The Ballad of Scruffy the Hero Dog

I glanced out through the lovingly homemade curtains. There sat Ryder, 8 years old, shoulders hunched against the wild Alaskan forest backdrop. He looked down at Scruffy with the same sad uncertainty we all had. He’d been run over by a car. He lay in the soft grass of the yard pleasant, but panting. We didn’t know enough to be able to tell if he’d be ok.

Scruffy the Hero Dog earned both the “scruffy” part of his name and the “hero” part.

It was a late-night phone call from a church leader that brought Leland Fishback to the door of a sorry old house on a forgotten stretch of Pittman Road, in Wasilla, Alaska. Cloudy Lake lay just beyond the trees, but he couldn’t enjoy the serenity of its icy quiet because from inside this house was a chorus of howls from the dogs he knew had been abandoned there.

Their owner was in jail and it seemed the desperate hounds hadn’t been taken care of for some time. There were at least six adults including a mama struggling to feed her eight pups because she hadn’t been fed herself. Leland loaded up the sorry pack one after another into his truck when, from behind a tree, crept another little creature; all fur with barely visible, shining eyes. He’d never seen a dog with that much fur before. He scooped him up and brought him along too.

The Fishbacks sheltered them all from the Alaskan winter in their garage as they carefully nursed each one back to health. It was clear this family couldn’t keep so many dogs, and the local shelter said they would find homes for them all. But one of them had already found his home. They’d fallen in love with that ball of fur and named him Scruffy. And they kept him.

Scruff was already a beloved member of the family when a call came one night from the original owner of all those dogs. He was out of jail. And he was angry. The only dog he wanted back was “Kujo” and he knew they had him.

Leland didn’t know how we was going to tell the kids. His daughters were all crying (he knew they would be) as he drove away with their ball of fur. They had arranged to meet at a gas station and it was with a heavy heart that Leland opened the door of his truck to let their newfound friend go back to such a terrible home.

“That’s not Kujo!” the man barked out. “That’s Scruffy!”

Leland looked up in surprise.

“I don’t want Scruffy, I want Kujo!”

The convicted felon and the loving little family had both come up with the same name for this mutt of destiny. He was always going to be a Scruffy.

But he hadn’t had his chance yet, to prove that he was a hero.

Some claim that heroes aren’t made until the moment life demands uncommon bravery of them, but Scruffy showed all the signs of everyday heroism from the start. He became almost immediately chummy with the neighbor’s dog, bringing gifts of all sorts to leave in front of his doghouse. The calls from the neighbor came often that Scruffy had dragged over a 50-foot garden hose, to leave by their dog’s little door; or that Scruffy had carefully carried over his entire, full bowl of food to share. He was quick to help corral the pigs and of course continued to be beloved of the Fishback daughters through the years.

When a sudden downturn in the parents’ health meant Scruffy had to find a new home with the Scoresbys, I had the chance to get to know Scruff just as I was getting to know the Scoresby son who would later become my husband. It was fairly early into our marriage, that I attempted to show that despite my being the resident “city girl” among the Alaska grown, I could handle cooking a pan of bacon. Only I was used to a lifetime of light, non-stick cookware and in lifting the cast iron skillet up for only a minute, dropped the entire contents and pan onto the tile floor with a humiliating crash. There was bacon, in bits, as far as the eye could see and my dignity was nowhere to be found. Though Scruffy happily lived as an outside dog, we decided to let him come in and clean up the mess. But he wouldn’t even step across the threshold.

He knew that Papa Bear Scoresby didn’t like him in the house and no amount of affectionate coaxing from the ladies or the smell of my little trail of cured meat was going to persuade him to do what he’s been kindly told not to. I was not only utterly impressed with him in that moment, I was also relieved. His staunch obedience become the crux of that story from then on. The total failure of my arm strength was a sidenote.

Ryder reached out and stroked the matted fur on Scruffy’s head, not sure if it would be sensitive to the touch. Scruffy glanced up at him, peeking through the curtain of fur flopped over his eyes, but didn’t sit up. From my quiet perch in the kitchen, I couldn’t hear what message Ryder might be whispering to him, but I knew what he might be feeling. I owe an afternoon’s saved face to Scruffy. Ryder owes him his life.

The Scoresbys used to have a horse. A mean one. I’m not being unfair, it’s just a fact. Honey was a tri-colored mare that had come with the non-negotiable addition of an old swayback companion horse purchased from a local family. It didn’t take long to see though that it was the tri-color, not the swayback that someone had hoped to offload. Should any free ranging chicken or unfortunate barn cat wander into the pasture, they would be met with the sight of something beautiful and terrifying charging them at full speed, ears back, teeth bared. What would follow was a hailstorm of hooves as Honey attempted to stomp out anything that moved.

And so it was, one unseasonably hot summer day in Palmer, that the family was hanging around the house with the front door wide open in the hopes of catching any passing breeze. Ryder’s toddling walk had only recently progressed to a toddling run, but he had taken to it with voracious enthusiasm. His mother was very pregnant with his baby sister and had a hard time keeping up with him. Somewhere in the midst of the adult chatter and light-hearted conversation, the grown-ups noticed that Ryder was nowhere to be found.

The group split up to search the front yard, the upstairs, the garden and the backyard. Mawzey (Ryder’s grandma) stepped out to the back to see if Ryder had gone to visit the newest addition to their family; Scruffy. She gave him a pat and unhooked him from the lead she had put him on while he got used to the vast tracts of his new home. It was only then that she looked up and realized that Ryder was outside after all; and headed straight for the pasture where Honey was kept.

Mawzey rushed to catch up with him, but knew that he’d get to the horse before she got to him. Honey had heard the commotion and was readying her most territorial instincts as Ryder approached. Mawzey watched in one utterly helpless moment as the horse began to charge just as little Ryder stepped under the fence into the enclosure. But just as Honey reared up to come down hard, she was intercepted by a big ball of fur with a heart of gold. Scruffy had run ahead of Mawzey, bolted out ahead of Ryder and stepped in to take blow after blow of the horse’s fury in Ryder’s stead.

Mawzey snatched up Ryder and handed him into the security of his mother’s arms, before running into the pasture to push the mare away from Scruff. As Honey turned, bracing her front legs to kick out backwards at Mawzey, Scruffy finally made it back to his feet and was able to get away.

Mawzey got out of the way before the kick, and discovered that miraculously, Scruffy was alive and even more miraculously, seemed to be free of any major injuries. A wave of relief settled over everyone present to know that Ryder was ok and what followed shortly after was a wave of reverence and respect for the courage of a dog who had only recently joined their family and had already taken it upon himself to protect it. Willing to give his life, though this time around, it had been spared.

But now, six summers later, Scruffy lay in the grass after his ordeal with that car and it looked like this time, he wasn’t going to make it. He had been feeling the effects of his age for some time. Had begun to quit his routine of always choosing a post in the yard where he could keep an eye on everything. Now, the pain of getting up and down had made it too difficult to move in step with the herd of grandchildren in their free-spirited frolic across the property, always ensuring they’d be ok, like he’d always done before.

He’d begun instead to seek a perch in the front where he could see what was coming, and perhaps have a little peace. Now, he would finally have it.

We each took our farewell moment with the dog whose fur could never be tamed, but whose heart was loyal and true. My husband said the same thing he’d said to Scruffy each night as he passed him, one last time; “thanks for watching over us”. I’m not sure all that Ryder said in his goodbye, but in reality, what words would be enough?

Cats have nine lives; dogs only get one. But oh, how courageously Scruffy the Hero Dog used his.