KOSCIUSKO — This past Sunday at around 3p.m. I had to put my dog, ol’ Smoke, down. Smoke was our Anatolian Shepherd that we have had for about 12 years. 

We had gotten Smoke when we first opened our petting farm called Cow Pen. 

Smoke's mama had killed a coyote when she was six months old and we had done enough research to know that they were great herd dogs and very protective of their flock. 

We had many different kinds of small animals for the kids and figured he would be a measure of protection for them.  

Anatolia was a region in Turkey, apparently named after a king. 

This is where these dogs originated. 

We found that they would put these dogs with a herd of sheep or goats in the mountains for an entire season without a shepherd.  These dogs are huge and apparently the Turks are quite ruthless on their breeding program. 

They would only keep the best of a litter, sometimes only one or two.  Anyway enough about the history of the breed and more about Smoke.

We got Smoke when he was about six weeks old. Even then he was big for a puppy and looked like a little bear. 

He was charcoal gray and black brindle colored and looked like a big puff of smoke.  

The first time we ever heard him bark, it was so deep with so much bass; we found it hard to believe that it came from a puppy. 

His bark scared me, and he was my dog!  I knew right then he could do the job he was intended for. 

What I didn't know then was how much a part of our family he would become.

While running the petting farm, ol’ Smoke became the star of the show. 

He was so gentle with the children. 

They would wallow all over him. 

As it is with children, they were not so gentle with him, but he always took it in stride. 

Most all the birthday parties had themes such as Spiderman, cowboys, or Scooby Doo, and ol’ Smoke would wear the theme hat throughout the party. 

The kids got the biggest kick out of that big dog with their birthday hat on his large head. 

The only thing I ever worried about was his big paw.

He had learned on his own to shake hands and his big paw weighed about five pounds. 

He never once scratched one of the children. Granted, there were some who were afraid of his sheer size, but it would not take long for them to warm up to him. 

His eyes just spoke volumes, but at night when any strange animal or person approached my house, they would meet Smoke in a whole different way.

Ol’ Smoke was pretty good on the blood trail of a deer as well. 

I remember one particular bow hunt where I had shot a big doe with my bow and she naturally went straight into the ticket.

 This particular year we were experiencing a bad drought and everything was gunpowder dry. 

I immediately went home and got ole Smoke to help me find that deer. 

My wife decided to help because both of my boys, who were younger and still living with us, were out of pocket, probably out on a date or something. 

Ol’ Smoke found the arrow right away and trailed the deer to the deepest hole in a ditch on the lower end of my place. 

It was the only hole holding water because of the drought. 

This hole was about fifteen to twenty feet deep, so deep that Smoke did not attempt to enter.

As fate would have it, the deer was at the very bottom.  Ol’ Smoke just stood on the bank and let out his deep bass bark, looking down at the dead deer. 

I crawled down to my deer and stood there wondering how I was going to get this deer out. 

The moon was full, giving me a little light to work with as I took my belt off in an attempt to make lifting the field-dressed deer easier.  I knew that my wife could not lift the deer, so I told her to hold what ground I had gained thus far by holding the belt, and I would climb out and pull the deer up the remainder of the way. 

Well, during my climb out, my belt less pants fell down around my ankles, and by golly, now there were two full moons. 

My wife was laughing so hard that I thought she was going to lose all that I had gained. 

As I climbed out with my fanny shining in the moonlight, I looked over at Smoke and I swear he was smiling. 

I hope in a small way this gives you a little taste of ol’ Smoke's life. 

People that visited the farm all those years ago still ask about the "big dog".  Well, he's gone now to happier hunting grounds.

My wife, brother, and son had dug a grave down by the pond under a weeping willow and we said our good-byes to that big ol’ dog. 

Living on a farm can be calloused and cruel and you do see the cycle of life go full circle. 

As we finished this sad deed and came up the hill from the weeping willow, we watched four new puppies in the pen next to my house wagging their tails while they growled and barked at each other like they were ten feet tall and bullet proof. Good-bye old friend - you will be missed.



On the Porch with Dirk is a recurring article written by Dirk Thayer, an avid outdoorsman and storyteller.