Ever by My Side (6 page)

“We’ll start with the face,” he whispered, running his hand from muzzle to cheek, one side then the other, “then we’ll go to chin, then ears …”

Patch turned to mush, uncharacteristically relaxed, as if my father
were a gifted masseuse. Eventually he toppled over onto his side, the focus in his eyes all weak and wobbly, overwhelmed by the sedative power of his master’s touch.

“And now we’ll do feet,” said Dad, kneading Patch’s toes one by one, “we don’t want him to be shy around his feet. Those big black nails are always going to need a trim from time to time.”

I nodded my approval.

“And tail,” he said, opening his palm wide, sweeping down the entire length, keeping the rhythm slow and even. Patch closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

“And finally, I’ll give him a scratch in his favorite spot.”

Dad moved to the thin turkey skin of Patch’s armpits and worked his fingers, the dog letting out a sigh as if it was all too much.

This didn’t seem right to me. Armpits were for tickling and other than that they seemed pretty much redundant. Patch wasn’t squirming or giggling so where was the pleasure in scratching a dog’s pits?

“How do you know it’s his favorite spot?” I asked, hoping he would be forced to reveal another of their secrets.

Dad smiled.

“You only have to look at him to know. And think about it. It’s one of the few places on his body he will never be able to properly scratch himself. He can’t easily reach his armpit. He can’t rub it against a tree. It’s got to feel good me doing it for him.”

My little fingers joined my dad’s and Patch approved, adjusting his forelimb to put me in just the right spot. I looked over at my father as he raised an eyebrow, moving his own hand away as I continued to scratch, the transition seamless, Patch lost in tranquil ecstasy. It was my first and best lesson in animal handling.

My only genuine birthday party was compensation for the disasters of Christmas past. For a while there, I had been cursed, the victim of back-to-back catastrophes on what should have been the most important day of the year. Struck down by German measles when I was six years old and confined to bed in a state of feverish delirium, all I could remember was my sister’s squeals of delight as she savored the limelight. The next Christmas promised to be the best ever, since Fiona and I had both been given our dream presents—identical big orange bouncy inflatable kangaroos, the kind you straddled and hopped around on. After no more than two minutes, I parked my new mode of transport near a gas fire, eliciting an impressive explosion and floods of tears while Fiona savored all her bouncy fun, affording me a pitying glance and a lazy royal wave as she hopped away. There would be no second chance, no replacement for me. My gift was intangible, boring, and a miserable reminder—a lesson in the value of taking proper care of my things.

So the offer to host an actual birthday party with cake and games and the promise of far more presents than I normally received seemed too good to be true.

“What about Patch?” said Fiona, obviously jealous and trying her best to scupper my prospects. “He’ll scare people.”

Mum nodded her agreement as though the women were once more united, naysayers using their indifference to Patch as an excuse to cancel.

“Don’t you worry about Patch,” said my father. “He’s older and a lot less excitable than he used to be. I’ll keep him locked up in our bedroom. It’ll only be for … what … an hour or two.”

I smiled, Fiona frowned, and we all waited for my big day to arrive.

When it did, I was rewarded with an enormous pile of gift-wrapped presents and the torture of my mother’s insistence that
I not open them until after my guests had left. The gang was all there—Amanda, Timmy and Keith, and a number of friends from school. With great enthusiasm we played “Simon says” and “Pass the Parcel” before chowing down on sandwiches and chips, blowing out candles, and getting chocolate cake all over our faces. I was too excited to think about Patch pacing overhead, eager to join in all the fun, in part because I never heard him barking or trying to scratch his way out of his confinement.

Eventually someone suggested we take the party into the backyard so that we could play blindman’s bluff, which required more open space. Timmy volunteered to be “it” and put on a blindfold as we all circled, goaded, and teased, whooping and screaming with every failed attempt he made to tag us. I can still see him now, hands outstretched, groping and fumbling as the screams changed in an instant from delight to fear, merging into a unified wailing chorus as an enormous German shepherd burst from the front door and came bounding toward us.

To this day, Fiona denies any involvement in the affair, though her duplicitous and satisfied smirk as my mother vowed I would never have another birthday party made her seem a little too pleased. However it happened, Patch was on the loose and excited to catch up and join in all the fun. Bear in mind there were only two kids not screaming: me, because I knew there was absolutely nothing to fear, and Timmy, because he couldn’t see what was coming.

If you’re imagining a military attack dog taking down a hostile target then think again. Patch had become our family dog, desperate to be included, cantering around with a spring in his step, smiling, long pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. His biggest threat was his body weight and momentum, not his teeth. He wasn’t barking or lunging or posturing. This may have been his
turf, but there was nothing aggressive or territorial in his behavior. Still, when Timmy finally sensed something was wrong and took off the blindfold, I couldn’t blame him for being afraid. Besides, the Brothers Toenail had little or no experience with pets except for a goldfish and we already know what became of him.

So Timmy took off after the other kids, headed for the bottom of the yard where there was a good climbing tree and the possibility of an aerial escape from danger. I made a grab for Patch, slowed him down, and Timmy made it, but not without claiming his bottom had come within a gnat’s whisker of being devoured by the Hound of the Baskervilles.

Well, you can imagine the scene at the parent pickup, Patch’s predatory attack the only topic of conversation among all the kids, my mother leaving my father to handle the situation, to apologize, to reassure. Irate parents whisked their offspring away while they bombarded him with questions. Didn’t he understand kids were at higher risk for being bitten because they naturally vocalize and run, engaging an aggressive dog in a chase scenario? And just look at the dog, a German shepherd, and a male one at that, a breed exploited for its aggressive behavior. Could he ensure that this never happened again? They certainly had one suggestion that would ensure it never happened again.

Thankfully, through a combination of groveling apologies, promises never to host a similar event (not that any of the kids would have attended), and poor Timmy having his bottom inspected in front of all of us by his mother, with not a scratch in sight, my father and Patch were reluctantly forgiven.

With everyone gone, I went back inside the house. Patch was outside in the backyard playing ball with my father, relieved to be burning off some energy, unaware of all the fuss. It didn’t seem fair that he had been so misunderstood. He’d done nothing wrong.

I looked over at the pile of presents, looked out back at my father and our dog.

The presents could wait a while longer.

Patch’s spirited antics at my birthday party persuaded my dad to be even more vigilant about keeping him away from strangers, precisely the opposite of what he should have done. But I do understand his intentions. Duncan had struggled through his twenties, finally starting to get his life in order, learning a trade as an electrician, loving it and hoping that one day he might be good enough to teach electrical engineering to others. In a small and simple way, Patch had played his part in helping the man settle, giving him structure and routine, making him set aside their exercise time, time well spent on reflection and contemplation.

More than any other breed of dog I encounter in my work, German shepherds seem inclined to gravitate to one particular individual in their pack. This relationship is special and they develop a unique chemistry. The dog is tuned in, checks in, relates to, anticipates, and connects in a manner altogether different from its behavior toward everyone else. Having locked on tight, the human who has earned a German shepherd’s trust and respect will, in return, be rewarded with unquestionable and abiding loyalty.

Understandably, my father savored this unique bond, a relationship with a kindred spirit, so different from anything else in his life. Maybe he was afraid of everything he stood to lose if Patch misbehaved in public, frightening, let alone injuring, children. We could also blame his desire to nurture a dog who would provide security for our household; after all, his original sales pitch had been based on the dog’s innate ability to deter the Prowler. What good was a
dog that wagged his tail or licked the hand of every stranger who dropped by?

In the end, Patch’s limited socialization skills made two distinct impressions on me—sometimes regret and sometimes pride.

Patch took his responsibility as the family bodyguard very seriously, on call 24/7, offering constant surveillance, prepared to protect and defend against any potential threat, no matter what form it might take. At that time, long before the advent of hybrid vehicles, Britain was inundated with one particular electric vehicle—the so-called milk float. Operated by a milkman, these pokey little trucks would glide around neighborhoods making their deliveries in the wee hours of the morning, taking away the empty bottles and replacing them with fresh milk just in time for breakfast. Generally, our milkman, George, did not conform to this disagreeable schedule, invariably pulling up after breakfast had been served, limiting my options to toast and marmalade. However, what he lacked in punctuality, he made up for in personality, a big smile permanently pasted on his face, always armed with a wisecrack, a joke, or a condemnation of the British weather. If I timed it right, I could meet him at the front door, where it was his habit to put down his milk, pick me up, throw me into the air, and catch me on the way down. It was all innocent fun, something that, according to my father, earned him the label “jolly.” These days I would have been torn from his arms, and the poor man reported to his manager, and we’d be online trying to discover if George was actually a registered sex offender!

Once again, I’m not sure how it happened, but one morning I was in George’s arms, about to take flight when Patch suddenly appeared at the doorway, alone, visibly perturbed, Mum and Dad nowhere in sight. I think I was dropped more than deposited on the ground, instantly replaced by one hundred pounds of snarling dog
pinning George down by standing on his chest. My attempts to call Patch off went ignored, but they did attract the attention of my father, who soon was dragging Patch away by his collar, scolding the dog, and apologizing to George while searching the street and neighbors’ windows for witnesses. Outwardly, George made an effort to be understanding but it was obvious from his face that he was no longer jolly. In fact I never saw him again. I don’t know whether he changed his route or changed his schedule. I do know deliveries of fresh milk consistently started arriving long before breakfast. But while it was unfortunate that we had to lose a convivial milkman because of Patch’s lack of social graces, shall we say, his protective streak came in handy for an admittedly frail boy in a tough neighborhood.

Every morning I shuffled down the street to the nearest school bus stop in my school uniform. I may be biased, but for those of us who grew up as awkward, geeky kids, school uniforms were great equalizers among our peers, blazers and ties helping us try to blend in and remain anonymous. You never found yourself frozen in front of your wardrobe, trapped in a moment of deliberation, of troublesome color coordination, racked with the fear of lacking an appropriate designer label.

“No matter the uniform,” said Mum, “uniformity makes you notice the character of the individual, not the clothes on their back.”