Hitler was a dog, a real good dog!!

Not Germany's mad man Hitler, who doesn't deserve to be compared to any dog, much less a real good ferociously-loyal farm dog.

Daddy Whittle showed his unusual wit in post-WWII days when he named our farm dog "Hitler."

"He'll have to be strong to walk around with that name," Daddy explained.

Daddy's words proved prophetic, for when I was age four, I witnessed a very courageous act that likely saved my father's life.

Hitler was playing with me in the front yard, when we heard Daddy yelling for help out in the barn lot, where an enraged boar hog had attacked him.

Hitler bolted for the barn lot,and cleared a head-high fence to a grown man, and hit that big male hog gone mad with such force, the impact knocked the swine off my father.

After escaping the hog pen, Daddy bolted to the house to get his trusty .22-caliber rifle.

But that left Hitler in the hog pen. Although a stout-built mix of bulldog-German shepherd lineage, the canine was no match for the much-bigger hog.

By the time Daddy returned to shoot that hog barn-yard dead, Hitler lay bleeding profusely with multiple deep gashes that covered his body.

My unforgettable job that long ago day back in the 1940s, was to hold Hitler's bleeding head in my lap as Daddy floor-boarded our 1946 Ford pick-up to the vets office in Sikeston, located 12 miles away.

The vet initially diagnosed Hitler with needing to be "put to sleep," but suddenly changed his mind.

"I've never seen a dog fight this hard to live," the vet advised Daddy. "I'll stay here overnight with him, at no extra charge, just to see if this animal can survive all these injuries..."

As farm fate would have it, Hitler lived to fight another day...

As stated in the lead-in: "Hitler was a dog, a REAL GOOD DOG."

WRITER'S NOTE: I blogged extra this week, because of medical treatment scheduled next week for a clogged corotid artery. When I return, I plan on asking the question: "Will There Be Good Dogs In Heaven?"