Beware of Dog

The lopsided rusty Beware of Dog sign still hangs on the gate leading into my parents’ back yard. There hasn’t been a dog in the yard for over forty years, so I asked my father recently why he keeps it hanging there.

“Leave it there,” he said. “It makes people think twice about coming into the yard.”

When Duke, our German Shepherd, was in his prime, there was a game that the kids in the neighborhood would play. It was a game of dare. Someone would dare some clueless kid to simply lift the metal latch on the gate and let it fall back into place. At the point of contact there was a single note, a clink! Then the count would begin: one -one thousand - two - one thousand - three - one thousand… No one lasted much longer than a few seconds with their hand on the gate before Duke would come charging around the side of the house, teeth barred, ears pointed, hair standing up on his back, barking and crashing into the fence. The fence is still bowed out, to this day, from Duke bashing it in his attempt to get at his tormentor.

When we got Duke he was a sweet little puppy, very loving and gentle. But soon, my father was training him to respond to sounds of entry, like the tinkling doorbell or the metal latch clicking open at the outside gate, or the front door opening. When the doorbell rang, my father would call, “Duke! Duke!” then he would growl like a dog, bark and grit his teeth while commanding in Italian, “Mangia le! Mangia le!” (Eat him!). This is how my father taught our pet dog to be a watch dog.

It is no wonder that my father often opened the front door to find no one there. Who, in their right mind, would stick around on our porch with a vicious German Shepherd barking behind the door, and my father barking and growling beside the dog, while bellowing out, “Who’s there!? Mangia le!”

When I started dating I would have such anxiety thinking about the scene my would-be boyfriend would eventually encounter when he came to my house to pick me up. It was a true test of character that my boyfriends had to endure just to pass through the threshold of our home. Before I would agree to a date with a guy, I would access him myself. Could he pass the test of my father’s vice grip hand shake, the steely eye contact? Would he make it past my overprotective dog? Was this guy really worth it?

If he could make it through those first few minutes out on the porch, he would then be face to face with my father - a large, broad-chested man dressed in a semi-transparent undershirt that revealed his full muscular chest of dark curly hair and bulked up biceps that stretched the very fibers of his t-shirt to their limits.

Before he even greeted the boy, my father would open the front door while he continued yelling commands to our barking German shepherd, who leaped up to greet the house guest at eye level, slamming into the glass storm door with his front legs. Dad would then show his own strength by flexing his huge bicep, grabbing the dog’s collar and yelling in a deep throaty dog-like growl, “Sit! Sit! Sit, goddammit! I told you to SIT!” The dog would take a few moments to calm down, his tongue would be hanging out dripping saliva and he was alert and ready to leap at the next command of Mangia Le!. This went on with every first greeting. It was a show of strength and warning. Don’t mess with my daughter!

If the young man had any ideas of impropriety with me before ringing that doorbell, they were certainly replaced by primal fear and silent prayers of redemption.

My calm well-mannered boyfriend, the one who many years later would become my husband, found that display of brute strength by man and dog humorous and would not be intimidated or deterred by it. He continued to ring my doorbell and even went so far as to kiss me in front of the overly protective growling Duke. This boy and that dog had a hate-hate relationship for months, pushing it to the limits, until one lovely spring day when we pushed Duke too far.

My boyfriend was walking me home from school that day. We approached the gate with the lopsided “Beware Of Dog” sign hanging from years of Duke bashing into it in his attempt to get the mailman, the UPS man or anyone of the neighborhood kids who played their game of daring Duke. After loudly clanking the latch a few times, we paused a moment, as we always did, to be sure he wasn’t in the yard. I called out, “D–u-k-e, D-u-k-i-eee?” in the sing-song voice I used to get his attention.

My boyfriend, laughing aloud, imitated me in a high falsetto, “Oh, D-u-k-i-e; Dukie boy?” We were only met by the sounds of chirping birds and gentle spring breezes so we proceeded boldly around the back of the house, my boyfriend walking in front of me, both of us laughing as he continued his silly dog calls.

It all happened so quickly: my boyfriend crouched and running across the lawn, his books scattered in his path, Duke running after him, boyfriend on the ground rolling and moaning with his hands in his crotch, Duke yanking at the end of his chain, trying to break free so he could finish the job, hovering with his tongue hanging out only inches over my boyfriend’s head. I stood frozen in my tracks. What happened? I never heard a growl or a warning bark to let us know he was there.

My mother ran out of the house chasing the dog with her dust rag, calling, “Duke! Duke! Get back on this porch!” The dog pausing a moment to think about this, then loping back to his place on the back porch alertly watching his prey as it writhed on the lawn like a caterpillar that’s been poked with a stick.

“Is he alright?” my mother called out to me. We had only been dating six months, so I didn’t know how I would check his injuries. All indications were that he had been hit in that spot that makes guys curl up and die.

“Are you alright?” I asked meekly, still standing far away from him. He only moaned louder.

“Can I get you an ice pack?” my mother called from the porch steps. “Was he bitten?” mom asked me. “Should I call an ambulance?”

We heard a low groan from the lawn. “I think he said no,” I reported back to my mother. I looked over at Duke and I swear that dog was gloating. Is it possible for a dog to smile? I could see one curling on his mouth as he was panting, his tongue hanging out, eyes all sparkly.

“Bad dog!” I said to him and he lowered his head a moment and then took a quick peek at his victim in fetal position, lying motionless on the lawn. Yes, that dog was gloating.

The amazing miraculous thing was that this boy kept coming back for more. He continued to ring my doorbell and walk with his arm around my shoulders and even kissed me in front of the growling Duke.

The dog continued to assert his alpha male dominance over my boyfriend in little ways. There was the time Duke devoured the entire heart shaped cake I had made for my boyfriend on Valentine's day.

Then there were the times we would sneak inside after a date, when we knew everyone was asleep and Duke was tucked away in the garage for the night. We would watch an old movie, snuggled up on the TV room couch, but the minute we would start kissing and getting a little frisky, Duke's radar ears would pick up on the heightening emotions and start barking in the garage in an attempt to wake up my father.

The war of dominance eventually ended with Duke's passing. My boyfriend is now my husband, and with thoughts of Valentine's Day approaching I'm thinking about making that heart shaped cake that he never had a chance to see or taste. As for my husband, he does not need to worry about buying me some useless token of love. He already proved his love for me some forty years ago when he defied the Beware of Dog sign and walked into hell and back again, and again and again.