Fidgeting with his nightstick, one of the officers turned to me.
“We could break a window,” he said, giving the front driver’s window an experimental tap. D’Argo flinched, hair rising across his back, but didn’t back away.
“The baby’ll be okay in the backseat, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt your dog, ma’am.”
“We can’t wait for the key anymore,” I said, “we need to get them out.” The men looked at each other.
“Like I said, ma’am, we might hurt your dog.”
“I don’t want you to hurt him either, but they’ve been in there too long.”
The younger officer pulled his nightstick out of his tool belt and walked around to the passenger door. D’Argo met him at the window, barking and howling.
“Can you call him? Get him away?” he called.
“D’Argo! D’Argo! Come!” I yelled, banging frantically on the driver’s side window. D’Argo stopped barking and looked back, but stayed where he was. The policeman raised the baton, then hesitated, looking through the window at D’Argo and then at me.
“Do it!” I yelled.
He swung down hard, smacking the glasswith the nightstick. D’Argo leaped back. The nightstick thudded against the window again. D’Argo vaulted into the backseat.
“D’Argo, off! Getta offa me, D’Argo!” Ila screamed, but her voice was muffled in D’Argo’s chest. The dog was standing over her car seat, covering her with his body. She beat her fists against his side and kicked her feet at his legs, but he would not move.
Suddenly, there was a loud crack as the nightstick splintered. The three officers stood together, staring at the pieces of the broken baton, then looked up at me as I came around the truck. I ran for the toolbox in the basement and grabbed the sledgehammer, the heaviest tool I could find. I handed it to the younger officer, who started pounding on the window. The sound was deafening. Ila was still screaming, punching and kicking frantically at D’Argo, who stood squarely over her, his back to the action at the window. His large body covered her small one almost completely.
The glass fractured suddenly with a crackling sound. One more blow from the sledgehammer and the window shattered. The officer reached in and unlocked the doors. I wrenched open Ila’s door and D’Argo flew past me. There were shards of glass everywhere on the backseat and floor, but none in the car seat. I fumbled with the buckle, unlatched it and pulled Ila out. She was flushed, warmand sweaty, her T-shirt soaked through and her hair plastered to her head in ringlets, but she was not hurt. I squeezed her tight and sank onto the ground, both of us sobbing. I sat there for a minute, hugging her. Then I looked for D’Argo. He was twisting and lunging, trying to get away from the older officer, who was holding him by the collar.
“He’s not hurt,” he said, struggling to hold on, “but I’m afraid he’ll run away.”
But I knew he wouldn’t.
“It’s all right,” I said, “you can let him go.” D’Argo flew straight for us, wormed his big head between Ila and me and licked both our faces until we were laughing instead of crying.
M. L. Charendoff
The Telltale Woof
Every dog is a lion at home.
H. G. Bohn
The veterinarian’swords came as no surprise. “I’ll dowhat I can, but I’m not optimistic. Call me tomorrow morning.”
I smoothed the black fur on Yaqui’s head and ran my fingers across the small brown patches above his closed eyes. His normally powerful body was limp, and I could barely detect any rise and fall in his rib cage. Turning away, I reached for Frank’s hand, leaving our shepherd-cross companion stretched out on the polished steel surface of the examining room table.
I barely remember the drive home. Lost in worry, I didn’t realize we had reached the turnoff to our ranch until I heard the frantic barking of the dog we laughingly called “Yaqui’s Great Enemy.” From behind his front-yard fence, Yaqui’s Great Enemy, who guarded the house at the crossroads, dashed back and forth, waiting for Yaqui’s reciprocal challenge. When greeted with silence, he bounced to a standstill, stared at the car, then trotted off toward his den under the porch.
After Frank left for work I wandered about the house, picking aimlessly at chores. Yaqui’s pal, Simba, a hefty mastiff, padded quietly after me, stopping every so often to gaze up at me with questioning eyes.
Dinner that night was subdued as we reassured ourselves that Yaqui would pull through. Both Frank and I privately chastised ourselves for what had happened.
Six months earlier, we had moved onto a ranch in the foothills of the Pine Nut Mountains in western Nevada. Our dogs, who had been used to the confines of backyard suburban living, thrived in their new freedom, spending their days sniffing around the barns and corrals. Often, though, we found them standing by the fence that surrounded the ranch buildings, looking out across the pastures. Yielding to their entreating eyes, we would take themfor walks, letting themprowl through the sagebrush, following tantalizing scents and animal trails. In time, we all became familiar with the sparse desert landscape.
Although we made a conscientious effort to keep the gates shut, occasionally we found one open and the dogs nowhere in sight. But even when they were gone for hours, we rarely worried. There was almost no traffic, and because they were big dogs, we believed them safe from coyotes and mountain lions.
One evening in early December, Simba returned alone. We called into the darkness, listening for Yaqui’s answering bark, but all we heard were the echoes of our own voices. A dozen times during the night we rose to check the circle of light on the porch, but the dawn arrived as empty as our spirits.
For three days we searched. At first we drove for miles along the ranch roads with Simba beside us in our old Suburban, hoping she might give some sign that Yaqui was nearby. Then, as gray clouds moved in from the west and temperatures dropped into the low teens, Frank and I saddled up our horses. We crisscrossed the brush-covered slopes and picked our way through boulder-clogged draws, looking for recent tracks or signs of blood.
On the second afternoon, while we scoured the upper limits of the foothills close to where Red Canyon sliced into the mountain front, we thought we heard his voice, but when the wind settled, the countryside was still. Only the rhythmic sound of Simba’s panting broke the silence.
By the morning of the fourth day, snow was falling steadily. Frank stared out the window as he dressed for work. Neither one of us wanted to verbalize what we were thinking. Then as he picked up his jacket, he called out, “Come on, let’s check the road to Red Canyon one more time.”
Straining to see, we eased the Suburban along the barely discernible dirt track to the top of the slope. There, in the eerie silence of the swirling snow, we sat for a moment. Both of us sensed the search was at an end.
Just as Frank slipped the car into gear, Simba whined. I turned around as she leaped up and pressed her nose against the rear window. She pawed at the glass, her tail waving. It batted against the backs of the seats and stirred the air above our heads. Staring at us, the huge dog tipped her head back and emitted a long, low howl.
No more than twenty feet away was a black shadow, struggling out of the gloom. Clamped firmly on his right front paw was a large, steel jaw-trap. Behind the trap, attached by a knotted strand of barbed wire, trailed a thick, four-foot-long tree limb. The wood was gouged with teeth marks and the wire crimped where desperate jaws had torn at the rusty surface, exposing slashes of fresh steel.
All three of us piled out of the Suburban. Simba licked her friend’s face. Joyfully, she romped away from him, then returning, she bowed her greeting, challenging him to play. But Yaqui only stood and shivered. Cautiously, she approached him again and sniffed at the paw that was swollen beyond recognition, engulfing the metal teeth.
Frank grabbed the trap and stepped on the release mechanism. The rusty hinges refused to budge. He stamped harder on the lever and the jaws scraped opened. Yaqui sank to the ground, whimpering softly as we pried his foot loose
.
Scooping up Yaqui’s emaciated body, Frank laid him gently in my arms for the trip to the veterinary hospital. >When we approached the main crossroads, Frank slowed,
4
ONE OF
THE FAMILY
Acquiring a dog may be the only opportunity a human ever has to choose a relative.
Mordecai Siegal
“I think he’s spending too much time with the kids.”
©2003, Randy Glasbergen. Reprinted by permission of Randy Glasbergen.
Moving Day
He was a street dog of indeterminable pedigree. Not too big, but scrappy.
He found my husband on St. Patrick’s Day, 1988. A New York City police officer, Steve was patrolling the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. The skinny blond dog with the white stripe on his face and stand-up ears he never did grow into, fairly leaped into the patrol car through the open window.
I got the call that afternoon. “Can we keep him?” My big strong husband sounded like a kid.
We kept him. Steve named him Patrick, in honor of the day he’d found him. We didn’t know how he’d ended up a homeless pup. But it didn’t matter. He was safe now. The vet estimated that he was about six months old and that he’d been on the streets only a few days. He was healthy, but awfully hungry.
I fed him boiled chicken and rice, easy on his stomach, and determined to start putting some meat on the ribs that were a bit too prominent. After that meal—and after every single meal I fed him for the rest of his life—he thanked me with several sloppy kisses on my hands.
Things were hectic that March. The kids were growing and we were in the process of moving into a larger apartment.
Patrick watched with an odd expression; but it was an odd move. We didn’t really pack. We simply rolled everything into the hall, loaded it in the elevator, went two floors down and rolled the stuff off and into the new place.
The new apartment gave our kids their own rooms. Patrick’s space was an alcove at the end of the hall leading to the master bedroom. I cut a piece of carpet to fit his “room” and piled his toys in one of the corners. I bought “Dawn Lane” and “Michael Lane” signs for the kids, so of course I bought a “Patrick Lane” sign for him. I think he liked it. When I put it on the wall he licked the sign, then me.
March 17 became his birthday. On the first anniversary of the day he found us, I threw a “Patty Party,” inviting all the grandparents. I’d done it tongue-in-cheek, but it became an annual event. We got Patrick a kelly-green birthday hat and a big matching bow tie. Another dog might have been embarrassed; Patrick wore them with pride.
To repay us for rescuing him, Patrick protected us with zeal and an unerring ability to tell good guy from bad. He could pick the “perp” out of a lineup a block long. He knew guns, too. When Steve cleaned his service revolver, Patrick would eye him strangely, from a safe distance, as if to say, “What’s a nice guy like you doing with a thing like that?”
In 1992 Steve retired. We bought a house in Jersey near my folks, but couldn’t close until October. The kids stayed with my parents so they could start the year in their new school. We brought them home on alternate weekends. Michael’s room now became the “Box Room.”
Every day I knelt in that room, placing breakables on the pile of papers, wrapping them up and tucking them into boxes. And every day Patrick watched from the room’s other doorway. I told him all about “our” new house and described the fun “we” would have.
Our last night in Brooklyn approached. We’d lived in that apartment four and a half years, and in the building for fifteen. Though excited about moving into our own home, wewere a bit sad to leave the citywe’d lived in all our lives. Patrick understood. He patrolled the apartment restlessly, sniffing every nook and cranny as if to commit to memory the security of the only loving home he’d ever known.
We closed on the house on Friday, then drove back to Brooklyn with the kids. The “Box Room” was nearly full, but the packing paper still lay on the few square feet of remaining floor, ready to protect our last-minute treasures. I gave the kids their “Dawn” and “Michael” boxes, instructing them to finish packing their toys. We had something quick for dinner. I don’t remember what. I only remember what happened after.
I walked into the kitchen and happened to glance into the “Box Room.” I was stunned.
“Hey, guys,” I called. “You won’t believe what Patrick did.” They followed me through the kitchen. Patrick poked his nose in from the living-room doorway, a very worried expression on his face.
There, nestled in the canyon of cartons, lying right on top of the newspaper used for wrapping breakables, was Patrick’s favorite toy.
I said, “Patty, are you afraid we’re going to move away and leave you? Is that what those other people did to you?” He didn’t need words. His eyes told me.
“Well,” I told him. “You don’t have to worry. We’re not going to leave you. You’re coming with us.”
Then I rolled up his toy in the paper. I’d planned to put his things in the “Patrick” box. Instead, it went in with our dishes. It seemed the thing to do.
His bushy blond and white tail wagged like mad, and if asked under oath I’d have to swear he laughed. We all wound up in a heap on that stack of papers, getting licked to death by one very happy—and grateful—dog.
I’m sorry to say I’d never considered Patrick’s feelings through that whole tumultuous process; never thought he was worried as he sat day after day, intently watching me wrap up and pack away our things; never realized he didn’t know he was part of the “we” I kept mentioning. After all, he’d been with us four and a half years and we’d moved with him before. But I guess the vast amount of packing required for this move dredged up old memories and threatened his sense of security. Elephants never forget; dogs don’t either.
When I think about Patty now, all I can say is: I’m thrilled he picked Steve. He brought joy to our lives that we would have sorely missed otherwise. He left us in November 1997 andwe stillmiss him. He’swith us, though, in a pretty wooden urn—and he smiles at us every day from his picture, dressed so smartly in his kelly-green birthday hat and matching bow tie.
Micki Ruiz
Refrigerator Commando
Ever consider what they must think of us? I mean, here we come back from a grocery store with the most amazing haul—chicken, pork, half cow. They must think we’re the greatest hunters on earth!
Anne Tyler
A golden barrel on legs—that was our first impression of Max when my wife and I saw him at the AnimalWelfare League. His unique ability to inhale a full cup of dog food in less than seven seconds had enabled Max to enlarge his beagle-mix body into the shape of an overstuffed sausage. Even after Heather and I adopted him and helped him lose weight, we were continually amazed at his voraciousness. His escapades became the stuff of family legend: his seek-and-destroy mission involving several pounds of gourmet Christmas cashews, his insistence on chasing birds away from the feeder so he could eat the seeds, his discovery (far too gross to discuss here) of the yeasty joys of Amish Friendship Bread batter. And of course the refrigerator story . . .
One day during her lunch break, Heather called me at work. “Did you shut the refrigerator door tight thismorning?”
“Think so. Why?”
She paused just enough to let the suspense build. “Max raided the fridge.”
We got off lucky: we were overdue to go to the grocery store, so there hadn’t been much in there. He’d gotten the last couple of pieces of peppered turkey and maybe a third of a bag of baby carrots—no surprise there, Max loves carrots (then again, Max loves potting soil). Still, no real damage done. We wrote it off to a sloppily closed door (probably my doing), and the next morning I made sure everything was shut good and tight before I left. After all, we had just loaded up with groceries the night before, and we wouldn’t want my carelessness to help Max get himself into trouble, right?
Turns out Max didn’t need my hel
p at all.
Again a phone call to me during Heather’s lunch hour, this time straight to the point: “I think he knows how to open the refrigerator,” she said.
“What?!”
Max had made himself a sandwich. A big sandwich: a pound of turkey, a pound of Swiss cheese, a head of lettuce, half a tomato and an entire loaf of bread. He’d also ripped open another bag of carrots and polished off the remnants of a bag of shredded coconut (for dessert, I assume). Heather found him lying amid the flurry of destroyed plastic bags, tail desperately thumping at her displeasure, as if to say, Please don’t be mad, it was just SOOOO good . . .
Still, we didn’t really believe it. He couldn’t reach the handle, and the door seal was tight. How was he doing it? I caught him that night, after putting away our second load of groceries in two days. I just happened to be passing by the darkened kitchen when I saw his stout little body wiggling, pushing his narrow muzzle into the fridge seal like a wedge. Then, with a quick flick of his head, he popped the door open.
Apparently, Max, while not understanding the gastrointestinal distress that results from eating sixteen slices of cheese, had a full understanding of the concept of the lever. Where was this dog when I’d been in science class?
This was serious. He now had the skill, the determination and, most important, the appetite to literally eat us out of house and home. The next morning, as a temporary fix, we blocked the refrigerator with a heavy toolbox. Surely he couldn’t move a barrier loaded with close to twenty-five pounds of metal, could he?
Another lunchtime phone call. I think I answered it: “You’ve got to be kidding!”
The moving of the toolbox still remains a bit of a mystery. I’m guessing he used that lever principle again, wedging his muzzle between the box and the door and then just pushing for all he was worth. And once that barrier was gone, he got serious.