The adventures of Maxwell the Golden Retriever

The adventures of  Maxwell the Golden Retriever

My name is Maxwell and I was just one of a litter of nine puppies born in Glasgow Scotland in 1940 on a  dairy farm where I lived with a family that cherished me as well as I cherished them. They were the Jameson’s and dairy farming was in their blood and it was all they knew and some would say all they wanted to know. There was Charles the head of the clan and his wife Alice and John their teenage son who was almost a man and baby Kate still in diapers. John longed to leave the farm for the United States of America but World War 11 had just begun and was raging after Brittan and France declared war on Germany just a year earlier and Charles would have none of it. John was needed on the farm and I had my spare of duties as well and with thirty cows to be milked twice a day  everyone on the farm needed to pull their own weight. But John’s thoughts were elsewhere and with daydreams of America and becoming a war hero he often butted heads with his father who told John never to discuss the issue again. On this morning John and I rode into town with our only wagon for weekly supplies and as usual a stop on the return trip at the Gray House for a pint of dark ale and perhaps some table scraps for me. Mr. McKay the owner of the Gray House was in another one of his heated arguments with several men who sat at the pub drinking and smoking their pipes.

“They should have never run off like they did, leaving their poor mother alone”, said Mr. McCain the owner of one of the largest farm’s in the county. “And I paid them boys good wages to haul the spread that manure over my land from sun up to sunset just six days a week and only a half day on Sunday those ungrateful louts”. John sat quietly as Mr. McKay tossed me other scrap of kidney pie with bacon before I rested near the fireplace which danced with a  crackling fire. “Where do you suppose they went too”, asked McKay as he served other customer a pint of dark ale to a already wobbling patron. “Their mother said those fools told her they were headed for America to fight in the war the states haven’t even declared yet but I don’t believe it”, replied McKay in a tone of disgust. I could see from where I was lying that John’s ear’s perked up and his face grew more intent when the words of America and war were spoken. A man at the end of the pub who works at the docks spoke up, “ there’s been two cargo ships sitting in port for the last week taking on provisions for the States and one just left yesterday’. Mr. McCain wiped his hands on his apron and said, “ I wonder if those two are on it”. “If they are I hope never to see them again”, replied Mr. McCain, “and if I do they’d better not come crawling back to me for work or I’ll have them both whipped and turn the dogs on them”.

John got up and quickly downed the rest of his ale but before we left he asked the dockworker when the remaining American ship would be leaving for the states and the man replied, “ within the week son, but don’t try and board her because there’s a real problem with stowaways and the ships under armed guard. The man continued to say that the yanks have orders to search the ship before leaving port and any stowaways are arrested and turned over to the Scottish Police. While on the long ride home I didn’t like the feelings I was getting from John and wondered would he really try and board that ship for America and leave us all behind. I sat curled at his feet but the feelings got stronger but how could I stop him or even tell the others. We arrived back at the farm safely and John and his Father unloaded the wagon while I brought the sheep and three of our milking cows back into the main pasture. I couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness that loomed over me while I ran back to the house and licked Kate’s face clean over the last remnants of honey and sugar from some fresh baked Scottish cookies. Word of the missing boys hadn’t reached our family yet and it appeared it would remain so if John had his way.