Gus, the dog!

GUS

Fall of 1951 started out as usual in Maryland. School was in session again and in no time flat it was nearly Halloween. October in Maryland was always perfect. It was cool enough so that you could still work up a sweat on your bike and then ward off the late afternoon chill in a flannel shirt. Then there were the cardboard UNICEF boxes to fill with pennies, nickels and dimes, if you were lucky enough from the neighbors. But the most fun of all was shucking the ears of feed corn from old lady Conroy's field (at least it was to me!) Old lady Conroy's cornfield was right behind the pond, in the back of the woods behind our house. To get there we had a choice of paths. One path would take us through the briars that protected the frog pond, and one would take us over a rock fence that I was sure remained from the Civil War. That path also led us past a giant, old, Oak tree. Every fall someone else would build onto or replace the treehouse that was built the summer before. The far edge of the pond was swampy and usually had a snake or two. We always avoided that end of the pond. The dry side of the pond would lead us to the edge of the cornfield. Summertime was usually so busy with camp and playing in the neighborhood that I don't think we ever actually saw the corn being planted or growing. It was only when it was high and dry that we noticed it at all, and then it was only in the fall that we would venture into the woods, past the pond and into the cornfield.

Rumor had it that if she caught anyone in the cornfield, she would fill their butts with rock salt shot from her shotgun. Every 11-year-old boy took this to be gospel, and never did we venture past the first row of corn, and even that would be terrifying.

Me and John or Matt would load up an arm full of corn that we plucked off a stalk or off the ground, if it wasn't rotten and would take them back to my garage. They had no use for the corn, so I had it all to myself. I would shuck the ears of dried field corn until my thumbs were red and showing early signs of blistering. When I was done, I was the proud owner of a half a grocery bag of dried, shucked corn. Some I would use to shoot at birds and some to shoot at the squirrels with my slingshot. Squirrels had a love-hate relationship with me. They hated their sore butts from where I would nail them with a hard kernel, but they loved eating all that corn. We always seemed to have a fat squirrel or three around the yard. I think my parents usually found the bag, shook their heads and threw it away.

November was when the corn was harvested, and you could then see Old Lady Conroy's red brick house that was hidden by the tall corn. The wooded area behind her house and in the front and the sides were surrounded by cornfields. They were bisected by a long driveway up from the main road. Most of the county at that time was farmland or horse farms. It was a beautiful, peaceful area. Once the corn was cut you could then hear Old Lady Conroy's beagles non-stop howling. We never actually saw them, but to us they were the devils Curs and if Old Lady Conroy's rock salt filled shotgun didn't get us, her mongrels might.

Fall of 1951 however was different than all the others that came before. The Christmas before my father got me a dog and, not just any dog, but the most glorious beast there ever was. Part Olympian, part laziest dog in existence. He was Redbone Coon hound and Great Pyrenees mix. His short fur was reddish brown with golden hairs that shined in the Sun. He had big jowls that I think he hid things in and a black muzzle that look like a five o'clock shadow my dad would say. The loose skin on his head was furrowed and gave him a look of care and concern. His paws were webbed like a duck's feet, and he looked like he was wearing white socks with tan polka dots. My mother who made a hobby of naming things came up with his name Gus, short for Angus. My sister thought we should call him Pretzel. Because he was brown, I guess and when he slept which seemed to be most of the time he would be contorted in the funniest positions. Not unlike, well, I guess a pretzel. Gus also had the sweetest temperament you could ever hope for. You could easily picture him lying in a field on a summer's day like Winnie the Pooh while a butterfly sat on his nose. He was that kind of dog! That was a good thing too because by the time October rolled around, Gus was about 10 months old. He was topping 95 lbs and was as strong as an ox. You had to be careful when playing with him as he could take you out like a football player. He was the friendliest dog in the world and the best friend I ever had!

That November also turned out to be one of the worst Novembers ever. Midway through the month my thoughts turned to Thanksgiving and the upcoming feast. It would be Gus's first and I had his dog dish all planned for his own Thanksgiving dinner.

As a typical 11-year-old in those days the only TV I ever watched was the Saturday morning cartoons and the occasional afternoon TV show. I don't recall my parents listening to the radio either. We had an old one from before we had a TV, but if perhaps they or I had then things might have turned out different that November.

There was no one to play football with on that day so I decided to take Gus to the cornfield. It was bleak that day, a typical November afternoon in Maryland. A thick, gray blanket of clouds blocked out any sun and a light, but cold breeze blew from the north, from the direction of Old Lady Conroy's house. Gus must have picked up something in the breeze. He was sniffing the air in a frenzy and started to bark. He had a deep husky bark that pierced right through your eardrums. Just like that, he took off towards Old Lady Conroy's house like a crazed rabbit. I had his leash, but my feet barely touched the ground as I did my best to keep up with him. In no time flat we are at the back side of the old red brick house.

I had never been closer than three or four rows of corn at the outer edges of the field to the house and now I was terrified to be this close. Other than Gus's incessant barking it was eerily quiet. No Beagles to be seen or heard anywhere. I was as creeped out as a boy could be. I could see that the back door was open just a crack. Gus saw this too and without a moment's hesitation he pulled the leash right out of my hands nearly taking off a finger. No Gus! Stop! I yelled at the top of my lungs, and in an instant, he was through the door. I followed him blindly and when I got to the door, I couldn't move any closer. I was dumbstruck and in a state of semi horror. Through the open door, which led to the kitchen I saw a body lying prone on the floor. The white hair had a tinge of red streaking through it. It had to be Old Lady Conroy! While I had never actually seen her, it couldn't have been anyone else. Standing over her was a man wearing an old, worn denim jacket and brown hat. I could see a pistol in his hand. Gus must have sensed or smelled something on him too because he jumped on the man with the full force of 95 lb angry dog. The man fell backwards and crashed into the kitchen table. Chairs, glasses and everything else on the table flew into the wall. Splinters and broken glass seemed to fly in slow motion. Gus bounced off the man and I saw him roll over. I heard a loud bang and then a yelp. The man had managed to hold onto the gun he was holding and squeezed off a shot that hit Gus in his left paw. Apparently when you shoot a big dog, if you don't kill him, you make him very angry! Gus turned around and lunged at the man, sinking his teeth into the wrist of the hand that held the gun. I could see the muscles in Gus's jaw tense as he bore down. Blood trickled down the man's wrist and I heard the unmistakable sound of his wrist bone snapping as the full force of Gus's powerful jaws bore down. Gus then started to shake his head violently back and forth, his preys wrist in his mouth. The man screamed in agony as his hand flopped back and forth like a rag doll.

Sometime during this, I hadn't noticed, the sheriffs had arrived and were in the kitchen with their guns drawn. One sheriff saw me standing there, in shock, and yelled at me asking if the dog was mine. I managed in a tiny voice to knowledge that yes Gus was mine. He told me to call him off the man. I sidled my way towards Gus and grabbed his leash. Gus came willingly, sensing that the moment had come to an end. As I grabbed the leash, Gus let go of the man and he limped away leaving a bloody paw print.

I started to cry as the sheriff's put a handcuff on the man's good hand and led him out of the house, his mangled wrist dangling at his side, dripping some blood. The ambulance had arrived by then and they helped Old Lady Conroy onto a stretcher. As they wheeled her to the waiting ambulance she turned, and I saw her face for the first time. It wasn't the scary old lady I had expected. In fact, she kind of looked like my grandma. She gave me a weak smile and said, "thank you young man, bless you and your dog". The sheriff thanked me too and said that Gus probably saved her life. He got a blanket out of the trunk of his car and with a lot of effort managed to lift Gus into his car. I got to ride in the front with him as Gus lay quietly in the back seat on the blanket, licking his wounded paw. The sheriff drove me and Gus to the veterinarian's office where he called my parents and told them what happened and to come pick us up and take us home.

It had turned out that the man had escaped police custody, picked up a gun somewhere and ended up at Old Lady Conroy's Farm where he planned on stealing her car and escaping. When he opened the gate, the hounds had taken off. He went into the house and when Old Lady Conroy came into the kitchen saw him, he hit her in the head with the pistol and knocked her out. That was when Gus and I showed up.

After that day we were welcomed everywhere with open arms and Old Lady Conroy became Mrs. Conroy and she and Gus became fast friends! Of course, Gus was friends with everyone! Well almost everyone! Gus became a local hero too. Everyone now knew who he was. He always got a small cone for free at Baskin-Robbins and treats wherever we went. Gus went everywhere I went, and if they didn't know him, they would ask why he limped. I would just look them in the eye and say he's looking for the man who shot his paw! Most of the time they would just look at me with a confused look on their face and I would just laugh and tell them the story.

Well, that was ten years ago. I turned 21 this year and Gus left me just after my birthday. I think he knew it was his time. He was old in dog years and his paw seemed to hurt a little more every year. To the end he carried that look of care and concern. I tried not to cry in front of him those last days, but he always looked more concerned for me than for himself. Mrs. Conroy had sold off the farm by then, but she had willed me a small spot at the edge of the old cornfield where I laid my best friend to rest, in clear sight of the old red brick house where he could watch over Mrs. Conroy forever.