Dog Attack

We had a St. Bernard when I was in sixth grade. His name was Baron. He was my best friend and protector, and never has any creature on this planet been more loyal than he was to our family. A bully followed me one day from the bus in seventh grade, talking to me like like we were good buddies, then dropped his books and punched me square in the face. I tried to hit him back but he blocked everything I threw at him. He threw me to the ground, straddled my body and raised his fist, and all I could think was, could this the end of Rico? A white and brown streak flashed overhead and he was gone, beside me now screaming, holding his arm with Baron growling three inches from his face.

Dad moved up into the deep country of rural Ohio, to hide from a society that enforces that annoying and inconvenient institution known as the law. Out there, the neighbors don't care about the derelict cars in the yard, or the pot plants growing in the back yard, or dogs that bark at one in the morning.

But there is nowhere to hide if your dog bites a guest.

Baron is a family legend, but when legends die, they can't be replaced. But dad tried a couple years ago when he got another St. Bernard. Arnie, presumably named after Ahh-nold, developed a brain tumor, and one day attacked dad's sister-in-law at a party and mangled her ankle before he could be pulled away. Nobody saw it coming. Rather than allow his dog to be put down, dad packed his things and disappeared without a trace, and the dog was given to a farmer in some southern state for safe keeping, where he most likely died soon after.

Dad moved quickly to replace him with the dog that he has today. We paid dad a visit for the July 4th weekend, and my youngest son Emmett, 19 months old, saw him first through the kitchen window and pointed with his tiny hand and said, "See? See?"

Dad warned me then, "keep the kids away from him, I'm not sure how he'll react around kids." But later I would find out, he really did.

I walked outside by myself and peeked around the corner at the dog.

"Hi Bob!" I called to him. He looked at me and growled, then barked a few warnings. "I'm not gonna hurt you boy. I hope we are going to be friends." I continued like this for a little while, trying to schmooze, to no avail, so I walked around to the front, where I saw a little spark, and childhood memories of Ohio nights flooded back, and I sprinted up the front steps and into the house.

"Honey," I called to my wife. "Get Emmett dressed." She looked at me askance. "Please?" I added.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Fireflies." Jackson perked up. "Have you ever seen a firefly Jackson?" I knew he hadn't of course, but had I told him all about them, and he shook his head. "There are hundreds of them outside!"

He leapt to his feet and ran to the window. "Look daddy!"

"I know, get your shoes on!"

My wife handed me little Emmett and we ran outside, while Grandma stayed behind and poked holes through the lid of a mayonaise jar. The boys were in awe. If you've never seen fireflies, it's like being in a magical kingdom, where fairies prance and swirl around your head, like Christmas bulbs that float from the trees.

Emmett saw a tractor and decided to check it out, walked up to it and looked for a foothold to climb aboard. I was maybe twenty feet from him when I realized with a start that Bob was tied up in an enclosure not far from the tractor, and I started toward him with no urgency, because the chain surely wouldn't stretch that far.

I've always thought that tragedy moved in slow motion. Before my first step was taken, I heard the awful rattle of the chain. As my foot reached the ground, Bob leapt into view, and in three bounds opened his jaws and dwarfed my little baby and was on top of him. I yelled out and ran with terrible lethargy, as in a dream where everything else is normal but I'm slow and getting slower. I hit the dog from the side and grabbed him by the throat and started to lift him up. I thought he would fight me but he recoiled and sprinted away. Emmett was crying his scared cry, and any parent can tell you what that is, a cry that distinguishes itself from all others as being the most serious of all. I picked him up and looked at his face, fearing the worst -- a hanging eyeball, torn cheek, or missing ear. Nothing. I hoisted him onto my shoulder and let him cry it out and reassured him. I turned to see the dog, who looked serenely on, like nothing had happened. I wanted to rage at him, but I didn't want to scare Emmett anymore than he was.

Emmett stopped crying and pointed back at the dog, and Jackson ran up and yelled out, "Bob bit Emmett!"

Emmett said, "Bob. Bob."

"I know baby, it's ok."

"Bob. Bob." Each syllable was a dagger in my heart.

But Emmett was calm. I looked him over and there wasn't a mark on him, just some dirt on his head.

I was going to keep it quiet for a while, to gather my thoughts and decide what to do. I barely got my wife to agree to stay with my dad and step-mom as it was, this was surely going to be the final wedge between my father and I -- but my baby could have been killed. I was getting sick, my chest felt heavy and my mind was swimming with conflicting, incongruous emotions.

If I don't tell my wife, then what kind of marriage do I have?

What am I teaching my boys if I keep a secret?

What's more important, the safety of the boys or my relationship with my father?

If I tell my wife, then we will never visit again as a family.

Emmett isn't hurt, but emotionally he may be for life.

She has to be told.

But...

Emmett saw his mommy through the window and struggled to get loose, crying out and reaching towards her. We all went inside.

Jackson resolved my internal confict for me. "Mommy, Bob got Emmett."

"What?" She looked at me with the question.

"Yeah, Bob knocked Emmett down and got on top of him, and I just managed to get him away. I don't think he is hurt, but he has been saying his name over and over again." I remained calm, and she stayed calm too. She took off his coat, and there on his forearm was the bite, a scrape that had broken the skin a little, and a spreading bruise the size of a fifty cent piece. She looked up at me with tears welling, but she still stayed calm. We took him into the bathroom and cleaned it up.

We told dad later, and he locked the dog in a van, but beyond that he never mentioned it again. His wife let it slip that it had happened before to another of their grandchildren.

That night after Emmett went to sleep, my wife and I talked for a while.

"Never again," she said. "We are not coming here again."

"I know."

She studied me for a moment. "I'm sorry honey, but I can't be in this position. You're father simply isn't responsible enough to..."

"Hon, you don't have to say anything, or explain anything. My little baby could have died because of that fucking dog. Nothing else matters."

She reached for my hand. "You probably knew I was going to say that."

"I did. I didn't know how to handle it, or what exactly to say about it."

"I would have killed you if you didn't tell me about it."

I paused.

She said, "You thought about not telling me."

"Uh, well, it's just that I... Listen, I know what a neanderthal my father is, but you know I love him. I didn't pick him you know, and even though it's his fault, I'm all that he has in this world. I'm sorry, but I'm confused and don't know what to do."

She squeezed my hand. Thank God, she understands.

Emmett cried out from the porta-crib, "Bob?"

We shared a worried look. I picked him up and layed him between us. Normally he goes to his mother, but tonight he snuggled tightly against my chest. My wife put her forehead to mine and together we fell asleep.