MEMOIRS OF
CLINTON E BRUSH, MD
     BY CLINTON E BRUSH
>>
BERT BRUSH wrote 92 manuscript pages on a manual typewriter at the age of 98, and this is their first public appearance. Check back in the coming weeks and months as we delve deeper into his life, in his own words.

editor AT wanderingarmy DOT com

Chapter I: Tiny Bitter Pills <<

Chapter III: Water, In Ice, In Snow,
In The Parlor Owl, A Crystal Glass <<

Chapter VII: Some 300 Years Later <<

Chapter X: Temiscuata <<

Chapter XIX: The Baby Not
Yet Arrived <<

Chapter XXII: How To Get Skint <<

Chapter XXVII: The Decisions
We Make <<

Chapter XLIV: Little John <<

© 2008 Clinton E Brush
Chapter IV: Loyalty

AS A BOY I naturally had a dog. Mine was a Collie named Scratch. He developed a bad habit. I was never able to cure him of this habit; Scratch cured himself.

Scratch followed us in the morning when we walked to the station to take the train to Orange for school. In the afternoons he was there again, waiting to walk us home. How he knew the time of our return I haven't the foggiest, but he was always there.

In town, Scratch would run in behind a sleigh, jump up and grab at whatever might be hanging over the back seat. Of course, the occupants of the sleigh would drive him off, but occasionally Scratch took a piece of rug or blanket with him. When summer came, he tried the same stunt on buggies, trying to jump up and grab the curtain at the rear.

Irving Avenue started at right angles from Scotland Road where it ran along the foot of the hill. One morning, as we were heading to the station, Scratch spied a buggy coming along Scotland Road. He lit out, expecting to slip in behind the buggy as it crossed Irving Avenue. He missed his guess by a fraction of a second and went head-on into the rear wheel of the buggy. Fortunately, his entire head did not go between the spokes of the buggy, but his face did. That buggy lifted Scratch off his feet and carried him in a complete circle before his weight pulled him free and gravity pulled him to the ground.

I expected to find him dead when I picked him up, but it was only a dog with a scarred face and a cured habit. Never again did I see Scratch jump up to grab a sleigh rug or a buggy curtain.


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