The day was bright and nippy, a March Sunday that breathed life into those who like to stroll. The wife and I and the boxer, Molly, chose to invade the precincts of the Rockport Golf Club for a brisk shorty. Our immediate goal was the statuesque old haybarn on South Street.
This was a part of Rockport past when conscientious workmen built structures to stand for all time. As we approached it, the staunch building was practically denuded, with just the thick timbers remaining. Those timbers could have supported a Manhattan skyscraper and were as rugged today as they were in the 19th century. But most outstanding was the magnificent wide fireplace of sapstone and red brick smack dab in the center, an extra installed by the late Billy Presnal after he bought it for a studio home. We recall that after he left it vandals wrecked his choice collection of books, and raccoons took possession. Now comes the end, with only the timbers, the inviting fireplace and the crowning glory, the cupola.
We wandered down through Country Club Lane to eye the golf club and greens in winter. The greens were seered, the temperature hardly 30 above, but three sturdy pill swishers were making a day of it, sans caddies, sans fear.
Disquieting was the fact we were walking with a scent. Somewhere in the brush, Molly had found a challenge two nights before. To us that means a cat. But in this case it was a mee-ow with a white stripe down its ebony back. And that "cat" had plenty of pressure. Molly got the whole forty-four. Hope it never happens to you. For two full days we had lived with a scent that even Chanel Number Five could not erase.
Just what do you do with a mutt so bathed? If we were so caught, we could easily bury our clothes. But should you bury a pedicgreed boxer? Realizing something was wrong, Molly made it worse by trying to stay close. Both of us had our own ideas and had sought to give her a wide berth.
On this stroll who should come along but an authority on wild-life, Roger "Left Field" Edwards, the Gloucester city councillor, who has for some time been studying underworld activities in the Fish Town railroad station. Roger's first thought was that we should lease Molly to the B and M to ferret out the "mystery monster."
Roger was looking for a chance to fill out a foursome around the links. STrangely enough, he did just that, with three good Rockport citizens which made him promptly forget that "better 'ole" in Gloucester, and left us flat with our eerie problem.
One thing about it, Molly escaped, though she invited any scraps with fellow dogs. Their bark was tamer than their olefactory nerves, for they backed away right smart as they got to leeward. We did our best to concentrate on the approaching spring scenery, admired the many new trees dotting the links, the grandiose view to sea with a smoking coal barge pushing slowly through the cold blue waters of the Atlantic, the vista of a growing Rockport hitting toward the 5,000 mark in population, the deep-throated whirr of model planes being flown in the distance.
Keeping the wind in our favor as Molly slunk in shame, we enjoyed the fantastic sight of two solid stone posts with a ponderous wrought iron gate between fronting a South Street estate where the complete fence had long since vanished. It was a page from Mack Sennett's old comedies.
The walk ended. Abjectly the boxer again entered the family mansion. She cuddled in her basket bed. The house again took on a "fragrance" that threatened to drive us all back to the high road for a further jaunt. We sought expert counsel. Never had we properly appreciated the virtues of tomato juice as applied externally. A thorough bath in this pungency did much to soften the results of the encounter with one "cat" that just provved too much for our Molly. By nightfall, we were ready to re-install her into our family circle--dis-scented. But it was a trial!
J.P.C., Jr.
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