a true tail by Barbara Kirsch

"Knickerbocker Arrives"

First of all, if you don’t have that indescribable devotion to dogs, don’t read this! If your heart doesn’t swell at the thought of that wagging tail, you are going to think I’m insane for having put up for nine years with Knickerbocker. And I have enough doubts about my sanity!

It all began because my husband wanted an “Asta.” Do you remember the Thin Man and his brilliant, charming, wire-haired terrier? Well I was having babies and Mike wanted his own. We combed Shreveport, Louisiana, where we were stationed in the Air Force, when we came upon a shabby shack and a bent-over couple selling their wire-haired litter. A bell should have rung when we approached and a man admonished my children with a shaking finger to make a wide circle around the mother. We were then confronted with the most loveable bunch of puppies I have ever seen. Total bundles of fluffy wool. Little black noses peaking through and tiny ears flopping. Was I hooked. We studied and discussed and appeared most intelligent in our decision, when all the time Knickerbocker already had the best laugh on us. You see, we picked the most darling make, all white and tan with tiny bits of gray, only to find out about a year later that he was the least valuable because he was the only one of the litter without the makings of a saddle over his back. Well, what did we care? We only wanted a sweet, loving, devoted, gentle family dog!

The first month of Knicky’s life fit into our master plan beautifully. He was a joy. I trembled over the adoring pup who asked nothing of me (unlike some two-legged friends of mine) and loved me totally. Then one muggy Louisiana day there was a knock on my door. My neighbor appeared holding his mongrel pup, devoted friend of Knicky, for my inspection. Knickerbocker had suddenly turned on Bagel and attempted an out-and-out murder. I was unbelieving; there must have been some justification. Not my little baby whose wiry hair was just appearing. Well it seemed this scene reoccurred the next day and the next.

Mike and I determined that Knicky’s roving days were at an end, and Mike agreed to undertake a Herculean task in the Louisiana climate. He bought chicken wire and built a fence stretched six feet in height, and, for added protection, he did not put an opening lest a child should not latch it. We were taking no chances. It must have taken Mike three hours when he finished with perspiration and a chill at the same time. The 110-degree heat and matching humidity took their toll, and I with my seventh-month stomach leading the way led this six-foot-three man into the house.

He emerged only for one more minute to gently drop Knickerbocker over the fence into his new enormous playpen. About 45 seconds later I offered to go outside into that steam bath spring day and pick up the tools. I sauntered out, proud of my husband’s handiwork, and stopped short in shock. The beautiful fence was intact and glimmering in the sunlight and Knicky was nowhere in sight! Forty-five seconds. What could have happened? I walked around the fence repeatedly, kicked at the bottom of the wire, turned around quickly numerous times, positive one look would find Knickerbocker looking through the wire, nothing doing.

About twenty agonizing minutes later a group of nine and ten-year-olds appeared carrying the darling of the terrier world. I thanked them, looked the Agatha Christie savvy and tiptoed around the side of the house. Only my stomach showed as I watched that dog. Before these unbelieving eyes, my beloved scaled that six-foot fence in about 30 second. Without a backward glance he pranced off. How could I tell Mike? Well, maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss. How about dropping the children over the fence--- gently.

A lovely day in May I agreed to have my third child induced, anything to get away from that dog for a while! All went smoothly and I watched anxiously for my husband’s hospital visit so he might relate reactions of our son and daughter to their new baby brother. Somehow, though, I felt no surprise when the first words he spoke animatedly told a Knickerboker tale: Knick went into shock today.

Now that deserves explanation. It seems our ten-pound mite sauntered out of the house and, without hesitation, jumped on the back of a large, tired old Weimeraner. The big, hulking dog reacted quickly, turning to face his attacker. Knickerbocker immediately fell in a heap. His hindquarters became paralyzed for several minutes, and he lost control of his bodily functions. Was I glad I was away having a baby. Oh, by the way, Mike wanted to know how was his new son.

Life settled down to zoo proportions with three children, five and under, and our animal. The neighbors whispered about us. The Air Police called to remind us that any loose dog would be shot with a tranquilizer gun. I tried to explain to them that we didn’t let our dog out loose. He worked very hard at getting his freedom. His ears were on constant alert (I figured a little military jargon might impress the robots on the other end of the phone). As soon as he heard the door open he flew out at recorded speeds, between legs and under outstretched hands.

As soon as the doorbell rang at our house, an echo would resound throughout, “Hold the dog.” “Hold the dog.” “Hold the dog.” There was so much time and attention turned toward this charmer that our little infant was emerging as an unspoiled, noncrying, benignly neglected baby.

One sunny hot afternoon in mid summer, Knicky gained a new niche in our hearts. He escaped for the third time in one day and jogged out with Mike in hot pursuit. Probably figuring that base life was slowing down too much in the heat. Knicky headed for an illustrious neighbor’s house. He proceeded to chase our colonel’s cat up a tree. What do you do if you are a captain, your dog had the colonel’s cat trapped, and the colonel is at the base of the tree screaming? Well, of course you meander by and offhandedly comment that that dog’s owner should keep him locked up! Suddenly the colonel had had enough. He straightened up and gave a short, swift kick to our terrier. Knick’s reaction; he fell into his now famous “shock” position. The colonel left the scene and Mike carried our hero home. That evening Mike was discussing the events with a veterinarian at the officers’ club and the vet widened our knowledge of purebred dogs. Knickerbocker had epilepsy. Well, there went any dim thought of easing him out of our lives. He now needed us, depended on us, and had us by the throats.

The only way I survived the remainder of our stay on base with that animal was knowing it was reaching an end. I desperately needed a house with a closed-in yard. As our service was concluding, Knick figured he would have the couple of last romps. He left the premises and was gone for three days. This had never happened before and were my feelings mixed. We searched and searched, and on the third day a kindly soul called us from the airfield. Why do these people all have that ring to their voices that says we don’t take proper care of our dog? Have they ever seen us chasing him as he deftly keeps five yards ahead of us? Have they ever held down four legs as he is convulsing? Have they ever scraped their knees lunging at the door attempting to hold the dog? This man told us Knick had come perilously close to being sucked in a jet engine.

Soon after, Knick was off again for more than a day, no sign of him at all. Then that dreaded, hoped for phone call. This lady was delightful, kind, feeling. Knickerbocker had come into her yard over her fence. He sat at her back door for two days because her dog was in heat. She really didn’t mind, but they were leaving on vacation and hated to leave him stranded. I had a strange urge to say the previous owner of the house had just moved, but I choked back my pride and said I would be delighted to come gather up my gigolo. How embarrassing, per usual, he showed no recognition, no tail wagging, only total boredom and resignation when I arrived.

The Sunday before departing my nerves were frayed. I was knee deep in packing, my children were resisting that last Sunday school visit and Knicky was poised ready for action. His moment arrived. The baby toddled and went through the door. The dog took off. I took off too, but I swear he kept turning around and smiling over his shoulder. That was it. I returned home, stepped over the boxes and dialed the air police. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You know your policy about loose dogs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have told us you’ll shoot them with tranquilizer guns?”
“Yes ma’am.”

“My dog is out. He is about one block south of the officers’ club”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please shoot my dog.”

“Yes ma’am.” Needless to say they didn’t show.

Would California be ready for us? What would be Los Angeles’s reacting to a Ford Wagon carrying a former Air Force captain, three children, five, three, and one year old in diapers, and a bedraggled, slightly glassy-eyed housewife, and a wire-haired terrier painting and drooling his way directly into the air conditioning vents. We knew this hyper dog would eliminate us before we completed the three-day trip, so Mike administered a sedative. It was fantasy brought to life. All my pipe dreams of the loving, gentle, pet I had always wanted came true. He slept, cuddled, dozed. We stopped at a motel that did not allow pets, but we were prepared. We smuggled him in and went to work to make sure that when he awoke and barked (as is his custom to do at the exact moment you have drifted into deep sleep) he wouldn’t be heard. We closed windows, padded door openings, drew drapes and geared Knicky toward the bathroom. We were hot, deprived of our shower, and virtually imprisoned but safe. How could he possibly win this time? Well, when he woke up he looked around, stretched, sniffed the new terrain and barked. Only thanks to the sedative, his bark had the intensity and sound of a baby mouse squeaking for the first time!

Can you see this family settling into beautiful downtown Burbank? We went to a house on a very quiet street. The average age on the block was around eighty. We wanted to be close enough to Mike’s hospital where he was training, but we wanted to avoid the city. Our growing family needed room. How could there be trouble here? We had an enclosed back yard. There were high walls not to be scaled. We even had a lovely lady renting a guesthouse right behind us who understood and loved wirehairs. We were set. Within two weeks that dog had broken out of every screen window that led out to the front of the house!

We were not blessed with air conditioning, as had been a necessity in Louisiana, and Knicky was off. The neighbors got to know us quickly. Which one of us would it be this time running down the street, praying Knick would stop for five seconds to lift his leg so we might pounce? Even the baby became pretty adept at the chase, silent Stevie, almost two years old not bothering to speak yet. He was taking it all in. We only had one, legitimate complaint from the people across the street. They owned a big white husky and Knick, as per usual, was intent on challenging someone ten times his size. He would run across the street and patrol their house. It was one thing to threaten the dog of the house, but Knicky did not let any member emerge from the house. I understood. I tried crying and that worked for a while. But tempers were short.

I must happily relate that things slowed down quite a bit after that. Knicky would often be out in the back for several hours at a time, and I was free to concentrate on tending to the needs of our home and youngsters. Each child was developing at his own pace, and I was thoroughly enjoying the stages, often marking down new milestones in the satiny baby books-- Danny rode a two-wheeler for the first time today, etc. I did take note that little Stevie had not spoken yet. He followed the older children all over and had his demands satisfied quite easily, no need to verbalize. I daydreamed as to what would be his first words. Would he tell me that he loved me? Would he call to his brother and sister? Would he ask for a cookie? Early one morning Danny and Lisa were preparing for school. I was packing lunches and Stevie was chasing Knickerbocker through the house. Suddenly the doorbell rang two or three times. Stevie was running on his sturdy little legs toward the door, Knicky following, anticipating, adrenaline surging. As he approached the door with the dog on his heals, my two year old looked over his shoulder, planted his feet and clearly and loudly spoke his first words, “Hold the dog!”

.......... stay tuned for Episode 2 May 1st......... for more Knickerbocker escapades!

Episode 1 of 9