Folks who cling to the silly no
tion that dogs can’t think obvious
ly never had the pleasure of meet
ing George Garrell’s Pat.
Pal died not long ago, but it
would take a confirmed skeptic to
deny that the 85-pound German
shepherd not only thought, but
showed a lot more judgment than
the average haphazard human.
“He’s downright spooky, the way
he acts around the house,” George
used to say. “Or maybe I should
say it’s uncanny. Anyhow, I’ve had
a bunch of dogs in my time, and
this one beats them all.”
The NEW BERN
PUBLISHED WEEKLY
IN THE HEART OF
EASTERN NORTH
CAROLINA
5 Per Copy
VOLUME 2
NEW BERN, N. C., FRIDAY, MAY 1, 1959
NUMBER 5
/
Garrell’s enthusiasm was thor
oughly understandable. When he
came home from the fire house,
where he served for years as chief
engineer. Pal would greet him at
the door, and relieve him of his
cap and jacket like a well-trained
butler.
After placing these items in
the proper spot, the dog put his
master’s shoes up too. He knew
that George like to get comfortable
for a relaxing perusal of his fav
orite newspaper.
Occasionally, Garrell would want
something in an upstairs room. He
told Pal, and the item was prompt
ly fetched down without further
g^do. And when George or some
other member of the family hap
pened to be on the second floor
and needed something from the
parlor, dining room or kitchen
they could count on the same credi
table service.
That in itself was remarkable,
but Pal’s intelligence didn’t end
there. George had a large fire bell
in the house that tapped every
time a fire broke out in New Bern.
Each time that an alarm came in,
day or night. Pal made sure that
Garrell knew it.
George is a heavy sleeper, so he
was barked and tugged out of
slumber more than once. However,
at noon when the bell rang twice
to signal the mid-day hour. Pal
looked at the clock, yawned a
toothy yawn and resumed his nod
ding.
On the other hand, if a bonafide
alarm came in about noon, the big
German shepherd would leap to
his feet and bark excitedly in the
usual manner. In other words, no
body fooled Pal when they started
kicking that gong around.
Like all dogs, the Garrell pet
enjoyed a trip out of doors after
meal time. On rainy days or nights,
he would return with his coat
dripping. Strictly a gentlemen. Pal
picked up a towel left for him at
the door, and stood there until
someone dried him off.
On hot days he liked to recline
near a cooling floor-fan. Apparent
ly aware that it costs money to
keep such a fan going, he endured
the humidity until he became over
ly uncomfortable. Then he stood
by the fan, and barked vigorously
until a member of the family turn
ed it on for him.
Chasing automobiles was Pal’s
favorite pastime, but he was too
smart to tangle with a fast-moving
vehicle. When a car came down the
street, he would race it to the
corner, running along lawns at
breakneck speeds. When he got to
the corner, he stopped, and waited
for another car to escort on the
return trip.
No one ever saw him venture in
to the street. Even when he varied
his routine by chasing a squirrel,
the chase ended the moment the
squirrel took off across the busy
thoroughfare.
Needless to say. Pal had the run
of the Garrell home. “We always
treated him as if he were a member
of the family,” George says. “We
got him from a kennel in South
Carolina when he was only a month
(Continued on back page)
CANINE HERO—A deep affection for dogs is just one more
thing that New Bern and its mother city of Berne have in
common. The most popular exhibit in the Bernese Museum
of Natural History is the mounted figure of Barry, a St.
Bernard that saved the lives of oyer 40 people lost in the
snow. After 12 years of hard work, his 'strength failed and
he peacefully passed the last years of his life in retirement.
New Bern Is a Dog Heaven
And the Dogs Know It, Too!
No wonder New Bern’s carefree
canines look puzzled and disgust
ed when a hapless human com
plains that he is leading a dog’s
life.
Taken at face value, such an ex
pression is as false as the villain’s
moustache in an old-time melodra
ma, and nobody knows this better
than the joyous dogs abounding in
our historic first State Capital.
More than anything else. New
Bern is a dog heaven. We’ve got
big ones and little ones, and a lot
that would be classified in between.
Admittedly, everybody doesn’t own
a pooch, but if you moved all the
dob owners out of town the place
would be deserted.
And if you tried to move all the
dogs out of town—a stupendous
undertaking—so many folks would
be up in arms that you’d swear the
Revolutionary War and the Civil
War were both being revived here
at one and the same time.
Speaking of wars, there wouldn’t
be any if you left it up to the dogs.
Maybe a fight now and then, but
no major conflict of lasting dura
tion. Unlike grown-up humans, or
their children, dogs have a way of
getting along together.
Of course, there are bad dogs,
but compared with the percentage
of bad humans, the ratio is almost
negligible. As for the frequent
barkers, leave us not forget that
humans are apt to run their mouth
a good deal too. '
One of the things a New Bern
dog never has to worry about is
his station in society. Humans who
own a pedigreed pooch may be
slightly snobbish over the fact, but
the pooch himself doesn’t care a i no marked preference for one par-
hoot. His closest friends are usual- tjcular breed. You’ll find all of the
ly mongrels with ancestry of de- better known ones here in pro-
cidedly hazy origin. fusion, including Boston bulls, box-
Actually, New Bernians show I ers, cocker spaniels^ daschunds.
SUSAN ADAMS AND HER GINGER
—Photo by Billy Benners
chihuahuas, German shepherds,
and others too numerous to men
tion.
There’s something appealing
about a town that loves dogs. The
stranger in our midst recognizes a
pleasant aspect of the home he
left, when he sees local kids romp
ing with their canine pets. Instinc
tively, newcomers feel that it must
be a pretty good town after all.
Most of us, whether we own a
dog or not, can appreciate Lord
Byron’s epitaph on the monument
erected to “Boatswain” in the gar
den of Newstead Abbey. It reads
in part:
, “Near this spot are deposited
the remains of one who possessed
beauty without vanity, strength
without insolence, courage with fe
rocity, and all the virtues of man
without his vices.
This praise, which would be un
meaning flattery if inscribed over
human ashes, is but a just tribute
to the memory of Boatswain, a
dog.”
Hally Carrington Brent wrote of
dogs in this manner; “Though pre
judice perhaps my niind befogs, I
think I know no finer things than
dogs; the young ones, they of gay
and bounting heart. Who lure us in
their .games to take a part. Who
with mock tragedy their antics
cloak, and from their wild eyes’
tail, admit the joke.
The old ones, with their wistful
fading eyes, they who desire no
further paradise than the warm
comfort of our smile and hand.
Who tune their moods to ours and
understand each word and gesture;
(Continued on back page)