Dog Days

I’m walking to church on a Saturday afternoon about 30 years ago.

I’m only a couple of blocks from the church when I hear a dog barking across the street. The dog soon runs across the street, toward me, still barking.

There was a time when I would have run away, with the dog in pursuit. But I have learned that in this kind of situation it’s best to ignore the animal and just keep walking until it goes away. And this is exactly what happens here.

I’ve learned a lot about dogs because of my older brother, Michael. He himself was terrified of them when he was a kid. But this changed after he grew up and married a woman who had a German shepherd named Sheepdog.

Eventually Michael would even work at a pet store. One night, at the newspaper where I worked, I was going over the first edition, looking for errors, when I turned the page and saw Michael looking up at me, holding a huge snake, in a photo accompanying a feature story. I can’t remember exactly what the story was about. I can remember thinking that for once it was a good thing my mother, no fan of reptiles, wasn’t alive to see the photo.

After they got married, Michael and his wife, Judy, would bring Sheepdog to my family’s house. He was exceptionally friendly and would put his paws on my shoulders — after he had jumped on the couch, much to my mother’s dismay. He helped me get over my fear of dogs.

Eventually Michael and Judy adopted a white runt named Little Ripper (Michael had something of a flair — for want of a better word — for names). During his first visit Little Ripper distinguished himself by getting stuck behind my family’s refrigerator.

Then there was the time my mother gave Michael and Judy some baked ziti to take home. When they got home they looked at the back seat at Sheepdog and Little Ripper, who had been exceptionally quiet. Sure enough, their faces — and the sauce stains on them — provided ample evidence of what they had been up to. They probably never understood why Michael and Judy were so mad at them.

By the time of my Saturday encounter with the barking dog, Michael and Judy have accumulated even more dogs. A few Saturdays later, my sister and I pay them all a visit.

The dogs don’t always get along — Michael and Judy have to bring them out two at a time to meet and sniff us.

The menage now includes Frank, who is quite large; a black dog named Nora; and Michael’s pride and joy, Simon, which he describes as a “Staffordshire Terrier,” but to me he’s a pit bull, the one breed of dog that even today still scares me. Michael delights in separating Simon’s jaws and placing his head between them, like a lion tamer.

Last but never least, there is Sheepdog. He’s very old, but when I get on the floor with him he seems to remember me and once again places his paws on my shoulders, which Judy says isn’t easy at his age. This is the last time I see him.

Later that day I walk to church again. When I’m a couple of blocks away from the church I once again hear barking.

It’s the same dog, still trying to show me who’s boss. He once again runs across the street toward me, still barking.

Then he sniffs me — and apparently realizes that I have had visitors.

No longer barking, he scurries back across the street and never bothers me again.