Carry Me BACK

Carry Me BACK

I Never Soured On Sweet Pickle

By Jimmy Hatcher

Around 1970, my late friend Dody Vehr bought two very small Jack Russell terriers. She had tried to give the small male to her mother-in-law, but was rebuffed by the formidable Grande Dame, who thought the terrier was not enough dog for her.

I admired the tyke, aptly named Pickle, but I put Dody off with “what would I do with him?”

“Take him with you wherever you go,” she replied. And take him with me wherever I went, I did. At full maturity, he could curl up on my flat cap, and not even a foot would hang over.

One winter, I did the Florida horse show circuit and of course, The Pickle went along. In those days, there were “horse show dogs“ – – mutts who traveled freely around the showgrounds. At nine months, Pickle was accepted by the other dogs, the exhibitors and yes, the show horses, as one of the accredited horse show dogs.

The circuit had made its way to Winter Haven, Florida. It had been a cold season and the show at Winter Haven was to be no exception. The daily routine was to ride one’s rounds and then retire to the Chalet Suzanne for sustenance.

Pickle was a little dog with a very big brain. If I was on course, he would beg a lift and watch the entire round. If no pals were around to give him a lift, he would go to the top of the grandstand and watch from there.

Having finished my classes, I gave a high pitched whistle which would usually bring my dog faithfully at the run. Well, no dog, so I went to the grandstand. No dog there, either.

Frances Rowe was in the schooling ring as I walked by. She had heard my whistle, and with the famous “Frances smile” on her face, she taunted.

“Hey, Hatch, I think Pickle has put himself up for adoption. He’s with the Gussie Busch entourage.”

August “Gussie” Busch had arrived from Tampa to see his horses perform. He traveled in The Eagle, a bus any rock star would have envied.

With trepidation, I approached The Eagle to fetch The Pickle. Softly, I knocked on the bus door and just as softly, the bus door opened.

“Yes,” said a hidden voice from the interior.

“Sir, I am looking for my Jack Russell.”

“Just a minute,” replied the hidden voice.

I humbly backed away from the bus as out came a procession, led by the polo-coated Mr. Busch. He looked every inch the Beer Baron he was. Mr. Busch was followed from the bus by two huge men of the bodyguard variety.

Perched on the arm of the second man was Pickle. I mean the giant had his arm extended, straight out from his shoulder and then bent to form a platform.

There on this perch sat Pickle, all proud of his participation in the ongoing parade and no, he was not looking at me. Pickle had his Washington-crossing-the- Delaware posture, and it was not until Mr. Busch faced me that “Prince Russell Terrier” acknowledged my presence.

“Nice dog,” Mr. Busch said. “I hear he’s only nine months old.”

Timidly, I replied, “yes.”

“Would you like to sell him?”

I was about to launch into a great “but he is the love of my life” speech, but Mr. Busch sensed the situation intuitively as the animal lover he was. He reached up, removing Pickle from the giant’s arm, and entrusted him to my waiting embrace.

With a wink, he offered, “I’ll be back tomorrow if you change your mind about selling him.”

The following day, Pickle did indeed stay at the Chalet Suzanne. I did go to the horse show, but I managed to avoid The Eagle.

Still, I have always had a vision of turning on the World Series. The St. Louis Cardinals are playing, the TV camera spans the sky boxes and yes, there in the Anheuser-Busch box, two faces are intent on the game.

One face belongs to CEO Busch, the Cardinals owner, and the other belongs to a small terrier mounted on a giant’s arm.