It is often said that you can live in the suburbs behind those high walls and never meet your neighbors. In our case we met our neighbors immediately. Knicky broke our fence the third day we were in the house.
He broke through to find himself smack in our neighbor’s yard and directly in the path of a small defenseless dog. This little brown mutt was attacked and luckily saved by my son, who climbed the fence. You just aren’t safe in your own home anymore. Seriously, though, I understood and agreed with the owner’s wrath. The children began an intensive, strengthening of the fence and our neighbors have respectfully declined to speak to us for four years. Not wishing to play favorites, Knick would also head in the opposite direction and plant himself at another forbidden fence. Inside this yard was a huge, hulking German shepherd. He was a watchdog and that house was never to be robbed. Knick loved it. He was going to get to the shepherd with that fence between them. Knick lived and relived devastating battles. He barked incessantly while at the same time deftly avoiding our outstretched hands.
Then one bleak January morning his moment arrived. The garage door was not closed and Knick snuck in. The shepherd lazily strolled toward him and Mighty Might set himself for the charge. He sprang directly at his adversary’s neck, his legs extended, head erect. The shepherd yawned briefly and stepped to the side. Knick, in his most humiliating moment, flew past and crashed into the side of a broken tricycle. He looked up at the crowd that had assembled by this time and, in a desperate attempt to regain his threat status, he fell into a prolonged epileptic seizure.
We must also give Knick credit for which our names became household words in our new community. The children brought new friends in to play. We know Knicky and we know we must keep our sense of humor. But his antics were obviously new and unexpected to our neighbors. I received a phone call shortly after Jerry, a sweet five-year-old boy, had come over to spend a few football hours with Stevie.
“Hello,” Mrs. Stone began innocently enough, “I want to thank you for having Jerry over.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure,” I assured her. Leaving old friends is the most difficult part of moving, and we were anxious for the sounds and sights of small bodies tumbling through the house.
“Well it was just funny,” she began slowly, “I asked Jerry how he enjoyed himself, and he said it was great. He said that Stevie has two dogs. It old him that’s lovely and he said it was okay except one of the dog bites. It bit him.” I felt my palms grow sweaty and the receiver seemed moist. “I assured him,” Mrs. Stone continued slowly, “that it must have been a mistake or something. But he interrupted me and said, ‘Oh no, it was okay. He bites everyone all the time. But we shouldn’t worry because Stevie’s daddy is a doctor and he gives free tetanus shots.” Keep laughing, Mrs. Stone. That’s what works for us.
Life was certainly different for us. We now had the luxury of much more room and many more conveniences. We also acquired the responsibility of having to care for these additions. We found the need for a gardener, a pool man, a tree man, you name it. Knick, of course, had added responsibility of trying to prevent each of these people from performing his job. It became debatable whether or not to yell at him for actually defending his territory. You would think, though, when someone comes three times a week a certain familiarity would develop. Knick was persistent, and I received the inevitable phone call as I was carrying in two enormous bags of groceries. “Mrs. Kirsch?”
“Yes.”
“Does your little dog have its shots?” I carefully put down the bag with the eggs and turned my full attention to the phone.”
“Of course,” I said carefully, “Why?”
“Well, this is the pool man calling. That’s quite a routine they have out there.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Well, I arrived early and no one was home. But I figured the dogs must know me by now so I came in through the gate. You know I told him, it’s like a Laurel and Hardy act. Your setter ran up and jumped on me and kissed me all over my face, while that little dog snuck around behind me and bit me on my leg.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I really was sorry, more for me than him. Each episode was draining me of years of vitality. “Did you see a doctor?” He assured me he had and mentioned that he had to report to the health department but not to worry because Knick had to bite several people before action was taken. “How many people?” I mused. Perhaps if I fabricate some… oh forget it.
I reached sleepily into the bread drawer and fumbled with the soft white loaf. If there is one thing I can’t stand, it is preparing children’s lunches at
I relived
“Mom,” Danny reported. “I was talking to some kids in school and they said they have mice, and the mice are pretty smart. They don’t go for the traps.” Swell. My heart dropped but I kept that mechanical smile in view as I saw Lisa begin to ring her hands. “Don’t worry,” I assured them. “He’s probably gone. At that moment, Stevie erupted, “Whose been eating my piece of pound cake I left wrapped up?” I smiled weekly, “Who do you think?” The day was totally frustrating. It sort of reminded me of waiting for the next
Mike dropped off immediately which totally frustrated me, and I felt forced to maintain guard duty. I knew I could feel the mouse creeping and jumping at me. I spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom trying to revitalize myself with cold water face splashing. I gingerly made my way toward the kitchen. As I passed the living room, I stopped short. My hands flew to my mouth and my eyes widened. What a scene. There by the piano bench lay the mouse. There was not a mark on him. I saw simply one tiny drop of blood on the rug and all else was in order. And at the entrance of the living room was Knickerbocker. A picture of the
I turned toward the bedrooms anxious to wake everyone. I knew though that there was no need to hurry. I was confident that Knicky would remain motionless in that position until everyone had seen him.
Knickerbocker really was bugged by our swimming pool. Biting the pool man was not enough. When anyone swam, Knicky circled the pool running and barking. He could not stand being out of reach. Sometimes the children took him in the water, but he would frantically dog paddle in no particular direction. Though I had three hundred reasons at my fingertips why he should suffer, I just couldn’t allow it. It was nice, actually, to see him leery of something. Yet I knew even if it took him several years, he would overcome this. One sunny, sultry hot August afternoon there was much splashing and laughing in our back yard. “Danny,” I called, “Please put that dog in the house. I can’t stand that barking anymore.” Dan ran dripping from the pool and dragged Knick inside. Knick, immediately, according to an eight-year-old eye-witness account, kept on going through the house to the front door, which was being opened by a small neighbor, and took off. “Time out,” I called to the deep water basketball enthusiasts. “Please try to catch the dog.” A barefoot brigade took off. They came back hot and thirsty but victorious. Knickerbocker was beat. He painted and drooled. His fur was matted and dusty. “Come on kids, I’ll make you a milkshake to reward your persistent efforts,” I declared. This was greeted gratefully and everyone trouped outside and gathered around the patio table.
“Oh, no,” Steven moaned, a frothy milk mustache on his lip. “Danny put Knick out back, but I don’t see him.” All the young faces dropped and heads whirled around.
“He can’t have gone out again. He was hot, really steaming.” As Danny spoke I somehow knew. I walked slowly around the pool. I scanned the water and focused on the shallow end. What a sight. There he was, curled up on the bottom step, just his head above the water. His eyes were glazed with delight and relaxation, and he barely acknowledged my presence. I motioned the children over.
“That dog is in the water,” I declared. Knick waited until all of us were close by and staring at him. He looked us over and smiled, as only he can. Then he stood up, the upper half of him rising above the water, wet, matted, atrocious looking. He started out over the pool, looking our way briefly, and jumped in. I mean, he leaped as far as he could. We gasped and stood stunned. As he splashed, he began a controlled dog paddle, making a wide circle and returning to the steps. The children clapped and whooped and laughed in surprise and delight. I just smiled. I knew he had pool plans all along. Knick now had a new territory--- his pool. We were allowed to swim, but there had to be room for him. The pool man observed Knick’s fur build up in the water. He advised us on using a pool sweep machine that swims around and cleans. I vetoed the idea because I just couldn’t tolerate the constant attack I knew Knick would wage. Then he showed us a new machine--- a pool vacuum.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me, “There is no way Knick could get this. It ravels along the bottom of the pool, its tail swishing around vacuuming. It climbs the wall and really is effective.” We were convinced. Our pool vac was installed and Knicky was fascinated and frustrate. It travels around the pool hour after hour, never tiring. I smiled and patted him, assuring him everyone has his
“Oh, Jane, I hate to tell you but I forgot my speech.” We were on our way to a luncheon meeting a couple of weeks later, and I asked my friend to take me back home. “Wait one minute, please,” I asked. “I know just where it is.” I ran up the driveway and into the house through the side door. I dashed toward my bedroom with ears focused in on Bourbon’s hysterical barking. Something was up. Knick barks just to aggravate us. Bourbon only barks when she is upset. I ran toward the back yard and stopped at the sliding glass door, in utter disbelief. The ultimate horror story. Bourbon was soaked. Knick stood by the pool, pawing and gnawing at the pool vac! He had that entire machine out of the water. It was spouting water maybe 100 feet into the air, drenching the yard, the dogs, and me as I frantically ran toward it. I slipped on the wt concrete and landed on the seat of my new suede slacks. “This is it,” I muttered, pulling myself up slowly. My shoes were soaked, my hair in strings as the pool vac kept up its enormous spraying. I wearily pushed the pool vac back into the water and turned away. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the impossible. I knew he must have hung over the edge and dipped his face, front legs, and shoulders into the water to reach the vac as it climbed up the wall. I knew he had to use unbelievable strength to haul the machine out of the pool. This I knew, but right now I only felt contempt. My friend was waiting and I was late. My shoes were ruined. My pants were stuck to my legs. My hair was dripping. My Irish setter was hiding behind a chaise lounge, and I hated that terrier.
Knickerbocker is now nine years old. In those nine years I have aged thirty years and I show it, where he looks exactly the same. I am aware of an aging process in him. All the thoughts and know how are there. Sometimes the desire isn’t. He still knows every time that front door is opened even a crack. His ears stand up and he stiffens, but often he sighs and drifts back off to sleep. When he does feel compelled to reaffirm his position he laves, but he runs with less determination. He teases the children, but ultimately lets them catch him and snuggles in when they carry him home.
He is more open about a need for affection now. It is reminiscent of the old man who embraces his religion. He humbles enough to beg for attention. He will sit motionless for an indefinite period while we scratch behind his ear. If Bourbon is being loved, he no longer glances over in disdain. Now he approaches and nudges his way into the picture. He, admittedly, competes with her.
Even with the apparent changes, the instincts are still there. If there is too much noise in the territory of his nap, he still shows his teeth. If our neighbor’s tiny, thin, helpless male puppy wanders by, Knick will still attack. Thus, I am still plagued by the constant query, “Why have you kept that dog?” I have thought about it often and deeply. I know the surface answers. We found out about his epilepsy before he had fully shown his personality and felt an obligation to him. He has always been a wonderful protector and guard of our property. The children developed the unquestioning love for the beautiful puppy the minute we gathered him up from that
Yet, I believe we feel something more. I feel there is a latent envy involved. The dog does not adhere to a social code. He is not bound by what society thinks of him. He does not tame his desires with a concern for approval. He lives by his instincts, and he pursues without ever overanalyzing. When he needs stroking he asked for it unhaltingly, and when he craves privacy he demands it. He has that beautiful supreme self-confidence and self-trust and shakes off any disappointment without a backward glance. He sets each individual goal for himself, pursues it with utmost strength and devotion, and when it is accomplished he sleeps peacefully and soundly.
The entire story of Knickerboker by Barbara Kirsch will be available for purchase this summer. BarkMagazine.com will let you know! Thank you Barbara for this "WOOF-terful TRUE TAIL"!!!!!
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