Part 2

I started feeding Pace during the most beautiful Indian summer I’ve ever seen. Lucky feeds the hounds once a day, but by September, Pace was growing like a weed and needed to be fed more. What I began in the fall carried over into winter, which was my bad luck because I can’t remember a colder winter, except ’93.  We went from mild to freezing in the bat of an eye. 

I had to break water in his bucket and fill it from the spigot on the outside of the house. Most mornings, the spigot would be frozen and I’d race back to the kitchen, and boil a pan of water to melt the ice. I never changed into anything warmer because I was in a hurry and besides, I didn’t think I was doing myself harm. I took a bath afterwards, and the steam from the hot water opened my lungs.

            I wouldn’t have started this whole business but for Pace, the ‘monster dog’ whose shattered heart released a howl that haunted my dreams. I’d thought him a bother when he arrived, costing more than a new, white leather couch.

            Lucky was prouder of him than any of the other dogs that have passed through his kennels. The pup’s sire and dam were Brazilian imports owned by a breeder in Georgia, and Lucky had him flown in at eight weeks, the earliest the airlines will allow.He strutted into the kitchen, reminding me of Susie when she has a new idea. Neither of them will admit it, but they’re a lot alike. They’re both go-getters, and when they’re pursuing a new project, their enthusiasm is contagious.

            I lowered the heat on the potatoes and turned, ready to step into his world.           

 “Look at the size of this little fellow, Nonna, and he’s only eight weeks old. Look at his paws! He’s got the biggest feet I’ve ever seen. Do you know what that means?”

            I told him I certainly didn’t.

            “Never mind.” He looked sheepish before giving the pup another squeeze. 

            The pup was light brown, almost a fawn color. He had a black muzzle, drooping ears and a dewlap. His eyes were brown, almost black, and expressionless when he looked at me. I’d never received a look like that from either a child or a pup; most young things want acceptance.

            “This dog will only bond with me,” Lucky continued. “It’s a Fila Brasileiro, a Brazilian cattle dog. Repeat the name after me.”

            I did.

            “You got it. Fila Brasileiro means without fear, or at least the Fila part does, and these dogs have fearless hearts. No fear of man except for the owner. Do you know how the breeders used to cull the litters?” 

            “Lucky, I don’t think I want to hear this.” I know what cull means. Dad used a hammer until Mother started filling a large bucket. She said it was more humane. 

            “Just listen,” he continued. “When the pups were maybe five or six weeks old, the breeder would get a stranger to come and stand at a distance. Then the stranger would whistle. The ones that came running were stomped to death. The ones that stayed behind with the dam were kept.”

            “Do they still do that?” I clutched my stomach.

            He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know what goes on in Brazil, but I doubt if there are laws against it. Nonna, this boy will go through a wall of fire for me.”

            He scratched behind an ear and a pair of slavish brown eyes looked up at him.     

“I think he’s been through enough by being born. And why would you want a dog to go through a wall of fire? He’d die.” 

            “It’s a manner of speaking, Nonna. Besides, he’s just a dog.”

            I reached out to pet the pup, but he growled. What had my husband brought home?

            “You’ll understand, once I’ve trained him.” He lowered his voice as he always does when he is on the verge of either walking away or bellowing. “When I’m off on a long job, this dog will protect you and Lilyanne. Once word gets out, only a fool would drive up our road.” 

            The pup squirmed, and he tightened his hold.

            “I’ve been worried ever since the robbery down at the Myer’s place. I thought about getting you a pistol, but you’d only shoot yourself in the foot.”

            I’ve already done that, I thought, and no matter what you say you’ll never make me believe you bought this dog for me or Lilyanne, but I nodded. There’d been a thread of tenderness in his voice I’d not heard since Lilyanne was born, and I was half ashamed to be so glad. The pup heard it, too, because he began wagging his tail.

            “You’ll feel safer with this guy here, but he won’t be little for long. When he’s full grown, he’ll weigh well over two hundred pounds. I have to take him out to his run, let him stretch and give him water. He can’t spend his first night in the house.”

            Whatever this creature was — or would he’d turn out to be– he should have had a box in the kitchen on his first night with a wall of Lilyanne’s old plush toys stacked behind him.   

“Lucky, he just got here.” 

“If I start coddling him now, I’ll never be able to go anywhere. He’ll grieve himself to death while I’m gone. The breeder was emphatic about that. Nonna, this dog is a weapon.” He nodded toward the living room, indicating his gun case. Then he headed out the back door, saying, “I can’t wait to take him to a rare breed show.”

            I waited until his footsteps cleared the deck, then raised the lid and said to the simmering potatoes:

            “None of this will ever happen.”

            If my face is an open book to Lucky, then his ways are as predictable as the waxing and the waning of the moon to me. By the time the pup was grown, the rare breed dog show could have been three miles down the road and Lucky wouldn’t have bothered.

            I’ve been on his roller coaster of enthusiasms most of my life. I was one of them. He told me I’d always be his girl, and I’d believed him. Now, I’ve been forgotten, replaced by countless trucks, motorcycles, guns, hounds, his one-time shot at religion; and the boy scout troop he decided to lead and then, dumped in the assistant scoutmaster’s lap.

            Sure, he’s a pleasure to be around when he’s happy but when he it’s gets bored — it’s just one excuse after another and someone else has to pick up the pieces. That’s what happened with the Fila Brasileiro pup.

            For months he called him ‘pup’ and then ‘big pup’, but when he had the dog’s hips x-rayed for dysplasia and the results came back OFA excellent, he perked up. OFA 

Excellent is unusual for a large breed, but Pace’s x-rays showed his bones fit perfectly with just the right amount of cartilage in between. Lucky started calling him Pace, ignoring the fancy name on the pedigree, because he said his dog would be able to outrun anything in the show ring and he couldn’t wait to get him there. His renewed interest lasted for about a month, and then he forgot about Pace.

            I didn’t.

            Pace was going crazy but not because he was a weapon. Lucky was the weapon, and the power he wielded was lack of love. Bonding was too much trouble, and when Lucky ignored him, Pace did become a monster.

            At first, he growled and yelped out his frustration, then he barked most of the day, chewed the wires, then fence-fought with the two hounds in the next run until they learned to stay away. He still fed him in the evenings, but the first word he said inside the run was “Down!” Finally, he went off his feed so even Lucky noticed and complained he didn’t know why he’d bought the thing.

To be con’t. 

©Joan Spilman, 2023. All right reserved.