Some Snowballs Don't Melt

by Debbie Roppolo

It was the winter of 1974, and I was four, when the German shepherd came into our lives. From the moment that my daddy brought the plump puppy home, he and the dog formed a bond that later proved to be unbreakable. Even though snow is scarce in Central Texas, Daddy looked at the bumbling, white, puppy, and dubbed him Snowball. Daddy picked the squirming puppy up and gazed into the soulful, brown, eyes. "This dog is going to make something of himself." Daddy proclaimed as he gently stroked the soft, fluffy, head of the pup. Snowball showed his agreement by bathing my daddy's swarthy skin in ecstatic puppy kisses. It appeared from that moment on that they would be inseparable.

While Snowball was still very young, my daddy began training the pup to prove that the dog could earn his keep. Because of his undying love for my father, Snowball was enthusiastic and attentive during the sessions, and learned every lesson quickly. Snowball accompanied my daddy everywhere he went, and, in turn, my daddy allowed no one to criticize the antics of his four-legged counterpart.

A good herding dog is essential for a working cattle ranch, so, when Snowball reached one year of age, Daddy began preparing him for his role as a cow dog. Snowball's determination to please my daddy was amazing. He made the expected mistakes, but overcame them, and soon grew to be an exceptional cow dog. To watch Daddy and Snowball herd cattle together was like watching poetry in motion. My daddy would simply point at a cow, and Snowball would become a white blur as he zigzagged through the herd and chased the selected cow into the corral.

Daddy worked during the day for the highway department. Every morning Snowball would mournfully watch my daddy leave for work in the truck. Even though it was apparent that the dog wished to go, he made no move towards the truck. Snowball knew that a pat on the head, and a raised tailgate meant that he was not to go; however, a smile, a lowered tailgate, and the command to "get in" were an invitation to go with my daddy. In that case, Snowball bounded towards the truck as if there were no limits to his joy.

While Daddy worked during the weekday, the same time every afternoon, Snowball would casually stroll to the end of the driveway, lie under a redbud tree and patiently gaze down the long, gravel road, looking for my dad's truck. A few cars would pass down the road, but Snowball showed no interest. My mom and I did not have to look at the clock to tell it when it was time for Daddy to come home. The body language of the devoted dog foretold the arrival of Daddy. First, Snowball's head would raise, his ears would become erect, and every muscle in his body would become tense. Slowly, Snowball would raise his body from the ground, his gaze never wavering from the direction of the gravel road, and a "doggy grin" would slowly spread over his face. At that point, we would see a cloud of dust in the distance, and the familiar whine of my daddy's diesel truck could be heard coming down the road. As his beloved master got out of the truck, Snowball would run to him, voicing his joyful delight. Despite his great bulk, the dog danced around my father with the grace of a ballerina.

It was obvious to the entire family that Snowball was extremely dedicated to Daddy, but we never realized to what extent until a fateful day in the summer of 1980.
This particular Saturday began worry-free. That morning, Daddy had taken Snowball, and our other cow dog, Tiger, an Australian shepherd, to work cattle at my granddaddy's house, while my mother and I went to visit my mother's mother, Nana, at her home. The humidity in the air created a stifling and ominous effect in the small, wooden house. Several small floor fans, placed throughout the house, tried half-heartedly to cool the tiny rooms. The heat of the afternoon had reduced my mother, Nana, and myself, to a drunk like stupor. The irate jingling of the telephone snapped us out of our haze, and back to reality.
From my perch on a stool near the phone, I could hear the panic-stricken voice of my other grandmother on the other end of the line. The blood appeared drain from Nana's face as she motioned to mother to take the phone receiver. Granny told Mama that, while working cattle at my grandfather's house, a Hereford bull had trampled Daddy. The extent of my daddy's injuries was unknown, but it was obvious that Daddy needed medical attention. It was decided that I was to remain at Nana's house while Mama took my daddy to the emergency room. Tearfully, I sat huddled in a corner of an ancient sofa while Nana tried, unsuccessfully, to console me.

A short time later, my Granddaddy called Nana's house and asked that I do something with that "darn dog." Her face tight with worry, Nana hurried me outside towards her old, white Nova. The gears of the car protested loudly as Nana shifted the car into drive and started slowly down the road. It was only a mile drive to Granddaddy's house, but to a ten year-old, the ride took forever. I sat at the edge of the seat and pushed against the dashboard, willing the hoary car to go faster.

As Nana drove her wheezing Nova up the sand driveway, I could see my daddy's blue, battered, truck parked underneath a lone pine tree by my grandparent's house. A mournful wail, that pierced the stillness of the afternoon, greeted my ears as I got out of the car, and caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.

In the back of the truck stood Snowball, howling his heartbreak and misery to the world. My granddaddy was leaning against the truck, nervously running his fingers through his silver-colored hair, and studying the miserable dog with a mixture of exasperation and pity on his weathered face. Granddaddy usually had no use for dogs, but something in his eyes told me that this time it was different. Granddaddy explained that he had sent for me in hopes that the sight of me would calm Snowball. Snowball and I had never been that close, but I did everything I could to comfort him; however, nothing worked. As I tried to calm the dog, my granddaddy related the story of what had happened to Daddy.

Granddaddy spat a stream of tobacco on the ground and pointed a gnarled finger at Snowball. "That dog is a wonder. He probably saved your daddy's life."
Granddaddy told us that all the cattle, except a Hereford bull, were herded into corral. The stubborn beast refused to go in the corral, and Snowball and the rest of the dogs were doing their best to get the bull to comply. Granddaddy speculated that the yipping and nipping of the dogs, as well as the increasing heat of the day, enraged the bull.

His patience tested to the limit, the bull turned and charged at Daddy, who was on foot. Catching Daddy off-guard, the bull knocked him to the ground and trampled him. As the bull pawed the ground in preparation to charge again, a blur of white streaked between the path of the bull and my father. Snarling a challenge to the enraged bovine, Snowball stood firmly planted between my daddy and the bull. Uttering a heart-stopping growl, Snowball hurtled himself at the bull, and began driving the bull away. According to Granddaddy, Snowball's action gave my father enough time to crawl under a nearby truck. Trotting to the truck where my daddy lay underneath, Snowball took a wolf-like stance, and bravely turned away each one of the determined bull's attacks. Working as a team, Snowball, Tiger, and my uncle's dog, Bear, kept the bull away from the truck until my granddaddy and uncle could reach Daddy.

Later that afternoon, Mama returned home with my daddy, and everyone in the family was pleased to learn that Daddy had no life-threatening injuries. Snowball, on the other hand, remained inconsolable until Mama let him into the house to see my daddy. On silent feet, Snowball padded into the bedroom and quietly placed his head on my parent's bed. Daddy petted him, and thanked Snowball for saving his life. Satisfied, the dog padded outside, a "doggy grin" once again on his aging face.

Snowball saved Daddy's life that day. Unfortunately, in July of 1986, the heroic dog was unable to save his beloved master. My daddy was killed on the job on July 9, 1986. On the day of Daddy's death, the devoted dog went to his place at the end of the driveway to wait for his master. It was clear that there was confusion on his old face as he watched car after car turn into our driveway. I could almost read his thoughts. "So many cars, so many people, but where is my master?" Undeterred, Snowball kept his vigil until late into the night, his gaze never leaving the road.

Something happened to Snowball after Daddy died. He grew old. It appeared that it was his love and devotion for my father that kept him young, which gave him the will to live. Day after day, for the next two years following my father's death, the faithful dog staggered to his spot at the end of the driveway to wait for a master that would never return. No amount of coaxing or pleading could convince Snowball to quit his vigil and come out of inclement weather. It soon became very obvious to Mama and me that it was getting harder for Snowball to get around. The weight that he gained was hard on his hip joints. Just the effort of lying down or getting up was a chore for the dog, and his once powerful strides were now limited to a halting, limping walk. Still, every day he returned to his spot at the end of the driveway. The day finally came when Snowball was unable to stand by himself. He whined his frustration and pain as Mama and I helped him to stand. After getting his balance, the old dog, his gaze never wavering from his destination, made his way out to his daily lookout.

After two months of helping Snowball to stand, my mother and I tearfully agreed that it was time to do the humane thing for the fourteen year-old cow dog. Our neighbor's son was a vet, and we arranged for him to come to the house and give Snowball the injection. Snowball laid down on the ground and placed his head in my mother's lap. His eyes were filled with love and understanding. We all felt he knew what was about to happen. After our neighbor's son had given the injection, Snowball's smiled his "doggy smile" for the first time since my father died, and then slipped away quietly in my mother's arms. Our throats choked with tears, we wrapped the body of the gallant dog in an old blanket, and buried him in the spot at the end of the drive that he had occupied for so many years. The group huddled around the grave of the dog all agreed that Snowball had "smiled" because he knew that, once again, he would be with the person he loved the most.

Even though I am an adult now, I tend to believe, or rather hope, that there is an animal Heaven. If there is, I can picture Daddy and his beloved dog together, once again sharing the bond that will never be broken, this time for all of eternity.

The End

Debbie Roppolo was born in the small town of Rosebud, Texas in 1970. Even as a young child, she had a vivid imagination and a love for writing. She gains most of her inspiration from the antics of her pets, past and present, and from her young son, Jonathan. Debbie currently resides in San Marcos, Texas with her husband, John, and their son. Because she believes that a person can never stop learning, Debbie is pursuing a degree at Saint Edward's University in Austin, Texas.

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