Sam, the dog at Beaver

(This is the second post about working at the Beaver station. The first was posted last week.)

A noisy group of guys got out of a car with Michigan plates one hot night after 2 a.m. when I was on midnights at the Beaver Gas Station on Dougal.

I was alone because the other guy on midnights was out with the truck to change a flat tire. At that time of night, the flat was likely in the parking lot of The Riviera, the topless bar down the street that stayed open until about that time of night. Most likely, this rowdy group had also come from the Riv.

One asked me for change for the pop machine. I took his bill and opened the till. They could see I was alone. I could tell they were thinking it would be easy to overpower me and take whatever they wanted. Then the grins dropped off their faces. I did not have to turn to look. I knew Sam had come out from where ever he was sleeping and was standing right behind me.

Sam was a large Alsatian that lived at the Beaver station. At 2 a.m., Sam was on the job.

The rowdy boys got their pop and left.

In those summers of 1967 and 68, I enjoyed working the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift. The big Beaver station was a couple of blocks from the end of Highway 401, and the only station open at night between the 401 and Detroit, so we had all kinds of travellers stop for gas, a washroom break or just a stretch and some conversation. A few became regulars.

Two or three times, the band Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels came in about 4 o’clock in the morning after playing in Toronto or Buffalo.

The band rode in a stretch Cadillac, one of the early 60s models with the long sleek fins. It had a front, middle and back seat and pulled an equipment trailer that looked like a mini camper.

I recognized the car and trailer when I went out to the pumps. The band remembered something too. As they got out to head to the washroom, one said to me with a trace of concern, “Hey Man, that dog around?”

Sam roamed the lot freely. We had no leash or rope. Sam would greet the guys wagging his tail and crying like a puppy at the beginning of each shift – especially the guys who fed him and gave him special attention. He’d be so enthusiastic he’d nearly knock people over.

His biggest greeting was reserved for Don Plumb, the station owner. If we heard the crying and carrying on from Sam in the middle of a shift, the guys knew the big boss might be on site.

A few times a day, Sam would disappear, through the traffic of the busy plaza parking lot that surrounded the station, and between the stores to a field out back. It occurs to me now, thinking about all the bags I use to pick up after my dog, that we never even thought about needing to pick up after Sam.

With a bed behind the oil cans beneath the work bench in the bay, he must have been the dirtiest dog in the city. Once each summer, the Plumbs took him to Lake Erie for a swim. That was his annual bath. For a week or more after the swim, his white and brown fur showed against his black. Most of the year, his colours were covered in grime. Sam was fed cans of sloppy cheap dog food from a can. His teeth had large black spots, probably because he never got kibble or dog cookies to keep his teeth clean.

My beautiful red MGB was a convertible with leather seats. Once in a while, when I had left the top down, some of the guys would let Sam get in the passenger seat just as my shift ended. Sam was so big sitting in that seat, he could look over the top of the windshield. I would be heading to the car and then see Sam sitting there, big grin, so excited. There was no way Sam would get out of the car until after I had driven him around the local streets with the top down.

After that incident with rowdy Americans, I never begrudged Sam the occasional joy ride at the end of a shift. Even after I left Beaver, when I would stop by for gas, Sam seemed to recognize the sound of my MG or would hear my voice, and he’d come out to give me a great greeting, whining and crying like a puppy.

Beaver Stations are a little piece of Windsor history that everyone my age remembers fondly. The Beaver station on Dougal was sold and eventually torn down to be replaced by a generic Shell station where people pump their own gas and try to clean their own windows. How cool would it be to have one of my old Beaver uniform shirts and show up wearing it to the A&W on classic car cruise night in Windsor!

Oh, wait. I was 130 pounds in high school. Oh well. I’ve got the memories.