Golden Boy Calls in the Big Guns

By Belinda

We were on the last leg of our walk around the village one evening last week. We were climbing the hill that joins our road, almost home.

Down the hill on the end of a lead, held onto by a woman being dragged along, came the big Great Dane that lives in the only house on the side of the hill.

She was a slightly built woman, with short, brown curly hair and she was dressed in jeans and a t shirt.

I was relieved that he was on a lead. He's scared me more than once, bounding loose across the road. I made a light hearted comment meant to be friendly.

"Is that a dog or a horse?"

But as the words left my lips, to my horror, I could see that the dog was clearly in charge and the lead was not holding him back at all. Dragging the woman behind him, he was making a beeline for Molson, and snarling as he got closer. It happened so suddenly and he, twice the height of Molson, was biting and snapping at the top of Molson's head, as he snarled back in defence. The Dane's owner yelled at him and thumped at his head, dragging him off, and we went on up the hill as fast as we could, shaken.

Unbelievably Molson has been attacked by three different dogs on our walks around the village--a German Shepherd named Tupper who escaped from his house one morning and bounded across the highway filled with morning traffic, with a fight on his mind as the drivers looked on; a vicious bulldog named Rambo who was always tied up to his kennel until his owners bought an invisible fence and then let the battery run down; and this Great Dane.

On Saturday evening we went out again, walking down the hill this time. At that point I still refused to let fear decide where I could walk in the village. I could hear barking from inside, but took comfort that he was inside, but then he burst out of the house and came  running across the road again. I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Get away, get away, get away!"

A young man with dreadlocks ran after the dog and caught up as he again went for the top of Molson's head, dragging him off. I ignored his apologies and said that I was going to call Animal Control.

"Oh please ma'am, we're moving," he said.

"I don't care, I shouted back at him, "Where ever you go, people won't be able to walk in their own neighbourhoods."

When we came back at the end of our walk, I avoided the hill, and instead we walked along the main road.

On Sunday I told the whole story to Rob, my brother in England, including my call to Animal Control, only to get a message telling me their office hours ended at 4.30 each weekday. Robert said, "Oh, so dogs can only bite Monday to Friday."

 "Right, Belinda," he said, "I will have to send Bruce over on a plane."

And we laughed at Rob's description of how he'd wear sunglasses and have his collar turned up.

"And he'll carry his kong in a suitcase," I said.

"Yes, that will be the only thing in the case" said Rob.

The kong, which I gave him when I was last in England, is his most precious possession. He would not travel anywhere without it.

So yeah--that Great Dane had better look out because we have connections he won't want to mess with. Bruce may be scared of fireworks, but he's The Dog!