take the time to hunt out single birds. That was when he started to become a really good bird dog.

Sam had what was called a hard mouth and we were never able to change him. Retrieving birds he tore into the flesh sometimes making them almost inedible. When we cleaned them Sam chomped down like an alligator on whatever entrail dad tossed at him. Then sometimes he would lay on his back showing his throat. Dad would rub it reminiscing on how handlers at Silver Springs rubbed the gators under neck to put them to sleep.

Free from the chicken wire pen, Sam slept in the yard or sometimes dad left open a door on the station wagon on really cold nights. He was free to wander as he pleased and stories began circulating about dog fights with him sometimes taking on two or three. After being away two or three days he would return partially bloody and with the reputation of being a dog to avoid. I saw this when rigid, growling down deep, he stood off two German Shepherds who turned and trotted away.

Fiercely territorial nothing came on our property he didn’t know about. Testing this I clanged the metal mailbox on the front porch and in seconds Sam appeared rigid snarling. He was chained when visitors came and got loose one time lunging at my sister’s boyfriend. We used to laugh that she married my brother in law because he was the only one Sam liked.

He also patrolled our neighborhood, trotting around our block like a King inspecting his serfdom, enjoying other dog’s food and sometimes producing offspring. If he were human he would have been the classic bad boy roaring by on a Harley getting into trouble but tolerated because he  somehow protected the neighborhood. I wonder if that was the case with Sam.

Sometimes he would walk with me to school and in the afternoon wait for me at the top of the hill. Somehow he felt more human than dog. On Saturdays he would follow me around town and walk with me and my sister to get groceries. I wonder how many times he protected me when I walked home from Boy Scouts in the dark.

Away from our home it was amazing how well he interacted with people. I really think he thought he was human. Sam walked down the sidewalk past stores among people and even stopped on the corner waiting on the light. Then he would cross with everyone else. Passing through town in our car I actually saw this happen. He was just walking around town like all the other humans.

Dad would often take us around town and I’d hold Sam as he went into the lumber supply store. Then we’d ride around town in the old 58 wagon with the windows down with Sam sticking his open mouth in the wind. People would smile or wave as we drove past. The only problem is sometimes I had to sit in the back seat. At times it felt like a sibling rivalry.

Adding to his bad boy image Sam also broke the law and received a citation. School buses came by our house everyday and Sam loved to chase them. He would run past them on Alta Vista then down the hill through the speed zone by the Primary school. One day he registered at 37 m.p.h. on the speed zone marker and was given a citation by the City police which stated he had to be on a chain while the buses ran. A columnist in the local paper wrote a funny article about the incident including a picture of Sam. He was a town celebrity.

Sam gradually began slowing down and by age 8 he was no longer hunting. I was at college then and every time I called home I always asked about him and how he was doing. Heartworms were beginning to affect him and also his legs were beginning to give out. Every time I went home he seemed to be worse. At family gatherings how Sam was doing was always brought up.

I moved back home and saw first hand the decline ….how he struggled to stand and often wheezed at the slightest movement. He was no longer the dog that could run forever or the alpha dog patrolling the neighborhood. Like seeing Mickey Mantle running like a gazelle to struggling to run on aged and damaged knees it was at times painful to watch. 

No longer the energetic puppy full of life chasing butterflies he was now a tired old dog waiting to die. I had spent all my growing up years from nine to twenty one with him and it was hard to let go. Mercifully he closed his eyes for the last time when he was twelve and we had a neighborhood funeral for him. 

Mr. Hardwick was there and Mr. Bates and I believe Mr. Foster was there from just down the street. Dad wrapped him in a plastic sheet with a note telling all about him then lowered him in the ground. Someone said a prayer then we reminisced about Sam when he was sleek and  powerful and could run forever. A fitting end to an amazing dog and my loyal companion.