Bruce
Bruce was a bad-tempered dog, a brute of a brute, you might say, already old when my father acquired him.
Brown and white curly pelt, an Airedale plus something else that made him bigger than other Airedales; not that there were many in our neighborhood; pure-bred mongrels, mostly, all shapes, sizes, mixed colors.
Bruce was morose. Hated to be touched. I often wonder who unloaded him on my father. Some dog-hater with a grudge?
We were all in the back garden – so it was probably summer – having a meal at the folding table, father had made. We were addicts for eating outside; often as early as breakfast. Mother and father had moved from terraced streets; black-tiled back yards with a few wilting plants in a little square by the ash-pit, if you were lucky. But this was country – well, we had a garden and a field beyond the back fence. I suppose they couldn't believe their luck; couldn't get enough of the sunshine, grass, fresh (i.e. relatively smokeless) air – birds singing.
My two aunts, Jessie and Renee, were at the table. So was Bruce. Nearby, but not actually begging. He wouldn't stoop to that. You had to leave the food and he might deign to pick it up. Later. Maybe he was a masochist, liked to torment himself. Perhaps he disliked human food just as he hated human beings. Give it to him direct and he would as likely help himself to a piece of hand.
Suddenly we realized that Renee was talking to Bruce and fondling his ears. "Nice dog, good dog,” she said. “He isn't bad tempered at all, Joe.” My father always warned visitors. Leave him alone and he'll ignore you too, was the general line he followed.
I was staring at Bruce. His lip was curled back, his yellow teeth were in full view. He was snarling quietly.
To his credit, father remained calm. “Sister,” he said quietly, “please take your hand away from him. Now.”
She did. For the rest of the meal she was unusually quiet, face a little paler than usual under her lovely black hair.
Our next door neighbour found Bruce a year or so later, dead in the field from poison set by the farmer. He buried the old curmudgeon, quietly; said nothing at the time. Renee died young, giving birth, after several miscarriages, to her one and only child, a daughter; another story.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved
Bruce was a bad-tempered dog, a brute of a brute, you might say, already old when my father acquired him.
Brown and white curly pelt, an Airedale plus something else that made him bigger than other Airedales; not that there were many in our neighborhood; pure-bred mongrels, mostly, all shapes, sizes, mixed colors.
Bruce was morose. Hated to be touched. I often wonder who unloaded him on my father. Some dog-hater with a grudge?
We were all in the back garden – so it was probably summer – having a meal at the folding table, father had made. We were addicts for eating outside; often as early as breakfast. Mother and father had moved from terraced streets; black-tiled back yards with a few wilting plants in a little square by the ash-pit, if you were lucky. But this was country – well, we had a garden and a field beyond the back fence. I suppose they couldn't believe their luck; couldn't get enough of the sunshine, grass, fresh (i.e. relatively smokeless) air – birds singing.
My two aunts, Jessie and Renee, were at the table. So was Bruce. Nearby, but not actually begging. He wouldn't stoop to that. You had to leave the food and he might deign to pick it up. Later. Maybe he was a masochist, liked to torment himself. Perhaps he disliked human food just as he hated human beings. Give it to him direct and he would as likely help himself to a piece of hand.
Suddenly we realized that Renee was talking to Bruce and fondling his ears. "Nice dog, good dog,” she said. “He isn't bad tempered at all, Joe.” My father always warned visitors. Leave him alone and he'll ignore you too, was the general line he followed.
I was staring at Bruce. His lip was curled back, his yellow teeth were in full view. He was snarling quietly.
To his credit, father remained calm. “Sister,” he said quietly, “please take your hand away from him. Now.”
She did. For the rest of the meal she was unusually quiet, face a little paler than usual under her lovely black hair.
Our next door neighbour found Bruce a year or so later, dead in the field from poison set by the farmer. He buried the old curmudgeon, quietly; said nothing at the time. Renee died young, giving birth, after several miscarriages, to her one and only child, a daughter; another story.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved