BACK NINE THE AUSTIN GOLF CLUB STORIES

INTRODUCING GERONIMO: GOLFHOUND EXTRAORDINAIRE

Geronimo was not a native Texan. This troubled her slightly, but she was determined to make the best of things despite it all. She wouldn’t let herself go too far. She sneered at those lost souls who “went native” and became more Texas than someone who’d been in the place for generations. But she did adopt certain local traits that came naturally, such as sleeping in the sun on the hottest afternoons and not even twitching a tail at the constantly buzzing flies. Back in her birthplace of New Jersey, no self-respecting hound would sleep through being bothered by a fly. There, it had been a matter of pride that any slight, no matter how slight, must be met with the most ferocious counter-attack. Otherwise, one was simply considered a wimp and would be destined for a lifetime of runt-of-the-litter maltreatment. That’s just how dogs rolled in New Jersey. Fortunately Geronimo had relocated for professional reasons early in life. Her upbringing and training on the golf courses of northern NJ meant that she was innately programmed to chase geese until they died. Or until the dog died, which had actually happened once when an unusually perceptive gaggle had allowed themselves to be chased into a water hazard, where they swam out into the center of the pond, and, when the golfhound had taken the bait and swum out to them, they pecked the simpleton until he drowned. Slog a dog, they called it. You had to respect geese, and keep your wits about you.  At the Austin Golf Club, it was more about armadillos, possums, and squirrels. In the rare case when Geronimo would look away, these varmints would wreak havoc with the elegant plantings (well, planting) and the clubhouse attendant Smokey’s vegetable garden. “Alle Zeit Wacht” was the golfhound’s motto (indicating its provenance, i.e., the German caddy at St. Andrews who trained the very first golfhound, Excelsior). Geronimo had free reign of the AGC grounds. She knew enough not to go out into the streets that bounded the club. Because AGC was a private club, she was not governed by city ordinances such as the one requiring dogs to be leashed. Once a visitor to the Club had complained to the City about this unleashed animal, but the City refused to consider the complaint. Smokey’s cousin Roy was assistant manager of the maintenance crew at City Hall, and Roy had put in a good word for Geronimo, and that was all that had been needed to put the matter to rest. But just to be safe, the City Council passed a minor rider to an ordinance about ordnance, saying that the golfhound of any private golf club south of 45th Street and north of 38th Street, and west of Red River and east of Duval, did not require a leash on the grounds of the Club. Case closed. Formally speaking, Smokey owned Geronimo, though it had been years since he’d fed her, washed her, or taken her to the vet. Others seemed to do these things, when the spirit moved them, i.e., when Geronimo looked so in need of attention that someone couldn’t stand it anymore.  Geronimo was approximately fourteen flavors of hound. Gray in color with oddly placed splotches of black and white fore and aft, two feet high and just as long, she had the whiskers of a Weimaraner, the eyes of a beagle, the snout of a Saluki, the neck of a borzoi, and the ears of a basset. Legs- and torso-wise she resembled nothing so much as a whippet crossed with a dachshund. With a personality that was pure bloodhound. Like Major Saul V.’s golfswing, all of these mismatched parts meshed perfectly to add up to Golfhound Perfection. Are you an armadillo, possum, or squirrel? You are dead. She spent most of most afternoons at the feet of the Major on the rickety verandah overlooking the implausibly green 9th fairway. From here, she could listen in on the Major’s inexhaustible supply of war stories and the advice that he drew from these experiences, while keeping a careful eye on the planting and the garden down below bordering the 1st tee. Generally speaking, afternoons were slow for the killing of armadillos, possums, and squirrels, for they seemed to keep a low profile then. But once the day began to cool, Geronimo would rise and move to one of many outposts from where she could dissuade the critters from messing with Texas. Don’t come meddlin’ ‘round MY golfcourse, sonny, said the angle of her ears and the low growl in her throat.  Though fixed from an early age, Geronimo did favor certain male underparts that she sniffed whenever they came around, usually in the night. These ne’er-do-wells sauntered about like swells on Picadilly, humming Lerner and Loewe while they grinned their snaggle-toothed grins, the smell of Alpo still fresh on their breaths, the scent of their own pee still lingering on their rear paws from their latest encounter with a tree, bush, hydrant, fence post, telephone pole, or policeman’s leg. Odiferous they were, and smelly too. Like honey to a bee, for Geronimo. These boulevardiers and their insouciant nonchalance, their devil-may-care-and-take-the-hindmost, their ‘tude in the hood, well, she liked it. Nights were pleasant in this way. She got her name from her first day at AGC, in her last stages of puppydom, when she spied the water hazard on the 1st hole and made straight for it, leaping unwisely from the rocks on the ledge to the surprisingly shallow stream below. In mid-air, the yell from Paul B could be heard across the entire course, “JUH-RON-I-MOH!!” She tumbled onto her side but scrambled immediately back up, turning to look at the kibitzers on the verandah to show them she was just fine. A star was born. Ever after, the empty stillness of a summer afternoon would occasionally be punctuated by yells of her name echoing through the canyons of Waller Creek, whenever she raced across the fairways and over the hazards in hot pursuit of rodents, marsupials, mammals, and anything that happens to get in the way that looks at all like a goose.  © Craig Van Dyck June 2008 Back Nine home page | Back Nine table of contents | Next story If you would like to be notified when a new story appears, send us an email at backninestories@gmail.com. Back Nine: The Austin Golf Club Stories Web site founded April 2008 All stories copyright of the authors. May not be reproduced without permission (the stories, not the authors).