Growing up in a small rural town in upstate New York, I did not know anyone who locked up their dogs, and what’s more I did not know anyone who owned a vicious dog. My father’s hunting dogs ran loose on our property, but never left our fields. Other people’s dogs were also allowed to run loose, but somehow, they never seemed to go very far from where they lived. So, it was a complete surprise to me when I was walking to school that the Yates’ huge dog would run out of his yard barking loudly and plant himself on the sidewalk in front of me, forcing me to walk out in the street.
Buster was a mixed breed, which people then referred to as a Heinz 57. He was large and hairy with an over-sized head and possessed a bark that was not only loud, but aggressive and scary. I was simply terrified of him, and I would cross the street to avoid him if I saw in in the Yates’ yard. Finally, I told my dad that I was scared of Buster, and although dad assured me that Buster meant no harm, I said I needed a different way to walk to school. It was then that dad said he would walk with me and show me that Buster did not mean to hurt me.
The next morning, good to his word, dad walked to school with me. On the way, as usual, Buster came roaring out of his yard, faced us and refused to let us by. Dad reached out to the dog, and putting his hand on Buster’s head, said: “Lie down, Brutus,” and to my absolute shock, the dog lay down in front of us.
“His name is Buster,” I whispered to dad. But my father just shook his head and said, “No, I am renaming him Brutus, because this dog needs a new name, if he is going to remember his good manners.” Then my father rubbed the dog’s head, saying, “Good dog, Brutus, good dog,” and taking a small dog treat out of his pocket, gave the dog the treat from the palm of his hand.
Then dad explained to me that Brutus had been well-trained when the Yates’ sons lived at home. But once they had moved away, no one who lived there wanted to be bothered to remind Brutus of his good manners. Meanwhile the dog was lying quietly in front of us, and when dad said, “Up, Brutus,” the dog rose to his feet, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.
Dad repeated his commands to Brutus, and each time the dog obeyed, dad praised him and gave him a treat. Then dad told me that it was my turn. Handing me a dog treat, he said, “Put your hand on Brutus’ head and say ‘Lie down, Brutus’ in a firm tone of voice.” Although I was really scared, I did what dad said and to my delight, the dog lay down and stayed there while I gave him a treat and called him a good dog.
Dad walked me to school again the next day, and watched while I commanded Brutus to lie down and stay until I told him to get up. After that I was on my own, but Brutus, as I came to comfortably call him, stopped barking at me and became my furry friend. For most of the rest of the year, I looked forward to meeting Brutus on the sidewalk in front of his house, and by late spring he would lie down as soon as I gave him the command. Although, I was still a bit afraid of him, I realized that he was actually gentle, and if he did bark, it was a friendly way to remind me that he needed a treat.
One morning, when it was nearly time for school to end for that year, my dad said he had some bad news for me. Hugging me close to him, dad said, “Honey, I know that you have made a good friend of Brutus, but I have to tell you that the Yates are going to put him to sleep.”
“Why?” I asked. “Brutus is a good dog. He always does just what I tell him to do.”
Dad then told me that Brutus had bitten a teenaged boy, and the boy’s family demanded that the Yates put Brutus down, or they would sue them. I could not understand that Brutus had bitten anyone, but dad explained that the boy had been teasing the dog with a stick, poking him and striking him. When Brutus, who probably thought it was a game, tried to take the stick away from the boy, he bit the young man on the hand. Then the boy’s family became involved and decided that Brutus was a violent menace who needed to be put down.
Dad said that if I wanted to say good-bye to Brutus, I needed to go early to school and stop and see my friend. “I know that Mr. Yates is planning on taking the dog to the vet tomorrow, so you had better go by in the morning if you want to see Brutus one last time.”
I should have known that my father would not let me go to Brutus alone, and the next morning, he was there to walk with me to say good-bye to the dog. At the Yates’ house, Brutus was not in the yard, but dad walked me to the door, and we saw Brutus lying on the enclosed porch. When we knocked on the door, Brutus stood up to greet us just as Mr. Yates came out. I explained that I wanted to hug Brutus and tell him good-bye. Mr. Yates said the dog’s name was Buster, but I told him that my dad and I had given the dog a new name, and helped him to remember his manners.
Then I said, “Lie down, Brutus,” and when the dog obeyed me, Mr. Yates said, “Do you want to adopt him?” But my dad immediately said no and explained that Brutus would not get along with all our hunting dogs.
Meanwhile I was hugging Brutus around the neck and telling him that he was a good dog, and that I loved him. Dad took me by the hand, pulled me down the steps of the porch and walked all the way to school with me while I cried and cried.
As an old lady, I often see people walking their big dogs around my retirement village. It is then that I remember Brutus and how he responded to my commands. I especially recall how my dad helped Brutus remember his good manners. These days, I am still slightly afraid of big dogs, but I can be comfortable walking on the sidewalks where they live, because I know that their owners have taught them good manners.
