I grew up with cat people. We never had a dog in my family. My sister was afraid of dogs. My mother was a cat person. My cousins had cats. In our neighborhood in Burlington, there were several families that had dogs. Clearly, there was something wrong with those people.
There was Muffin the German Sheppard who was perpetually chained to the backyard fence. Calling for those kids to come out and play was a dangerous venture. Generally, we waited for them to come out on their own, but if we were short a couple of kickball players, someone would be elected to “get past Muffin” and ring the back door bell. You never went to the front door in 1970. Even if you had to pass by Cujo on the way to the back door, that was preferable to ringing the front door bell, which was reserved for grownups, and Halloween night.
To get to the back door, you had to approach from the east side of the house. That way Muffin would not see you until you were close to the entrance between the house and the fence. As soon as she spied you around the corner, she’d lunge toward you growling and snarling. Miraculously, the people living in the house never seemed to hear your approach despite the canine clatter. Or, if they did, they enjoyed the spectacle too much to interfere. Once you approached the opening in the fence, you had to flatten your body up against the house and squeeze by as the inappropriately named Muffin barked and snapped a mere five inches away from your belly. A quick slide left and you were safely on the back steps. The experience was harrowing to say the least.
I never saw that dog running loose. As a child, I assumed this was a safety precaution. If Muffin were loose, she would surely devour the first person she saw. As an adult, I realize that Muffin had a tough life.
The only dog in our neighborhood that was scarier than Muffin was Lance. Lance was a big yellow-colored dog. I never did know what breed he was. He was huge and loud, but generally, he lived behind the fence on the corner of Spring Valley. The “big boys” in the neighborhood said Lance could take off your arm with one bite and that was easy to believe. I had to pass by Lance every time I went to play on Mallard Way. Even from behind the solid wood fence, he made my heart beat faster and tiny beads of sweat pop out on my upper lip as I hurried past his yard.
Occasionally, Lance would escape and run around the neighborhood terrorizing the more timid children, of which I was one. Someone would spot him and the call would go out “Lance is loose!” and I would race for home as fast as my trembling legs could carry me. As I recall, Lance never hurt anyone. There were no small limbs left lying in his wake. In retrospect, he was probably just enjoying a carefree jaunt around the neighborhood until his owners came home, but it was a couple of hours before I gathered up the courage to leave my own yard again.
So it is surprising to my childhood friends that I became a dog person as an adult. I love dogs now. I love their expressions and their exuberance. I love how they cock their heads to one side and really listen to you. How did this happen? I can sum it up with one word, or rather one name. Fred.
Fred was Karen’s dog. Make no mistake about it. He may have lived with the whole family, but he was her dog. He was an old chocolate lab that followed his nine-year-old mistress everywhere she went. I never remember hearing Fred bark. He certainly never snarled or growled. He would faithfully accompany Karen several times a week on the two-block journey from her house to mine. When she came inside, he would flop himself down directly on the black rubber welcome mat by our back door. With a low sigh, he settled his 70-pound body down to wait. Nothing could inspire him to move from that spot without the love of his life. If it rained or snowed, he just shuffled over a bit so he was partially covered by our overhang. And he waited.
