DOG DAYS

THE SLIPPERY SLOPE

During a summer picnic, my daughter, my German Shepard, and I were walking along a creekside path. The narrow dirt path was halfway up an embankment with the water below. The dog was in front of me, and my five-year-old daughter, Mary Ann, was behind.

Gertrude was a pure white German Shepard.

When she was in a field of newly fallen snow, and her fur was clean, she was completely camouflaged. Her dark nose and irises were all that would be visible.

Suddenly, Gertrude sprung to alertness, turned around, and jumped into the water. When I turned to look, I saw Gertrude nudging Mary Ann’s head out from under the water. She had slipped and fallen down the embankment into the creek. I never heard her fall. She panicked. I believe she would have drowned if not for Gertrude.

I jumped in and lifted Mary Ann up to the path. I had to push Gertrude up as well since the bank was too steep for her to gain footing.

We walked back to our picnic site (with Mary Ann in front this time). I dried Mary Ann as best I could, then did the same for myself. Then we drove home.

That night Gertrude got a great big knucklebone with lots of meat.

ROMPING

When Mary Ann was about three and a half, she, my wife, Linda, Gertrude, and I were frolicking in our front yard. Suddenly, Gertrude snapped to alertness and dashed across the yard. She threw a body block at Mary Ann, knocking her to the ground. I was momentarily baffled. Gertrude had never been aggressive to Mary Ann. She had considered her one of the family since the day she came home from the hospital.

The next instant, a car whizzed by. I realized that Mary Ann had been running toward the road and was about to run right in front of the speeding car.

INTERVENTION

My wife, myself, and about half a dozen friends had gathered for an evening of fellowship and revelry. After the festivities had ended, my wife, myself, and two of her friends walked to our house. One of my wife’s friends, Matilda, had a husband who was reputed to be abusive to her.

I was substantially intoxicated, so I went straight to bed when we arrived home. The women sat in the living room chatting.

As I lay half awake, I heard shouting from down the hallway in the living room. Matilda’s husband had entered our house and was reprimanding her using a threatening tone. As drunk as I was, I knew I needed to get myself out of bed and into the living room to straighten things out before the situation turned violent.

Before I could get up, I heard other noises. It was my German Shepard, Gertrude, barking. Usually, she had a mellow disposition, but she sounded agitated. Her bark was sharp and threatening. I could hear snarls.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the barking ceased. I got up and walked down the hallway to the living room. Matilda’s husband was gone, and all three women were still there. The dog was lying calmly on the carpet. In the face of the threatening dog, Matilda’s husband had fled.

I hate to think what might have happened to Matilda later when she went home, but for now, the dog had intervened, preventing a violent escalation.

Gertrude herself had been rescued from an abusive situation.

HIT AND RUN

I was half awake; it was still dark out. As I became more aware, I suddenly realized I didn’t remember getting into bed and going to sleep. Looking up, I saw stars. I was outdoors. Then I noticed a large lump on my upper right thigh. As my mind cleared, I thought, “The last thing I remember is walking along the shoulder of a dark road — the lump on my thigh — is my leg broken? Was I struck by a car? Am I dying? I can’t seem to move.”

It was early November 1968.

Across the road, beyond a deep front yard, was a house. Inside, a dog, a St. Bernard, was acting unusually agitated. He was standing by the front door whining and occasionally letting out a soft bark.

“What’s wrong, boy?” the dog’s owner asked. “What’s out there?”

The owner opened the door, curious as to what would cause his normally relaxed St. Bernard to become so agitated. He followed the dog as it trotted towards the road, then crossed it, stopping at the opposite shoulder.

The man walked to the opposite edge of the road’s shoulder, and there he saw it — a body lying in the shallow ditch on the side of the road. He ran back to the house and phoned for help.

I must have drifted off again. When I opened my eyes, I looked up at a circle of faces. I tried to say something but could only manage a moan.

I was becoming more aware, and I began to tremble. Shortly, I was convulsing violently. One of the men in the circle of faces crouched down and leaned with all his weight on the bulge in my right thigh. It had been bouncing up and down, and he had to press with all his might to prevent the fractured bone from bursting through my flesh.

Then another man stuck me with a needle, and almost immediately, the convulsing subsided, and I felt peaceful.

They managed to maneuver me onto a stretcher. I was lifted up and placed into a waiting ambulance. The man continued to exert pressure on my thigh, but with less intensity. I was transported to a hospital. While being treated in the emergency room, I could hear occasional snippets of conversation — “…critical condition…”, “…lucky to be alive…”, “…found in the nick of time…”.

I spent the next six weeks in a hospital bed. That can seem like forever to a seventeen-year-old high school senior.

I thank God I’m alive. I also thank Dog.

{The names used in these stories are fictitious. The characters and events are real.}