A misbehaved dog

Nancy Adams
Aug 28, 2017 · 4 min read

A late afternoon by the water at my sister and brother in law’s house generally includes dogs, actually, good beer and dogs. Judge all of a sudden went missing. We raced out front, we raced down to the water, but Judge finally emerged from behind the trash cans, unembarrassed, surprised at the fuss. He doesn’t really stray these days if food isn’t involved. And the lovely smell of fermented food in the trash cans was irresistible

Cyrano, the dog of my youth, on the other hand, was a misbehaved dog. He carried himself like Maurice Chevalier, hat on the back of his head, seducing every shy lady pooch in the village. We knew this because Cyrano had spots and short curly wiry hair on a big body and a long narrow head. He had a long tail. his physiognomy was unmistakably Cyrano. His offspring were unmistakeable Cyrano. They were all over the village.

A dog that looked like Cyrano should have had the decency to slink like a cur. Cyrano never slicked. He pranced. In a lordly way he came into our house. He greeted everyone with fondness. He napped on the spare bed, head on a pillow, legs in the air. He graciously, firmly, insistently, accompanied us to school. The principal knew him well. He was not welcome. It might have had to do with his morality. It might have had to do with his looks. One of us would have to take Cyrano home.

Cyrano defined his kingdom to include the corner and the houses across the street. Our front porch was not the position of command and control. Our neighbors the P’s, actually our dear friends and neighbors the P’s front porch steps had the height and the wide view necessary for surveillance. Cyrano sat on the P’s front porch and watched the traffic. “Oncoming” his internal voice would announce. And then “Attack!” Off he would race to nab the evil 4 wheeled invaders of his turf coming up Center Street. He would race by them barking till he had successfully scared them off. He counted himself victorious and trotted proudly back to his command and control post on the P’s front porch.

Pearl Street has a stop sign where it comes into the Y. Perhaps Cyrano saw a car slowing to a stop as a sign of cowardice. Perhaps he saw it as a sign of aggression. He raced over, growled and attacked. He frightened newcomers to the intersection. Some people who were familiar with the intersection declined to stop. They looked quickly and as the coast was generally clear, they sped up. Others tried to open their door and hit him with it as they went by.

People talked with each other. They agreed this was unacceptable. They organized. They joined together in a movement to resist the dog. They went to the village board meeting. They waited till public comment at the end the of the meeting. The members of the board saw the anger in the faces of the villagers in the audience. There were a lot of angry villagers in the audience. The mayor looked out. My Dad, the village attorney, surveyed the audience. He could read an audience. He could read a jury. He could read a judge. He knew what he was looking at. It was anger, pure, white hot.

My Dad was not a timid man. He had served on a submarine during World War II and had developed a voice that would sink a sub. Actually, that was part of his job. Over the noise of the motors, the crash of the waves, the roar of the wind, his voice would be heard “CLEAR THE BRIDGE. DIVE! DIVE! DIVE!” And dive it would.

One night in the alley next to Geitner’s Theater in Silver Creek a mob of boys were fighting. Dad used his voice. Just his voice. To break it up. That voice of Dad’s as it came into our house scared some of my friends out the front door.

One evening after a successful City Court case in Dunkirk Dad stopped with his client and celebrated the success of justice at a bar. Everyone at the bar was talking about the marches for voting rights in the south. “They should go home where they belong,” a burly steelworker said. Others agreed. Dad looked at them and used the voice. “THEIR FAMILIES HAVE BEEN HERE TEN GENERATIONS. YOURS JUST ARRIVED. SHUT UP!” He growled.

Dad sat alongside of the Forestville Village Board. He looked out at the angry villagers in the audience. One stood, then another and complained about the P’s dog at the intersection of Pearl and Center. They talked about the danger the P’s dog created with the stop sign. They talked about how ugly the P’s dog was. How the board needed to take action. As one would talk, others would clap and agree. The meeting got hotter and hotter. The board grew uncomfortable. The Mayor agreed to action. A letter would be written to the P’s firmly directing them to keep the dog leashed. Dad knew the villagers were talking about Cyrano. He knew how Cyrano behaved. He knew how much Cyrano ate, whose spare bedroom Cyrano slept in, who Cyrano followed to school, who had bought the dog license Cyrano carried like a medal on his chest. Dad took up his pen. He wrote notes. Dad never said a word.

Judge is happily sleeping this morning. He got to walk to his favorite beach with his cousin Sherlock and his beloved AJ. He lives in Cyranos’s old house. He sniffs garbage cans. But by the grace of God he does not chase cars.

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Journalist covering old news of the day

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