The dog hooked on a fishing line who then retired to a butcher's shop for the rest of his life.

My mother recently passed away and I have inherited many of her papers, genealogical and otherwise.

Mine is a story-telling family and many of the stories center on various adventures of childhood, and childhood pets in particular.  

Shag was the name of the family dog when my mother was perhaps 8-10 years old.  One story in particular which I recall, involved my Mom, the youngest, and her older brother and sister Billy and Celia, all going out fishing one summer day while on holiday in Hot Springs, Arkansas.  

At some point in the afternoon, Billy cast back to send the lure further out into the lake or stream.  Unbeknownst to him, Shag was sitting behind him, tongue hanging out, panting in the hot summer sun.  The lure caught Shag's tongue and held tight.

The three children tried to remove it but quickly determined that only their father could deal with the situation.  Fortunately, though somewhat nonplussed by the events, Shag was not either in great distress or fighting them.  He was a good dog and went along with this peculiar new game.

For my mother, the crystalizing picture in her mind's eye was that of the three children trudging home, upset that they might have hurt their beloved pet dog.  Billy had the fishing rod over his shoulder and Shag brought up the rear with the hook in his tongue, trotting along with the line still to the rod, for all the world as if the children had landed some exotic sea dog.  

They got home and my mother's father treated, what must have been a laughable sight, with due gravity and care.  He pulled out some wire cutters, snipped off the barb from the lure, and Shag was once again a free dog.  

Under the auspices of soothing Shag's wounded tongue, my grandfather took them all down to the ice cream shop and treated everyone, including Shag, to an ice cream cone.  

It's a lovely story which she enjoyed telling.

In going through her papers, which are only partially organized, I have to have great care to pay attention to everything because you never know quite what you'll find.

For instance, I come across three small pages pulled from a very small spiral notebook, clipped together, covered on both sides with almost random notes.  Some notes related to plans for a trip to the US; some ideas for a gift; some genealogical notes on births and deaths; a hotel name, address and number; jotted notes from a phone call; etc.

Among these scribbles, I come across a note about Shag.

Summer of my 5th Grade

Shag went up to 15th & Delaware to a butcher's shop and stayed.  '45 when Daddy was ill.  Spent the rest of his life there.

It's a heart breaking addendum.  Her father died of cancer just before Christmas of 1945.  I can imagine the scenario.  He was extremely ill and the sole bread-winner.  The oldest son was in flight school preparing to ship overseas as a bomber pilot.  The oldest daughter was already married and out of the family home.  Three young children still at home in middle and high school.  Money must have been tight.  

I would imagine that if the friendly neighborhood butcher was willing to take in Shag, it was a ready solution for everyone during very hard times.  

After his death, granddad's employer, Skelly Oil, employed grandmother (despite the absence of any work experience) as a receptionist and secretary.  Things worked eventually out after his death.  But what dark days.  I am sorry Shag was gone, but happy that he was still near.  And what better alternative home for a dog than a butcher's shop.  

And I now know his last chapter owing to a briefly jotted note among some loose papers.  The dog hooked on a fishing line who then retired to a butcher's shop for the rest of his life.