Firehouse Mutt’s
I was nearly speechless after just one bite of the Brunswick Stew from the buffet. But let’s be honest: I’m a radio guy; when was a radio guy ever kept speechless? “This soup did not come from a bag,” I said between bites. “This is amazing!”
We were going out for lunch. My wife’s parents suggested Mutt’s BBQ, so off we went.
The restaurant was in a log building on the corner of West Road and Highway 14. Being from northern Minnesota, I loved the style. Inside I glanced at the menu. Melissa said, “The lunch buffet is only twelve ninety-nine, including deserts and a drink.”
I looked down the row of steam tables, “Put me down for the buffet.”
There was a sign at the beginning of the buffet next to a dispenser of plastic gloves: All customers must wear gloves while serving.
There was coleslaw, three kinds of potato salad, baked and green beans, mashed and sweet potatoes, mac and cheese,
fried okra, hush puppies, and more. Then the meat entrées: fried and BBQ chicken, pulled chicken and pork, and ribs. Lord, help me; those ribs looked amazing! Some of the best ribs I’ve had were in the south, and I could hardly wait to dig in. I loaded my plate and would return for dessert later.
Soon I found myself ready to wrestle a pile of delicious, tender BBQ ribs in Greer, South Carolina. Mutt’s offered three sauces. I tried the mild and the homemade honey mustard sauce, which was a little more tangy. I wasn’t brave enough to try the hot BBQ sauce. It was quite a battle. Finally, I dropped the last bone on my plate. Although I had devoured the ribs and sides, I’m not sure who won; the ribs were gone, but I could barely move. Still, there was the matter of that homemade peach cobbler.
Against my better judgment, I put my serving gloves on and approached the dessert bar. I passed Melissa as she was returning to the table with her cobbler. “You’re supposed to be wearing gloves,” I told her. She put her arm up to shield her dessert as I reached for it, then walked to the table.
A few moments later, a server name Stephanie came to our table. “Ma’am, I saw you at the dessert bar without wearing your gloves,” she told Melissa. “That’s a violation.”
Melissa turned beet red, knowing she was busted. My wife shook her fork at me and charged, “YOU! You narced me out!” We all shared a good laugh about that.
While we sat at the table, letting our food settle, I started thinking about a story I wanted to write about firehouse dogs. Now here we were at a restaurant called Mutt’s.
“There’s got to be a connection,” I chuckled softly. The following day, we decided to go out to lunch again. Again, everyone unanimously agreed we would return to Mutt’s BBQ. It was that good!
I was dazed, watching a firetruck in the parking lot. Finally, Melissa distracted me, “They have shrimp on the buffet today.” This just keeps getting better. Then Melissa said, “They offer a senior price for the buffet.”
I glared at her. (I still can’t grasp that I qualify for some senior discounts.)
It was my turn at the register, “How much is your senior discount, ma’am?”
“You get fifty cents off the buffet,” the cashier said.
“Are you fifty-five?”
I laughed, “I’m sure as heck not going to admit it for fifty cents,” I said. So, I paid the lady (full price) and got in line behind Melissa and her parents.
Four guys got in line behind me, each wearing T-shirts with a firefighter’s logo, ‘Clear Springs Fire Rescue.’ I found out they were in Greer for a train-
ing program.
There I was, ready to wrestle another plate of BBQ ribs. It was round two, but this time the ribs brought back up for support; a pile of shrimp. Again, I was clearly the winner. “Are you going back for peach cobbler,” Melissa asked.
“Nope,” I said. “This time, I’m going to quit while I can still move.” We had a good laugh about that. I could move just fine, so well, in fact, that Phil and I moved up to the dessert bar for a bowl of homemade banana pudding and an oatmeal cookie.
While I ate my pudding, I thought more about the story I wanted to write about firehouse dogs.
Once again, I found myself in a restaurant named
Mutt’s, and this time, there were firefighters and a firetruck, too. More than just a coincidence, this was a sign to write the story.
I struck up a conversation with the four firemen. Finally, I asked, “Do you have a firehouse dog?”
Three of them answered, “No.” The last fireman replied, “Not yet.” So we chatted a bit more about that.
I asked the fireman, “If you get a dog, what breed would it be.”
“We don’t know yet; we’ve just started talking about the idea,” he said.
Then, I asked if they knew how dalmatians became
(Just the Other Day cont’d from pg 2)
iconic as firehouse dogs. They didn’t know, and I had recently researched the subject, so I shared the story with them.
My interest in firehouse dogs began several weeks ago in Treasure Island, Florida. The garage doors were open when I drove by the station. There was a rescue truck in the first stall and fullsize trucks in the following few stalls. But the truck that caught my attention was in the end stall. So, I went around the block and drove by a second time to have another look.
As I drove by, I wondered if they had a firehouse dog; specifically, a dalmatian came to mind. Then, I wanted to know how the dalmatian became the familiar mascot for fire departments. I went home to research the topic and learned an interesting story. Dalmatians were much more than mascots; they were originally a working part of a firefighting team.
In the early days, the ‘bucket brigades’ sought more efficient ways to put out a fire. First came the hand pump wagons,
which men pushed. The wagon’s hitch was soon rigged with a neck yoke to be drawn by horses. Horses moved the equipment to a fire much faster than men could. But there was a lot of commotion when the firewagon was called out, and horses can be easily spooked. However, dalmatians had a natural calming effect on horses and thus became a working part of the firefighting team.
One article I found said the dogs would run through the streets ahead of the team, barking and warning people to clear the way for the fast-moving horse-drawn firewagon, a predecessor to the siren. But I still had more questions.
Why do the Budweiser Clydesdale Teams always have a dalmatian riding with the driver?
I know Budweiser has quenched the thirst of many a parched soul, but they were not putting out actual fires. More study was needed.
In the early days, products were delivered to merchants on horse-
(Just the Other Day on pg 4)
drawn buckboard wagons and moved as cargo on stagecoaches; the dalmatian rode along. These very loyal dogs did more than calm horses; they also guarded the wagon against robbers who would gladly help themselves to the merchandise while the driver was inside making a delivery. It all made perfect sense; I was glad to learn this.
Several days later, I drove by the Treasure Island fire station again; this time, there were a few firefighters outside gathered at the wooden fence around the front lawn. They didn’t seem busy, so I pulled into the parking lot to talk with them.
First, I asked if they had time to chat for a little bit. “I’ve got a little time,” said one of the men. “But I have to be someplace in twenty minutes,” one of them answered. My first question was about the antique truck in the last stall.
It was a beautiful shiny red 1927 American LaFrance firetruck with a polished front bumper and chrome housing around the radiator. The big chrome-backed headlamps reminded me of frog eyes. Large fenders wrapped over the front tires. They were connected to a wide running board reaching the fenders covering the back wheels. The truck was still fully equipped.
Of course, there were hoses, axes, and clusters of levers, handles, valves, and gauges along the sides. An open black bench seat spanned across the front but had no cab or windshield. An adjustable floodlight was mounted atop the dashboard’s center, with
a siren just below. The tallest part of the rig was a silver bell mounted toward the back; a rope stretched across the truck, tied to a handle on the side of the front bench seat. A long narrow barrel was mounted horizontally behind the seat, probably the fuel tank, with ‘STA. 24’ printed in gold letters on the end, and ‘Treasure Island Fire Dept.’ on the sides of the hood. “Is this station number 24,” I asked. I don’t remember his answer.
The firemen told me the truck did not originally belong to the Treasure Island Fire Department. Instead, they had acquired the truck years ago to use in parades and displays. As the firemen told the history of the old relic, my mind wandered off to a time nearly 100 years ago.
I could clearly see this truck speeding down a dirt road on Main Street, rushing to save someone’s burning house: Three or four firemen crowded on the rear step. Each had one hand latched on to the grab bar for dear life; their rubber coattails flapped in the wind while their other hand held the black helmet on their heads to keep the headgear from blowing away. The driver had both hands on the wheel. On the passenger’s side, another man held on to the chrome grab bar that rounded over the back of the hood. He pulled and tugged forward on the rope. The bell sounded, ‘clank, clank, clank,’ while the siren pierced the air.
A dalmatian sat upright between the two firemen. She barked loudly and repeatedly over the long hood of the truck as if to tell people, ‘Get out of the way! Clear the road; we’re
in a hurry!’ Suddenly, I came back to the moment at hand.
“Speaking of dogs,” I said. “Do you have a firehouse dog?”
“We do,” the man answered. “As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m going in twenty minutes; I have to pick up Captain at the vet.”
I asked, “Is Captain a dalmatian.”
“No, she’s a beagle.” That’s cool. Then I asked if they knew how the dalmatian became iconic as a firehouse dog. One of the firefighters knew the story; we shared it with the others.
I asked several firefighter friends if they still had a firehouse dog today. Most volunteer departments do not because the building is not staffed full-time. Some fire departments with paid staff did, but the dogs today are companions and mascots who do not go out on calls. None of the departments had dalmatians. It was a lot of fun doing my research, and I met some great people along the way.
The next time I am in Greer, South Carolina, I will revisit Mutts BBQ. If the firemen happen to be there again, I might be brave enough to try the hot sauce.