Fred the Dog

(I heard this story on the cemetery road above Cove, Oregon. We were on our way to visit the plot where Dewie Lovelace intended to spend eternity, and where I promised to retrieve a pint of whiskey from his funereal boots and pass it among the mourners.
There were four of us in the van.....my son Clifford, me, Dewie, and Earl Marshall, Dewie's lifelong cohort in seventy years of cowpoke pranks. Halfway up the hill, before we passed through the whitewashed bridge trusses that serve as portals for both burial grounds in that part of the Grande Ronde Valley, Dewie pulled his van to a whoa beside a grave that seemed to have spilled from the proper cemetery.
There, poking out of the cheatgrass and fescue, was a wreath of plastic petunias, a white cross fashioned from plaster lath, and a real marble headstone, bearing the inscription "FRED". Earl launched the tale.......)

"Yonder lies Fred, the best friend this town ever had. Come to town with a boy named Dixon who was jumping smoke over in La Grande but was living here, down behind the drive-in, a block off the school.
"Dixon, he was gone alot. Guess a smoke jumper's gotta show up for work even when there's two foot of snow on the Fourth of July. Anyway, Fred took to wandering while Dixon was away, took to walking the kids home from school. First he'd walk a pack of kindygardners home, then hustle back to school and pick up another bunch of kids, right on up through the high schoolers that didn't have cars.
"Fred was a big ol' red dog, kinda like a cross between a setter and a long-haired lab, with a wad of teddy bear throwed in. Slobbered some, but he was plumb gentle and kind. The kids loved him, and the town took him on as Cove's unofficial mascot.
"Like most of the townsfolks, Fred hung the saloon at night. He'd come over to your table and just stand there, until you put a dollar bill in his mouth. He could tell the difference between a real George Washington and a waitress' ticket. He'd carry the buck over to the bartender, put his paws up on the rail, and trade the money for one of those big ol' long pepperoni sticks. I watched Fred spend thirty-five dollars one Saturday night.
"It was a dark day for Cove, Oregon when Dixon got transferred down to northern California and took Fred along. There were ten people in town who wanted to run right to LaGrande to find a new town dog. They didn't have to bother. Turns out Fred didn't do anything down in California but get into trouble. They had a leash law down there and Fred cost Dixon six hundred dollars in runaway dog fines before he found a long-haul trucker who was heading this way and asked him if he'd take Fred home.
"We were all in the bar that afternoon when this great big shiny eighteen-wheel Peterbuilt hauling a reefer pulled into town, something that doesn't happen too often around here. Driver opened his door, and out poured Ol' Fred, knowing he was home. Boy, there was some celebrating that night.
"Max, down at the grocery, put a Mason jar by his cash register, unmarked, but everybody in Cove knew it was Fred's food fund. That jar always had at least twenty bucks in it. Fred was eating the best dog food they make. He had fifteen, twenty places in town where he'd curl up on a porch and sleep when he wasn't playing school crossing guard.
"Then one morning Fred came up dead. Folks took him to the vet's to see what had happened and Doc Bilger said that Fred had been poisoned. This town's had a dog poisoner in it for four generations. Nobody's ever figured out who it is. But I'll tell you, if you'da got caught with coyote bait in your garage about then, you'da got hung. As it was, the town kids toiletpapered the trees in the yards of the two prime suspects, but it is still a mystery as to who did it.
"So we took up a collection. Damn near half the residents of this town were for laying Fred to rest right up there in the real cemetery with the humans. Most of the dead folks up there weren't near as lovable as Fred. But the rest of the town figured we'd be starting a dangerous pattern and pretty soon we'd have cats and horses buried up there, and there just plumb ain't that much room left, so we found this little spot alongside the road. This way whoever killed Fred has to look at the marker every time one of their family passes away. Had the headstone shipped clear from Portland. Fred, he sure was a good ol' dog. Me, soon as we got Fred buried proper, I kinda stopped eating pepperoni sticks, just in case."