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Man’s Best Friend

Scott Morley

    When I was eight I wanted a dog for my birthday. I was a sullen and solitary kid, totally antisocial. I didn’t like my peers because they were always mean to each other. I wanted a friend that didn’t try to belittle me or put me in my place. Dad told me that what I needed was a dog. He said that the nicer and more gentle and tolerant I was with a dog, the more it would love me in return. The prospect of having a doting canine companion seemed ideal.
    I begged my parents for a puppy. Dad, raised in the woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula by my forest ranger Grandpa Hanson, was giddy with the prospect of finding a four-legged friend for my journeys over field and stream. Dad is also a swimmer, and raised me to be a swimmer. So he wanted me to have a dog that was a swimmer too. He decided on a Golden Retriever; the ultimate family dog.
    Days later we arrived at the house of a Golden Retriever bitch with 7 pups. We knocked, and the bitch was at the door to greet us, smashing against it, howling, slobbering and showing her fangs through the window. “It’s just protecting its puppies,” Dad said, “Goldens are docile family dogs.”
    “Actually,” said the owner, “This bitch is aggressive, especially with other dogs, but with people too. Make sure you understand how to dominate the dog if you buy one of these pups,” She said.
    Dad said, “I was raised with a little rat terrier. Golden’s are good family dogs.”
    “If you get a male, make sure to get his nuts clipped. That’ll settle him.”
    “No no, that’s animal cruelty.”
    “Suit yourself,” the lady shrugged. Then she let me into the kennel; so many cute puppies in that kennel, little fuzzy balls of Golden energy, all rolling around with each other, pissing and shitting on each other, pinning one another down by the ears and throat, and sitting on each other’s faces, attempting to rape their siblings even at three months old. I didn’t know which one to take. They were all perfect. But then, out of the doggy din, one came running into me. He knocked me down and playfully chew my face and neck. I decided this was the best dog. Dad agreed. He pulled out his wallet, more excited than I was.
    I named him Barney, after Barney Google. Because he had big brown droopy hound dog eyes. We dragged him upstairs. Or rather he dragged us. He was four months old, and already a handful. The owner shook her head and said to my dad, “Are you sure you want this one? He’s a big dominant male. You don’t want the first dog that tackles you, you know. That’s the alpha.”
    “No no, this is the one for us” Dad said forking over the cash, “He loves Sonny already - look!” Barney was humping my leg, aggressively knocking his balls against me so hard that even at eight I understood, the dog was trying to fuck me. Meanwhile my dad was scratching Barney’s ears and encouraging him.

***

    We had a septic drainage pond in the back of our house, full of pungent black muck. Dad didn’t like the idea of leashing Barney, “It’s not right to leash him,” he’d say, “This dog has natural urges, and it’d be wrong to repress his spirit,” and he sent me off to the pond with Barney.
    Barney loved that pond. He spent hours each day rolling in the mud, or anything dead that was in it. Lots of times there were big dead snappers and rotting raccoons, gooey and from decomposition. Barney loved to cover himself in that goo and then come home and cover mom’s new white carpet and sofa in it.
    “What the fuck did you do to that dog Sonny?” Mom screamed, jumping up and down, “God dammit! Do you know how much this carpet cost? Asshole! I’m taking away your allowance and your bike! You’re grounded until you figure out a way to get rid of those fucking stains!”
    Although Mom didn’t like Barney’s dog shit, his crap was rarely cleaned up. It remained in the yard, right next to her garden, if not in it. Mom would come in from the garden, shirt caked with topsoil, shoes caked with dog shit, screaming at me I should put away the books I’d left on the bookshelves. She liked to keep her plastic flowers up on the booksheleves, and my books took up space. But Barney solved that problem for me when he chewed on the flowers up and ate them. “Shit! how many fucking times have I told you to train your damn dog! And find a place to put all these books – not on my bookshelves dammit!” She screamed.
    “What do you want me to do with them if not put them on bookshelves?” I asked the dumb bitch.
    “Don’t you get snotty with me you little son-of-a-bitch!” I didn’t.
    I could’ve trained Barney, and I knew how. Charles’s dad Derek loved aggressive macho dogs. They owned a racist black Chow named Nikki. Nikki used to come at me, fangs bared and sneezing, and grab me by the elbow. Charles would grab Nikki by the scruff of the neck and slam her against the wall. “That’s how to train a dog, pussy,” He said, “You have to let them know you’re boss, just like you know I’m yours.”
    I tried it with Barney, grabbed him by the scruff and he just roared at me, scaring me half to death. “What the Hell are you doing to that poor dog!?” Mom shrieked, “You’re hurting him!”
    “But mom, Charles told me that’s how you train a dog.”
    “What does he know?”
    “He owns a Chow that listens to him,” I said.
    “He’s a brute! That poor dog must be terrified! And besides that, Chows are notoriously vicious!” She said.
    “Well, what do I do?”
    “You have to be polite. Ask Barney please, like this... Please come here Barney.” Barney lifted his leg and pissed on her new chair. “God dammit Sonny! Get him trained or I’ll sell him to the knackers!”
    “What’s the knackers?” I asked.
    “Just go get the vinegar!”
    Fortunately for me there was not a whole lot Barney wasn’t allowed to do. He got the couch for example. When I tried to take it back from him he’d growl. When I mentioned the growling Dad said, “Then don’t sit on the couch - use the floor.”
    Eventually Barney moved beyond the pond to wander for blocks and blocks. Dad let him out the back door and he’d swim across the pond and go up the street, where he mauled a little Spitz owned by the nicest lady. She never realized Barney had tore all of the hair off of her dog and left those bleeding holes. She thought it was from buckshot from a neighbor that’d threatened her because his garbage cans had been tipped over and torn up. It wasn’t her dog that’d torn up the garbage either, but Barney.
    Once we started getting calls about Barney mauling neighbor dogs, dad decided to let him free after dark. Dad let him go around ten. He’d return the next day around noon, caked in mud and blood, carrying old chicken bones or some toy dog’s amputated leg. Dad thought it was cute.
    Then finally the doggy cops got him. They threatened to take him if dad didn’t keep him leashed. So I took him on leashed walks. He was full size by then, and blast out of the door like a greyhound on a rabbit. I’d slam chin-first into the ground, sliding across the yard and down the hill, too stubborn to let go. I’d turn around, crying for help, and there were my parents, giggling and waving, pulling out a camera, “They’re having so much fun!”
    I always took him to the woods behind the Scalbarino’s house to play Old Yeller or Rin Tin Tin. I’d cut through their yard to play with their Collie, Tinker Bell. Barney loved Tinker. He raped so frequently. Tinker was tolerant at first, and it was a relief to me, because it kept him from raping me. But she got sick of it and hid behind me. I tried and save her, which pissed Barney roff. But I was prepared, “Please Barney, It’s not nice to rape Tinker. Thank you.”
    Whenever that big dog growled it shot a liquid chill through me, made me quake. I looked at the size of him. He was nose-to-nose with me, and way more aggressive. I knew only too well that if I truly pissed him off he’d tear my face off. Nonetheless, with some coaxing I always managed to get him out into the woods, where he followed rabbit trails while I filled my head with visions of adventures gleaned from Call of the Wild, and Where the Red Ferns Grow. I imagined my own sledding team, about 20 different breeds I’d harness. I even attempted to harness Barney to a sled once, but he growled so menacingly it took me an hour to get close enough to untie him.
    This was when I had my paper route. I took Barney every morning on my paper route because I was worried about getting attacked by some sicko stalker. Barney must’ve trusted me to take care of myself, because he never stuck around. He’d disappear, so that after delivering papers I’d spend the next six hours on my bike, wandering from neighborhood to neighborhood in search of him. I enjoyed searching. I never really wanted to find him, but it was an excuse to get my bike back and not return home, and to visit Charles so he could show me how to train a dog by smashing it against a tree.

    While reading Call of the Wild and White Fang, I was struck by the fact that London claimed that dog packs sometimes tear one another to pieces, and wolves eat people, and even noble Indians actually club the shit out of the half-wild huskies. I went to dad to ask him if this was true. “Of course not, Scott. It’s fiction. It’s analogy. Wolves don’t attack people. People attack people. Wolves, on the other hand, shy away from people. They make a conscious decision to avoid the establishments of man.”
    “But Dad aren’t wolves predators?”
    “Yes.” He said.
    “Don’t predators go after the easiest prey?”
    “Yes.”
    “People are slow, and we don’t have sharp teeth or claws. We make easy prey.”
    “No no - they go after wounded caribou - not people.” He said.
    “Why would they distinguish man from any other prey, dad?” I asked.
    “I don’t know why, Sonny. But they do. Wolves have never been documented attacking people.”
    “Jack London documented it.” I said.
    “It’s fiction. Like The Big Bad Wolf, or the Three Little Pigs. Are you gonna believe that pigs build houses made of straw, or that wolves dress up like Granny?”
    “No.”
    “Well, then there you go.” He said.
    “But Barney - I saw him throw the neighbor’s Pekapoo into the air, and catch him in his teeth!”

    “They were just playing.” Dad said.
    “But the Pekapoo - it screamed!” I said.
    “That’s how Pekapoos bark.”
    “It was bleeding around its neck!” I said.
    “So Barney plays a little rough.”
    The older he got, the rougher he played. But there was one dog in the neighborhood that he never played rough with, a female Pit that he allowed to try and rape him. This was Sheba, owned by the only other black family in the neighborhood besides Charles’s. This was Marcus’s house. My mother had warned me that all Pitbulls, a hundred percent of them, are insane man-eaters. “It’s not whether you train the dog or not,” she told me, “It’s the breed.”
    “But mom, you’ve always taught me that people are all the same beneath the skin - so shouldn’t all dogs be the same beneath the skin?”
    “No! Pit Bulls are killers - and Golden Retrievers are gentle! Go clean up Barney’s mess.”
    “That’s the shit you tracked in on your shoes.”
    “Shut up asshole!”
    I cleaned up Mom’s shit tracks, tied Barney up, and went up the street to Marcus’s house. I was greeted at the door by a Pitbull on her back, wagging its tail and begging me to rub its belly, Sheba the man-killer. “Marcus,” I asked, “How do you get a bloodthirsty Pitbull to behave so well?”
    He grabbed Sheba by the throat and lifted her into the air, “You establish dominance,” he said, slamming Sheba to the floor and sitting on her. “Here,” he said, still holding the waggling time-bomb by the neck, “you try it.”

    “I can’t Marcus.”
    “Why not?”
    “Mom said it’s cruel.”
    Marcus’s mom was there, and she heard what I said, “Cruel? Does this dog look abused? Look at her wagging and kissing you. Your mom is a crazy white woman! That dog is gonna hurt somebody besides a Pekapoo, and you’ll be sorry Son!” This was not the first nor the last time I heard this. I heard it when I delivered the papers, from Charle’s mom Aretha, from Mrs. Scalabrino, and from kids I barely knew.
    One day, while “playing,” with a neighbor’s Dachshund, I tried to call Barney on a time-out, as Mom had instructed. He turned to me, the Dachshund playing dead between his teeth, dropped the weener-dog and went for my throat. Thankfully he missed and chomped on my face instead, until I managed to get my arm between us. Then he chomped on my arm, “Please Barney - it’s not nice to tear my face off!” I allowed him time to think about it, just as mom had suggested, allowed him time to consider his options. Eventually he decided spare my life. I went home to ask my parents what to do, and Barney followed behind, quite proud of himself.
    My dad looked at me. I was still covered in blood. He said, “I’m not sure what to do... What do you want me to do, Son?”
    I knew exactly what I wanted him to do, “Kill him Dad! Shoot him! Let me shoot him!”
    “I couldn’t live with myself, doing that,” Dad sighed, shrugging, wiping a tear from his nose, “poor dog.”
    “Well then,” I said, “the lady said to cut his nuts off!”

    “Son, you know I can’t do that. It’s inhumane. Barney has his rights you know.”
    “Well, then what do we do?” I asked.
    “I’ll let you take Barney to a trainer.” Dad said.
    My mom agreed, and I took Barney to a trainer, right after going to get eighteen stitches in my face and twenty-five in my arm.
    Once Dad was gone the trainer said, “What kind of crazy parents allow their child to get attacked by an alpha-male? This dog is just full of testosterone.”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “How come they didn’t have its nuts clipped?”
    “Mom and Dad feel it’s cruel to do that.”
    “If you don’t train a dog, it will train you. This is a natural mammalian law. It even works with people. Here, let me show you what to do with this dog.” She tried to put him through a trap-door. He didn’t like that idea, and growled. So she grabbed by the skin on his back and swung him like a hammer throw and hit the floor roaring. Then she straddled him, twisting his ears until he cried out. “There. Now you try it.”
    The next month was bliss while at the trainer’s, for she insisted I throw Barney down and twist his ear until he cried. These were my first lessons in Martial Arts. After that Barney wasn’t the only one I trained. Anybody calling my Mom nuts, I slammed, occasionally even twisting some fool’s ears until he cried. Mom heard about me doing this to other kids and encouraged it. But she never heard about me doing it to Barney. I always made sure she wasn’t around when I took the pliers to him.

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