A Hero Worth Meeting
But I think an exception can be made when your hero is dead, stuffed, and on display at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C.
I may need to back up a little.
Until a few years ago, I taught a grammar and writing class that culminated each year with a project called Faces of History. It was a bit like a wax museum: each student chose someone from a certain historical period, dressed in costume, and presented a paper written in the first person from that individual’s perspective. My daughter, Caris, was in my class the year we focused on American history.
There are plenty of American heroines to choose from, anyone from Sacagawea to Harriet Tubman to Susan B. Anthony.
Caris wasn’t interested in the traditional female figures. And though she could have picked any of the countless men who left their mark on the country, she didn’t want to be Samuel Adams, George Washington Carver, or Neil Armstrong.
She had someone else in mind.
When she learned about Sergeant Stubby of the 102nd Infantry Regiment, who fought in France during World War I and saved countless lives, she didn’t look back. He was impressive. Brave. Loyal. He served his country well and came home a decorated veteran, including a gold medal presented by General John J. Pershing himself. He met three U.S. presidents, and many considered him a national icon.
And it just so happened that he was a dog.
Caris fell in love with him during her research. The 102nd Infantry Regiment fell in love with him during training camp. The stray, mixed-breed mutt wandered onto the grounds at Yale, begging for food. The soldiers marveled at how quickly he learned tricks, including raising his paw to salute. Dogs weren’t allowed in the barracks, and they certainly weren’t allowed on ships. But that didn't stop the regiment from smuggling him aboard the S.S. Minnesota. Commanders, who loved him too, turned a blind eye. Soon he was counted among the men, boosting morale, and giving them a touch of home.
They had no idea Stubby would serve a far greater role.
His keen canine senses made him an early warning system for gas attacks. When Stubby barked, soldiers grabbed their gas masks. After he was injured in a gas attack himself, the soldiers had a gas mask made just for him. He went on to serve in seventeen battles. He’s credited with warning a sleeping trench of incoming gas, finding wounded soldiers in no man’s land, and even catching a German spy by the seat of his pants. In return he asked for nothing but a few scraps and a scratch behind the ears.
He was a good boy.
Caris learned that Stubby survived the war and lived a long and exalted life, wearing a coat covered in medals and pins. After he died, his body was preserved and put on display at the National Museum of American History in Washington, D.C.
I promised Caris I would take her to see Stubby the next time we were in D.C. It took us four years to get there, but in late September, Caris finally met her hero. I’d say he lived up to the hype, but that might be a poor choice of words, considering.
We have a dog, too. He wouldn’t survive a minute in battle. But that doesn’t stop him from trying to save our lives.
Mr. Bowditch follows me everywhere, including into the bathroom when I clean. As I pour Clorox around the rim of the toilet, he sticks his head right into the commode. Within seconds, he’s barking his head off and racing through the house, warning us all of the poison gas. Then he follows me to every other bathroom, dutifully sticks his head into each toilet, and sounds the alarm all over again.
Brave. Loyal. But not too smart.
I think Stubby might have barked at the Clorox too. But he would have figured out pretty quickly that his humans weren’t in any danger. And if I had marched past him down the hallway, toilet brush raised like a weapon, I like to think he would have lifted his paw in salute.
Still, I’m glad Stubby wasn’t ours. He had a far greater calling than barking at toilets. He was an American hero.
If you love dog stories, you might enjoy The Ding Dong Altar Boy, a collection of short stories I wrote with my brother. One of them features not one, but several four-legged troublemakers who might remind you of your own.
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