BUCK!

BUCK!

Lovingly reimagined from Grandpa Van’s true stories about EARLY 1900's Alberta…a place that in 2026 seems far away and nearly forgotten…

Oklahoma, 1950’s

The Robinson family had many dogs. But most of us never knew the best one. When we came to know Buck, he existed only in Grandpa Robinson’s memories. So, pull up a chair next to your fireplace. Alberta can get cold in January! And listen carefully, for Grandpa had a soft and gentle voice. I’ll tell you the story of how he gave his best dog away.

Since he was a part time minister, Grandpa waited until we reached our teens and young adulthood to add the PG-13 parts to this story!

Canadian County, Oklahoma, 1889-1908

Dawson Robinson’s parents ran in the 1889 land run. They settled on 160 free acres near the small community of Calumet. Born in Iowa in 1888, Dawson was barely beginning to walk when he became an “89er.”

From an early age, Grandpa worked tirelessly beside his father on one of the nation’s last frontiers. Learning to hunt and fish. Driving off bobcats, coyotes, and foxes. Delivering calves in a late spring blizzard. Planting and harvesting crops. He learned quickly. Built a solid working relationship with his dad. But they rarely had “fun.”

He had no time for childhood things. And nobody to do them with. The closest neighbor was a mile away; the couple was childless.

When he was little, his mother, Rosemary, sang to Dawson. A tear trickled down his cheek almost every time he thought of her happy songs. But she retreated further into herself with each miscarriage. By the time Dawson was 10, she had stopped showing him outward affection.

A cute, orphaned puppy showed up at their doorstep when Grandpa was 11. But his strict, no-nonsense mother forbade him to have one.

Rosemary hadn’t withdrawn completely. Grandpa told us that, as a teenager, he grew to love hearing his parents’ quiet lovemaking. Somehow it comforted and assured him.

“Second families” were common in those days. Perhaps the baby would improve things with his mother.

Dawson worshiped the little children at Sunday School. In the one room school, he was quick to greet the little ones on their first day. How he longed to spoil a brother or sister. Take one by the hand and go fishing in the pond. Throw a ball in the yard. Maybe give one a puppy.

Rosemary carried his sister to term. The doctor showed up drunk for the delivery. Little Carrie never cried and died moments later. The drunk doc left the placenta inside Rosemary. She developed septicemia. His dad held her hand as she passed away.

Ralph Robinson never recovered from Rosemary’s death and the loss of baby Carrie.

Grandpa was shirtless in the blistering July sun, working on a new barn for the horses he planned to buy at the Oklahoma City Livestock Auction. The shotgun blast was startling; he almost fell off the ladder.

It was 1906, a year before statehood. An 18-year-old on the Oklahoma prairie was a grown man who didn’t have the luxury of acting like an orphan or feeling sorry for himself. So, Dawson dug deeper and worked harder. Completed the barn. Raised and harvested bumper crops. Bought a horse named “Blaze.”

At 18, Dawson was ruggedly handsome--six feet tall, with arresting blue eyes. He was tanned and well-muscled from hard work in the Oklahoma sun. Young women noticed him.

Almost every Sunday he attended the little white-frame Presbyterian church in the nearby community of Red Rock. But he stopped helping the Sunday School teacher after Carrie died. He usually left right after the sermon. Violated the Commandments by working all afternoon.

But one Sunday, he stayed for a potluck dinner on the church lawn. He even brought fried chicken from his growing brood.

Where was she during the services. She must have come for the food. Dawson had never seen a girl like her. Nearly as tall as him with sandy blonde hair, deeply liquid brown eyes, and an alluring smile.

“I’m Dawson Robinson.”

“My name’s Molly Malone. Like the Irish folk song. I’ll play it for you on the piano sometime. My parents just opened a grocery store in Okarche.”

Grandpa vowed that he had made his last trip to El Reno for groceries.

They retreated to Red Rock Creek for more privacy. The questions firing back and forth. She wanted to know everything about him. He managed to give a short version of the death of his parents and sister without crying.

But as the sun began to set, she asked, “What was it really like to lose your family?”

“I…I don’t really know. I’ve never completely processed it. Or discussed it. I’m…Jesus…I don’t know how to say this to a girl…I’ve never talked to many girls…women…someone so pretty. The drunk doctor said Carrie was dead; I burst into tears. I ran to the wood pile out by the barn and started furiously chopping wood. I’ve always blamed myself for not watching Carrie’s birth. I know how to deliver a damn placenta. Shit! I would never get to give her a puppy.

“Mother died while Dad held her hand. We weren’t close. She rarely hugged me. But I still felt the loss and ran sobbing to the barn and started stacking hay bales. When I heard the shotgun blast and found Dad’s body, I felt empty and dry. I swallowed everything into myself and worked even harder. But at night, I was so alone. Only me, the red Oklahoma dirt, and the wind…”

Dawson felt abandoned and vulnerable. His heart ached. What hurt most was the puppy he couldn’t give Carrie. He began to cry. She covered his face with soft kisses.

***

Weeks of sunshine, laughter and hard work followed. Picnics at the creek or pond. Picking wild plums and making jam on a wood stove in Grandpa’s kitchen. Riding together on Blaze, trotting all over Canadian County. The loneliness and grief retreating as their love grew. Dawson had never talked to someone like Molly. Who understood his feelings before he expressed them. Loved him. Encouraged him. Challenged him. Comforted him.

She gave him a copy of Jack London’s The Call of the Wild for his 19th birthday.

He loved listening to her play the piano over at her parents’ place.

She taught him to play.

***

They lay together naked on a blanket, watching hawks circle lazily in the sky. Dawson imagined teaching his children to hunt and fish. And finally giving a child a puppy. The engagement ring and the plans for the piano room addition to his house were in Blaze’s saddlebag awaiting a fiery, red sunset. Soon they were both sound asleep. Blaze’s whinny and the sound of the gelding’s galloping hooves jolted him awake. The sun had set. It was nearly dark.

***

The first letter arrived. More followed.

I can’t stand the wind. But I really love you.

I hate the red dust on my piano. But you’re my only love.

It gets so cold in the winter. The blizzards are scary. I know they melt fast. But it never snows in San Diego. I do still love you.

Grandpa Dawson tried to write a reply. But he threw it away. The letters stopped. He pawned the ring and bought a new horse.

His life again became his farm. The red dirt. The smell of the waving wheat after a rain. But the land didn’t sleep beside him. Every day things became easier. Fewer coyotes and foxes. A storm shelter for escaping a tornado. Soon he could afford to hire help; work less. Someone else could attend a cow giving birth in a blizzard.

One night, when he was especially lonely, he picked up The Call of the Wild. It was the only “memory” of “her” that he hadn’t thrown away or burned.

***

Something was missing from his life in Oklahoma. That ad in the newspaper called him, lured him. A free quarter section for fulfilling the requirements of the Dominion Lands Act.

He sold out. And went all in. But he’d miss some things, too. Especially the little children in Sunday School. He’d recently started helping again.

Alberta, Canada, 1910 and Thereafter

The Canadian Pacific Flyer pulled to a stop at the depot in Edmonton. After four days on trains, Grandpa Dawson was anxious to get underway on the one hundred mile walk on the rough Athabasca Landing Trail from the depot to his homestead on Flat Creek. He bought a wagon, cart, supplies, and a pony. An arsenal of iconic firearms. And a border collie/German Shepherd mix puppy that he named “Buck” after Jack London’s famous dog.

He wasn’t sure why he got a puppy. Except that he’d always wanted one. But he now thought of dogs as something reserved only for children. Many brave dogs on the Oklahoma prairie became beloved family members. But they defecated in your living room. And threw up under your dinner table on your pastor’s wife’s foot. The male ones bred every bitch in sight. Then you had to deal with the puppies. Cute…but they became dogs.

Grandpa Dawson demanded that Buck work and “earn his keep.”

The fertile, rolling prairie was broken up by patches of muskeg. Promising-looking farms sprouted along the creeks. As Dawson ventured further out into the North Slope—the part of Canada where the waters flow to the Arctic Ocean—stands of boreal forest added more excitement to the landscape. The occasional deer, elk or moose skittered out of the forest or muskeg; then, seeing Dawson or hearing Buck’s yips, retreated into the tangles before he could get off a shot.

“Damn it, Buck! Don’t yap every time you see game.” Dogs were descendants of wolves. Natural predators. This one didn’t even know how to hunt! Do I have to teach him that, too?

Buck was usually a “tails up” dog; when scolded, he tucked his tail under his hind legs in shame. But his little face said, Damn it Dawson, I’ll show you. You better keep your gun close!

Grandpa Dawson sheepishly said that the first night of the trip, he slept naked. That was nearly scandalous to a bunch of children in a circle on the floor. But it made the story better. Grandpa said it was primal and freeing. And it was warmer than sleeping in clothes. As we got older, he admitted that he couldn’t help thinking about being naked with a woman.

Buck was beyond cute and growing bigger and more muscular every day. Having him to sleep with was comforting.

Buck explored everything yet rarely left Dawson’s side; he quit “warning” the game. Just about never needed another scolding. It almost seemed that Buck read Grandpa’s mind; wanted to please him. His German Shepherd dad gave Buck a strong and powerful body and a tenacious disposition. But his Border Collie mother gave him loyalty and an infinite capacity to love his people. Because he was a puppy when he was adopted, Buck loved Grandpa Dawson immediately. But he had to “warm up” to almost anyone else.

Grandpa was a strict master, never abusive. There wasn’t much time for puppy play. But like most working dogs, Buck turned work into play.

As Dawson built a campfire and put out his bedroll on the last night of the journey, Buck wandered far out onto the prairie. Grandpa was just about to open a can containing a glop of unidentifiable meat when Buck showed up with a ruff grouse clamped firmly in his jaws. He flung it at Dawson’s feet and, yipping excitedly, ran back out onto the prairie. Eventually he brought back three grouse. A feast after dried jerky and canned goo! Dawson roasted the birds on a spit. Buck ate his helping bones and all. But Grandpa made more of a mess. He cleaned the birds close to camp, stored leftovers in the wagon.

Buck sniffed around camp and cleaned up Dawson’s mess. He couldn’t do anything about the leftovers.

A distant wolf howled.

Grandpa Dawson slid naked into bed. Buck curled up next to him, asleep but alert. I’m sure that Grandpa tried to throw Molly’s lush, nude, imaginary body out of his dreams and replace her with somebody who would stay with him!

Buck’s growls awakened him. A hungry, lone wolf crept towards the wagon. Grandpa Dawson pumped his shotgun, fired a deafening blast into the darkness. The wolf fled yowling across the prairie. Dawson—naked and triumphant—fired one more blast into the emptiness as Buck howled.

As soon as they arrived at his homestead, he and Buck began making a home. He planted vegetables and his first crops. Dawson was thankful for the money in the bank from selling his Oklahoma farm. He hired a crew to build a frame house, barn, and chicken coop. He bought an upright piano and put it in the space he’d designed for it.

No predators wanted to tangle with Buck. His growls even as a puppy were menacing. When he became full-grown, they were frightening. The hairs on his neck bristled as he ran off the wolves and bears. Or the growls brought Grandpa Dawson and the shotgun.

Winter was a shock. There were raging blizzards and twenty below zero temperatures. But he had ample supplies. A wood stove and lots of firewood. Plenty of hay in the barn. Canned vegetables from his garden. A white-tailed deer that he and Buck tracked down in November provided several weeks of meat. Then they killed a moose in the January snow providing meat for the rest of the winter. Grandpa entertained himself with reading, watching the Northern Lights dance over the snow, and playing tunes on the piano.

The first time he’d seen those lights; they took his breath away. How Grandpa wanted to love a woman while watching them dance.

Molly’s telegram arrived on Valentine’s Day. She was so sorry. She was back in Oklahoma. Please come see her!

Buck sniffed the telegram and growled. Grandpa Dawson pitched it into the wood stove.

He and Buck had enough adventure to fill most days. But Dawson’s nights were lonely. Buck’s warm body at the foot of his bed and the sound of his soft snores were reassuring. But something was still missing.

One bright spring day, Old Man Fitzgerald asked Grandpa to pick up his daughter, Frances, at the train station in Edmonton.

Frances grew up in Winnipeg. She loved wildlife, snow, hunting, and fishing. Grandpa finally got to love a woman in January with the lights dancing outside his bedroom window. Buck adored her. And she played the piano like an angel.

By their third anniversary…still no baby. The little toddlers over at the growing Anglican Church in Athabasca brought tears to their eyes.

They went to visit their friend, George Hamilton, in the little Black community at Amber Valley. Lured there by the same advertisements that grabbed Dawson, the Black people built a town, church, and schools in the far North. George had enchanting twin daughters. Dawson and Frances excused themselves to George’s front yard, embraced each other, and sobbed.

Frances started going over to Amber Valley regularly and helping with things. Grandpa didn’t give it much thought. She was missing something too. Buck always went with her to Amber Valley. He came home with a yellow ball.

Dawson planned a picnic at the creek for their fourth anniversary. A grouse roasted to a turn. Fresh vegetables from the garden. Even a wild berry pie. Frances promised a surprise. As we got older, Grandpa added the detail that he assumed Frances she had a “wicked nightie” on under her dress. But when Dawson started making “advances”, she rebuffed him.

Grandpa brooded away the afternoon. Of all the damn days for Frances to have a headache!

Buck pricked up his ears, his tail wagging fiercely. Frances had much sharper hearing than Dawson. She noticed it too. Dawson finally heard the approaching horses.

George Hamilton reigned his horse to a stop. A little toddler, barely three, George’s orphaned niece, stopped her pony. Climbed down and ran to Frances. Hugged her and smothered her face with kisses while Buck licked the child’s face.

“I love you, Mommy! And you, too, Bucky!”

Then the darling little girl turned to Grandpa.

“Are you going to be my daddy?”

Despite his tears, he gave a strong answer: “Of course, I’ll be your daddy!”

They felt a bit rejected that night. Buck slept with Mary Anne. He’d finally given a child a dog!

***

The judge beamed when he signed the adoption decree that made my mother officially a Robinson.

***

Dawson and Grandma Frances adopted other children. With Buck by their side, my aunts and uncles--Mother in the lead--wandered safely all over the beautiful land of Northern Alberta.

***

Buck died in his sleep dreaming of chasing wolves.

Mary Anne, now 11, gripped the chewed-up yellow ball tightly and sobbed by the grave.

Grandpa Dawson put his arm around her. Kissed her cheek.

“Why did Bucky have to die, Daddy? He was my doggy, too.”

“I’m sorry, Pumpkin.” He hugged her tighter.

“You were his first little girl. Played fetch with him. And tug of war. You let him be a puppy. He was my dog. But he’ll always be your puppy.”

***

As he lay dying, surrounded by his family, a bold and audacious German Shepherd/Border Collie mix puppy hopped up onto his bed and covered Grandpa Dawson’s drawn face with kisses. He was Mary Anne’s new doggy, named “Buck.”

Grandpa Dawson understood what was missing in Oklahoma.

Bucky was waiting for him…beyond the grave…I’m sure of it…with a yellow ball…