Tag: dogs

The grounding appeal of a nice yard

“Good people want to spend their time mowing the lawn and playing with the dog.” — Alan Furst, American historical spy novel author.

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It’s true. I’ve always enjoyed mowing and grooming my yard. Admiring the crisp, clean stripes across the freshly cut grass and the deep sense of satisfaction in a job well done.

And every time I’ve given that up in favor of hiring it done, I miss the crop of good mowing memories.

I started mowing grass as a kid taking care of two yards. Our yard on Redbud Street in Mount Pleasant and my grandparent’s yard on Cypress Street in Pittsburg. Ours was a chore to earn an allowance—a necessity. But mowing the grass at my grandparents’ house in Pittsburg? Now that was fun.

Funny how grandparents have a knack for always making the worst task seem like a trip to Six Flags.

Grand Dad’s lawn mower was an old Sears and Roebuck reel-type, early self-propelled, power mower. The only one of its kind I recall seeing. The aging green mower, riding on two big yellow wheels and a wooden roller following the blade, personified my grandfather. Both were outdated—even then. But both were hard-working and reliable to a fault.

One pull of the rope wrapped around the cranking hub was all it ever took to bring it life. Then releasing a handle-mounted lever set the mower into slow motion. All that was required at that point was to guide it slowly around the yard and let it do the job it was designed to do. That … and keep it out of my grandfather’s bluebonnets planted near the street.

At home, mowing the grass was just one of many chores on the list that earned me a lofty allowance of 25 cents a week. It doesn’t sound like much today, but a summertime Saturday matinee at the Martin theater, plus a Coke and popcorn, didn’t cost much, either.

Chores in general never excited me; I was in it for the money. And soon after making the connection between working and income, I figured out that the shortest route to get a raise from that weekly two bits was a summer job.

It became natural then, that to increase my standard of living beyond my allowance, I started mowing yards for other people. For at least a couple of summers, keeping yards around south-side Mount Pleasant neighborhoods neatly cut for three dollars a pop not only raised my standard of living, but transformed my pocket money from the rattling kind to the folding kind—converting green grass into green in my pockets.

I’ve since owned a lot of lawn mowers over the years. I don’t recall an exact number, but I always remember my first one. Not quite up there with my first car or first date, but a vivid memory no less.

It was also from Sears, a yellow rotary “had to push it myself” mower. But it nicely groomed the thick carpet of San Augustine grass surrounding my first house on Dogwood Street in Mount Pleasant where I finally realized what my parents had been trying to teach me. Admiring the sight and smell of the newly mowed grass of my own lawn turned a chore into a labor of love.

And all that time, I thought it was punishment. Even when my father tried to explain that theory long before I was old enough to understand it. “Dad,” I asked him once, “Why do parents punish their kids by making them mow the grass?”

“It’s not punishment, son,” he said. “It teaches the value of working to earn money. Pride in what you do. And a nice looking yard has a grounding effect when it’s your yard.”

“I’d be prouder if you mowed it,” I told him.

“You’ll understand some day,” he assured me. “For now, let me see if I can explain this more precisely. Think about it as your mother teaching pride in a job well done by authorizing me to pay your allowance for mowing her yard.”

So, I’ve canceled my lawn service this summer, retrieved the lawn mower from retirement in the storeroom, and returned both of us to active duty. Remembering the pride in a nicely mowed yard, and about good people wanting to spend time mowing the lawn and playing with the dog. Then wondering …

Does this mean I have to get a dog now?

—Leon Aldridge

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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next challenge. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’

If I’m lucky, it will happen again

“Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” 
— Mark Twain (1835-1910) celebrated American writer, humorist, and essayist.

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“Do you think animals … our pets, will be in heaven,” my friend asked.

I thought for a minute before answering. Before taking time to shovel another spade full of dirt from the hole I was digging. Helping my friend in their time of loss.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The Bible doesn’t directly address that topic. Some say yes, they will be, based on indirect reference to animals in the scriptures. Others say no because the Bible doesn’t mention animals having a soul or the ability to follow God’s will.”

I took my time to fashion the hole a little larger while considering whether my answer was appropriate. Or sufficient. Then, resting on the shovel for a minute, I said, “There are lots of topics in the Bible that have no bearing on salvation. The kind where our opinion one way or the other won’t have any bearing on where we spend eternity. This is one of those questions.

“While I can’t tell you for sure whether our pets will be in heaven,” I rambled on, “I can tell you about a few I’ve had that deserve to be there … in my humble opinion.”

I shared memories of my first dog at about the age of six. A faithful mutt named Brownie I had to give up when we moved. And how that broke my childhood heart.

I talked about Max, an old, rehomed basset hound I adopted later in life. Mine and his. A dog that traveled Texas with me. A fine dog by any standard.

And I recalled Benny, the fisty and funny miniature schnauzer that enjoyed every minute of life. His and yours.

“A dog is the only creature on earth that loves you more than he loves himself,” I said. “Love a dog and it will love you back tenfold — no questions asked. Scold one that loves you, and with its tail tucked between its legs, it beg your forgiveness with its eyes. Never questioning whether you were right or wrong.

“And if you don’t believe that,” I laughed. “Try coming home late one night to your wife and your dog with no explanation. Then pay close attention to which one of them is happier to see you.

“Never trust anyone who tells you your pet is just a dog,” I added. “A dog that gives you so many good times to remember. Afternoon walks around the neighborhood. Never tiring of fetching a toy or a ball as many times as you throw it. Napping at your feet, letting you know that its favorite time is with you.

“Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love,” I said. “And they depart to teach us about loss.”

I thought no dog could ever replace Max. I sat on the floor and wept when it was his time to go when arthritis robbed him of his joy and his ability to walk

But I was wrong. Benny, the runt that no one wanted in a litter of schnauzer puppies, came along and changed that. The tiny puppy napped in my lap from day one, assuring me that I had a new furry friend just as loving, trusting, and entertaining.

And he was right.

“One thing about our pets,” I said, “no matter how many years we get with them, it’s never enough. Max, then Benny, became traveling companions. Going many places with me. Making memories and giving me stories about the love and companionship of a pet that I could bore you with for hours.”

Finishing the sad task I had volunteered to perform for my friend, I placed the small, lifeless, furry body in the hole I had been digging. Then covered it with dirt.

“Thank you, little kitty,” I offered as an abbreviated eulogy, “for the brief moments of happiness, love, laughter, and memories you shared with us.

“The best thing I can say about our pets,” I added, “is if we’re lucky, they will come into our life, steal our heart, and change everything before they have to go.”

While I can’t say with any authority where our pets go from here, I can say without hesitation that I’ve been blessed more than once by ‘just a dog’ or ‘just a cat’ that has left me with heavenly memories.

And if I’m lucky, it will happen again.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Barkin’ people; worse than barkin’ dogs

“Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice.”

— Steve Jobs, (1955–2011) American businessman, inventor, and investor best known for co-founding Apple Inc.

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They were sitting on a park bench at Veteran’s Plaza. The little guy and the old man. 

I saw them when I paused there during an after-work stroll. The park was a great place in Boerne to enjoy the beauty and cooler days of a Texas Hill Country fall, walk for exercise, or just sit and contemplate life when I published the newspaper there. Thirty-plus years ago.

They were not far away. Close enough that I saw a young face staring at the fountain. Dejection written all over it.

“Like to watch water,” I heard the old timer quizz him. Getting no response, he followed with, “Dogs been barkin’ at you again?”

“I don’t hear any dogs,” the youngster said softly as they both looked straight ahead.

The old man chuckled. “I’m talkin’ about them two-legged kind. People that give you a hard time, try to tear you down just to make themselves look better. They’re just like ol’ barkin’ dogs.” Pausing for a moment, he continued, “I like to watch water when I’ve got something on my mind. Did you ever watch fish in a fishbowl? Now that’s really relaxin’ when somethin’s eatin’ at you.”

“I had a fish one time,” the boy spoke up. “It died.”

“They’ll do that,” the old fellow said sympathetically.

“My friend made fun of me,” the little guy suddenly opened up. As if there were some connection between friends and fish.

“You know, that’s something else I’ve never understood,” the weathered old gent said. “People we considered our friends who do that. Let’s see if we can figure it out together.”

The youngster related a story about an honor he’d earned. About how the teacher recognized his achievement, praising him before his classmates. “Most of my friends were happy for me, but my best friend made fun of me,” the boy said. “Asked me if I thought I was smarter than him or something. Said the teacher was dumb for bragging on me.”

The old man was silent a moment, then offered, “Those people like barkin’ dogs I was telling you about. Ever tried to figure out why they’re makin’ so much racket? Dogs, they bark at cars, other dogs, people, at bugs or sticks. It’s just what dogs do. Just barkin’ to hear their brains rattle. But you ever wonder what people are barkin’ at when they say hurtful things about good people?”

The boy took his eyes off the flowing water and looked up at the man. “No. What are they barking at?”

“Let me tell you a story my father told me,” the man said. “He loved the circus when he was your age. The circus traveled by wagons back then, and when they rolled into town, it was a parade. Everybody came to see the animals, the clowns, the brightly covered wagons. Lot’s of excitement when the circus came to town.

“And the dogs,” said the old fellow. “They just barked at the wagon wheels, the horse’s hooves, dust from the wagon wheels. Causin’ havoc; distractin’ lookers from the joy of the parade. But when the parade rolled on; when it ended, everybody left. Forgot about the dogs, and they just went and found a shady resting spot.

“Barkin’ people? They’re worse than barkin’ dogs. Just selfish; afraid somebody’s thinkin’ you’re smarter ‘n they are. All they know to do is distract with a ruckus; tear somebody down to make them look better. Pure and simple,” the old sage said, “They just like the sound of their own bark.

“But you know what,” the man asked?

“What,” said the boy.

“Just like those dogs at the circus parade. When they’re done making useless noise, life goes right on without ’em,” and they’re quickly forgotten.”

The youngster, still looking up at him, asked “So, are you saying I should just ignore my friend?”

“Just like you ignore barkin’ dogs,” the old man responded. “Ignore people with nothin’ better to do than criticize and complain. Don’t let their useless noise steal your dreams or your joy.”

“O.K.,” the boy smiled. “Well, I’ve got to go home for supper now.”

The youngster walked north toward town, and the old man ambled slowly across the street toward the Catholic Church.

I think about the elderly gentleman’s advice often. Every time I hear someone bark, “That won’t work.” Or, “You’re wasting your time.” Worst of all, “You can’t do that!”

Just barkin’ dogs, jealous of someone else’s ambition and success.

That’s when I think about the old guy in Boerne years ago. And my hope that his advice remained with the young man.

It did with me. I wish that old gentleman knew that, and how many times I’ve shared his story.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.