"BLACKIE"

The amazing story of a happy intelligent little Bermudian terrier who, 60 years ago, transformed the Hamilton-Warwick ferry into her own personal yacht.

Following the conclusion of the Second World War, my wife, Joan, and I eventually secured passage to Bermuda, via Canada and the United States, flying in to Darrell's Island in April, 1946.

Living accommodation in Bermuda then was as scarce as it seems to be now. At first, we had to rely on the kindness of friends who, when going abroad, offered their homes to us to house-sit. During one hectic spell, we moved five times in 29 days. Surely, that must be a world record of its kind.

Yet, indirectly, the inconvenience led to an extraordinary happening in our lives.

When we got to Bermuda, our net worth between us, after nearly seven years of war service, was less than a hundred dollars. The only way we could improve that, we realised, was to go to work.

I took on two jobs. By day, I worked for Pearman, Watlington & Company, who had generously kept my pre-War position open for me while I was overseas in the Army. At night, I became a sportswriter for the Bermuda Mid-Ocean News, then an afternoon daily newspaper. Most of the writing and the printing of the paper took place at night.

Joan, an English girl born in Lincolnshire (we met during the War), had served as a Government telephone operator during the War, and had survived some devastating air raids. By profession, she was a highly qualified veterinary nurse. She found employment with Dr. William Sutherland, Bermuda's leading veterinarian.

Five months later, while we were still newlyweds, a small engaging terrier came into our lives — Blackie. Blackie's mother was a purebred Scottish terrier.

There was no doubt, however, that she inherited her good looks from her mother. She had the jet black curly hair and pointed ears of a Scotty. Her happy personality and astonishing intelligence were gifts from Heaven.

There was also something distinctly aristocratic about Blackie. She would have fitted in beautifully at Buckingham Palace. Kings and queens, not to mention American presidents would have adored her.

As it was Blackie's first owner had been an international sports celebrity. He was George M. Lott, the famous American tennis star of the 1920s and 1930s. He had shared all the major doubles titles, including Wimbledon, the American, the French and scores of others, besides being an anchor on the United States Davis Cup Team.

His playing days over, he accepted an offer to become the professional at the Bermuda Lawn Tennis Club. He had first known Bermuda, as a player, when the Islands were one of the most important tournaments on the international winter circuit.

George had high qualifications in another sphere. He loved dogs. He wasn't long in Bermuda before he wanted one. Blackie, as the cute little puppy she surely must have been, was his choice.

Unfortunately, George had to give up his post at the BLTC when Adolf Hitler decided to murder the world. He had to return to the USA and I can imagine his sadness at having to give up Blackie. He took her to Dr. Sutherland, and persuaded him to take Blackie and do the best for her.

To Bill Sutherland, that meant trying to find a good home for her. True to his profession, he never liked to put a good healthy dog or cat to sleep if he could possibly save its life.

Over the years, Dr. Sutherland usually had a few extra dogs awaiting new homes. They lived a wonderful life at Bill's home with its beautiful fenced in grounds in that heavenly part of Pembroke called Fairylands. Joan knew Blackie well.

The house-sit that proved to be our last one posed an immediate problem. It had a magnificent avocado tree laden with pears. Thieves had spotted it. During our first night there, they visited us and helped themselves. I disturbed them by putting on lights and shouting. It was obvious that we needed to do something far more effective.

Joan had an excellent idea. She would ask Dr. Sutherland if she could borrow Blackie, and came home with her the following day. Blackie had become an experienced watchdog.

Because she was the key member of the veterinary hospital's "security guard" she was very much in-charge. The second-in-command was a happy-go-lucky accomplice whose right front leg had been broken.

It had healed, but was bent at the elbow. He walked and ran on the other three legs, and could attain amazing speed. Bill had aptly named him "Hitler". However, if the dog had any dictatorial aspirations like those of his namesake, he got nowhere with Blackie. She insisted on being the boss. This was clearly understood, and they all lived happily together.

Blackie now took over our guard duties. It was still very warm in September. We fixed up a nice comfortable bed for her on the front porch and attached a long rope to her collar and one of the porch pillars. All three of us went to bed. Several times during the night we heard her bark her way to the avocado tree. Her efforts were successful!

In the meantime, we bought a small cottage, thanks with mortgage help from the Bank of Bermuda, and were able to move in when our house sit was over.

We now had to consider Blackie's future. We had fallen in love with her and had no wish to give her up. Dr. Sutherland agreed to let us have her. If George Lott could have known, I'm sure he would have been delighted.

The cottage was called "Montespan" (I think it still is) and is located at the Harbour Road end of Keith Hall Road, about mid-way between Darrell's Wharf and the Belmont Dock. Probably the largest Norfolk Island pine in Bermuda towers over it. The tree laughed at hurricanes and rode out two of them within 11 months period while we were there.

The move produced a major change in the way I went to work. I used the ferry from Darrell's Wharf to Hamilton. It is a lovely way to travel, especially in summer.

My first duty at work was to open up the store, which was located just across Front Street from the ferry terminal where AS Cooper & Sons is now. To be there on time, I had to catch the 7.30 ferry.

An hour later that first day, I was thunderstruck when Blackie walked into the store. She came to me with as tentative and sheepish a grin as any Mickey Mouse ever produced. Ears erect, tail wagging, she was ready to receive a gushing welcome. I was rigid with astonishment, and couldn't even greet her. I was speechless.

She had accomplished something absolutely amazing — to everyone but her. She had walked from our cottage, down Harbour Road to catch the 8.30 ferry. In Hamilton, she only had to cross the street to Pearman, Watlington & Company.

Happily, Sir John Cox, MCP, Speaker of the House of Assembly, a senior partner of PW&Co (as the firm was widely known throughout Bermuda) and happened to be in the store. Unlike me, he was not at all tongue-tied and welcomed Blackie in the custom to which I am sure she felt was her due. She returned the acknowledgement with a familiar curled lipped smile. I explained that Blackie belonged to me and described the amazing feat she had just accomplished.

Blackie remained with me the rest of the day. So many made a fuss of her that I think she cherished her self-appointed role of official greeter to customers coming into the store, or those heading upstairs to one of the offices.

On closing the store, we went over to the ferry terminal to catch the ferry to Darrell's Wharf. Whatever protocol called for, Blackie made no pretence at respecting it and inched her way to the front of line of waiting passengers. As no doubt she had planned, she was first aboard.

We entered the Laconia's large cabin and she waited for me to sit down, and then jumped up beside me, much to the amusement of other passengers. She became the centre of conversation.

At Darrell's Wharf, she was among the first off, nicely judging the distance from the ferry to the concrete steps. She led the way home. I could hardly wait to tell Joan what had happened during the day.

So began virtually a daily routine for Blackie and me that continued for days, weeks, months and years.

In all that time, she never once joined me on the 7.30 ferry. I have always felt she did not regard 7.30 as a civilised enough time to start the day, 8.30 was her most preferred time, but once in a while she would come to town by a later one. Then she had the very occasional day off.

Sometimes she would decide to go home early and catch a mid-afternoon ferry to Warwick.

The crew of the ferry soon got to know Blackie well, as she did them. They talked to her and kept an eye out for her safety.

One evening, as we were approaching Darrell's Wharf, she was standing with her front paws on the boat's top step ready to land. But she jumped prematurely, and splashed into the water.

The skipper reversed the engine to allow one of the crew quickly to get a boat hook which he passed through Blackie's collar and hoisted her dripping body back up on board with a suitable admonition. Suspended in soaking embarrassment, her expression was akin to disbelief. The Royal Gazette reported the rescue.

However, something far more ominous lay ahead. It was on an evening when I was late leaving work. We had to run to make the ferry and just made it. But racing into the terminal, Blackie took a wrong turn by mistake and ran on to the Somerset and Dockyard ferry.

Once on board, I looked around but did not see her. Passengers settled down and the Laconia slid gracefully away from the dock. Then, to my horror, I saw her on the West-bound ferry. Panic gripped me. Instead of the much shorter run to Darrell's Wharf, she was heading West, some 10 and more miles distance, with multiple stops.

Nothing but the worst possible thoughts flew through my confused mind. Worst of all was the fear that I may never see her again.

I hurried home to break the devastating news to Joan, who always returned home before me.

I spilled out the dreadful details, including a vitriolic denunciation of my own failure to look after Blackie properly. Joan listened quietly. When I concluded my torrent, she said "Don't worry about her. She'll be all right".

My disbelieving desire was to shout, "You must be kidding". Thankfully, I didn't. I had too much respect for Joan's expert knowledge of dogs and their ways.

Nevertheless, I refused to be comforted and moped around for the rest of the evening as the hours advanced into night.

But a miracle was about to happen. At 11.30, we heard a whine, whine, whine at the door. I rushed to open it. There was Blackie. She entered casually in a 'nice to be home, sorry I'm late' manner. I looked at Joan. She was grinning. Now that all was well, she said "I told you she'd beall right"! It was a moment Joan would relish for the rest of her all too short life. At least, I had not made a fool of myself by questioning her judgment.

The welcome home ceremony complete, Blackie walked over to her water bowl. She must have needed a drink desperately. So did we!

The big question was how did she get home? I had only to wait until the following morning for the answer on the 7.30 ferry. A crew member had the details. Both he and Blackie realised her serious mistake.

She had jumped ashore at Somerset Bridge, the first West End stop. As the passengers stepped off the boat, Blackie got back on board. He said the crew made sure she did not disembark until they returned to Hamilton. How grateful I am that they were so concerned.

Once there, she was quickly off the boat and went straight to the adjacent Warwick ferry platform, and waited until the next one arrived. The rest of her journey home was easy. But it was no "town" for her the next day. She was happy to remain at home and recover.

Orally for me, that next day was an extremely busy one. I can't remember how many times I repeated the story with justifiable pride. Some people, if they wish, can use the expression "dumb animals" in its most derogatory sense.

Not me. Those who wish to do so, for me, are talking about themselves. Blackie's performance, aided by that of a splendid and loving crew, is one of my greatest memories.

If he could have known about Blackie's great adventure, I am sure George Lott would have been immensely proud, too.

A huge Great Dane decided to visit the store. Blackie did not greet him with enthusiasm. So much so that, after a few visits, it was obvious he was not at all welcome. She must have been plotting in her mind what to do.

It was midsummer. One of her favourite places to sit was outside the store in the afternoon when a comfortable shade fell on the sidewalk. She leaned on the wall of the building and seemed content to watch passerby.

One particularly drowsy afternoon, the big dog strolled up. Blackie ignored him with what appeared to be disdain. When he was some 15 feet past her, all hell broke loose. I hesitate to use such strong language, but of all the times I've heard this profane expression, it was never more appropriately applied.

She charged up behind the Dane, ky-yi-ing at the top of her lungs. Taken by surprise, he must have been startled rather than scared. He failed to look around to see what was causing the uproar.

In his young life, I don't think he could previously have been subjected to such a cacophony of abuse. I don't think she felt the need of reinforcements. If she had, some carriage drivers parked across the street, which they always did on "boat day" supplied it. They roared with high-pitched laughter which may have further alarmed the big dog.

The pair flew past Heyl's corner and on down the middle of Front Street. The big dog loped along with his six-feet stride, followed closely by the six or seven little steps Blackie had to maintain to keep up. What a spectacle!

Pedestrians walking along Front Street in both directions were also astonished. When the pair were about halfway to the Bank of N.T. Butterfield & Son, Blackie broke off the engagement. She trotted back to the store in her own good time and seemed entirely satisfied with the adulation that awaited her.

The Dane did not return to Pearman, Watlington & Company for quite some time. When eventually he did, I don't recall he ever again made the mistake of doing so in a manner that exposed his unprotected rear. Blackie had made her point loud — very loud — and clear.

Playing second fiddle, to her own detriment, was never part of her philosophy. As long as that was understood, she as a friend to everyone, including those with four feet.

By 1949 we had built a new home, naming it "Owl's Cliff", on the cliffs of Eastern Harrington Sound. We had decided on the name one evening while sitting at the cliff edge watching a glorious sunset. Quite unexpectedly, an owl flew up from below and landed on a small cedar tree close to us.

The ferry days were now over. Blackie was getting older. Occasionally, I would take her to Hamilton for a day's outing. She spent it quietly, though still managing to share a greeting with a former ferry friend.

She contracted a terminal case of untreatable cancer and died one beautiful spring morning at the age of 14. For me it was the end of an incredibly special era.

I held her in my lap as Joan administered what she had to do to enable Blackie to make the journey from our world peacefully to Valhalla, the heaven that surely awaited her.

Blackie's passing over 50 years ago was an occasion for me of inconsolable grief. I could not (nor had I any wish to) hold back a cascade of tears. Just as I cannot prevent tears now, as I try to finish typing her fascinating, happy and noble story. If by any chance Blackie can "read" this I hope she will feel I have written it in the most acceptable way possible to her memory.

Blackie remained for Joan and me one of the dearest, most loyal and most loving friends we ever had.

The Aitchisons have now retired and are living in Arizona