Hobos I Have Known

by Art Burton

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  SANDY, MY PROTECTOR

  In light of the Rat Trap Johnson story, you may think my father was crazy for allowing these hobos into our house. We could have just as easily fed them outside on the steps. The men wouldn’t have cared one iota. They just wanted some food.

  But that wasn’t the way my father thought. He wanted to help these men preserve a shred of dignity. They weren’t bums. They were men down on their luck through no fault of their own. It was a symptom of the times.

  On most occasions, I was not totally on my own in the kitchen. My older brothers could be protective, but I had something better – a large, thick-shouldered, yellowish-brown dog of indeterminate breed. We called him Sandy.

  Sandy was a cow dog. His main purpose in life was to go out into the fields twice a day and round up the cows for milking. Once that task was completed, he would usually join me in the kitchen and keep me company until the others returned from their chores.

  Sandy wasn’t welcome in the barn during milking. He made the cows nervous. It was not that he did it on purpose. He acted like your typical, curious dog. Sniffing out new smells, checking out different places. This would get the cows back feet dancing around as they tried to keep an eye on his progress. If you were milking a cow by hand, you didn’t want any feet dancing around while you were precariously balanced on a three-legged milking stool. The easy solution was to ban Sandy from the barn during milking. He happily joined me in the kitchen.

  Sandy never actually threatened any of the hobos who arrived in our kitchen. Basically he was a pretty placid dog. He took up his position by the wood box and watched the comings and goings of these strangers. If they reached out to pat him, he growled. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. That was usually all it took to convince them to keep their distance and at that same time to be respectful of the hospitality they were being offered.

  Sandy was only one of the domesticated animals that managed to make it inside the house. Like all farms, we had cats in the barn to keep down the rodent population. And like all farms, there would be the occasional kitten who would charm us to the point that it would become a pet and be allowed to join the family.

  I mention these two things because of one ’bo who arrived at the house early one morning in the late summer of ’32. As always, when I answered his knock and heard the "could you spare a little food" line, I invited him into the kitchen. He was hesitant right from the beginning, nervous like. When he saw Sandy his feet froze on the spot. Sandy, for his part, didn’t help matters any. Sensing the hobo’s discomfort, he let a low, rumbling growl escape from deep in his throat. This sound triggered the man into motion back through the door into the yard.

  I pursued him, closing the door behind me. No matter how much I reassured him, he was not going to enter that kitchen. He thanked me for the food, which to that point he hadn’t received, and was about to leave.

  "Wait," I said. "You’re hungry. I’ll bring you something out here."

  "No thanks, ma’am. I’ll be on my way," he said. He must have suffered a real bad dog experience. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Sandy.

  "Eat over by the woodpile," I said. "You can haul up a stump and make yourself comfortable."

  He looked over at the stack of cut and split hardwood. It was twenty-five feet or more from the kitchen door. I guess that, combined with his desire to be fed, was a big enough safety margin. He took me up on my offer.

  As usual, I fried up a couple of eggs, but instead of putting them on a plate, I crowded them between two slices of homemade bread. I didn’t want my dishes all over the yard. I cut the sandwich into two halves and presented them to the man. He eagerly accepted my offering.

  Never taking his eyes off the kitchen door, he made his way over to the wood pile and sat down on the chopping block. He placed one half of his sandwich on a nearby log and bit into the other. Half of that section disappeared into his mouth.

  I returned to my kitchen. I had work to do. Work for pay may have been at a shortage, but just plain, old-fashioned, hard work was always at hand on the farm, especially for women.

  No sooner had the door closed when I heard the man shouting loudly. "Put that down you little varmint!"

  I looked back through the door. Cuddles, our kitten, was dragging the top half of the second sandwich into the wood pile.

  "Cuddles," I said in a firm voice. He stopped, looked at me and scampered up to the top of the pile. The slice of bread was left behind.

  Quickly, the hobo grabbed it and slapped in back into place on top of the uneaten egg. He kept one hand firmly on top of this while he demolished the remainder of the first half of his sandwich. I returned to my chores.

  "Go away. Go away." The voice was rapidly becoming familiar. I looked out again.

  Cuddles sat on the man’s shoulder nuzzling his face. Cuddles eyes were focused on the remaining sandwich now held in the man’s hand.

  I went back outside and plucked Cuddles from his perch to bring him back inside with me. "He seems to like you," I said.

  The hobo gave me a shy smile. "He is cute, isn’t he?" He broke off a corner of the bread and offered it to the kitten.

  Cuddles jumped down from my arms and rubbed against the man’s legs. The hobo dropped the piece of bread. Cuddles ignored it.

  "I think he was just looking for attention from you," I said. "Taking your food was the best way to get it."

  The hobo reached down and rubbed Cuddles’ ears. Before straightening up, he picked up the crumb of bread and popped it into his mouth.

  I patted my thighs and Cuddles leapt up into my arms. Mastery of this charming trick was part of how he had earned his residency in the big house. I headed back to my inside work and noticed the kitchen door was ajar. Sandy stood on the step.

  I looked back at the hobo. The fear on his face was palpable. He was slowly backing behind the wood pile. Too afraid to run; too afraid to stay.

  "Sandy, get back inside," I said.

  He sat down. "Woof." I swear he was intentionally teasing the man.

  The hobo turned and beelined it for the driveway. Sandy instinctively sprung to his feet to give chase.

  "Stop!"

  Both man and dog responded to my command. At this point, I stood between the two. I snapped my fingers and pointed to the ground by my side. Sandy lowered his head and reluctantly came over to sit beside me.

  "Good dog," I said and patted his big head.

  The hobo started to walk down the driveway. He was still shaken by the experience. Every fourth step or so, he took a quick peek back over his shoulder.

  "Woof." Sandy had to have the last word.

  The sound ignited the man’s engines and he bolted down the driveway.

  I knelt down beside Sandy and put my arm around his neck. I couldn’t scold him. He had merely done his job as he saw it.

  "Poor man," I said to the disappearing figure. "You’re in for a rough time around here. Dogs and farms are as much of a given as cows and farms."

  I ruffled Sandy’s fur. "But, it’s good to know you’re here to protect me, big boy."