A dog has just one bite

Dad was always concerned about safety. He taught Dave how to use the .22 rifle within strict rules. Being a girl, I wasn’t allowed to shoot, but I did have to learn to use the hatchet and double-bladed axe safely so I could help split wood for the stove. A carpenter by trade, Dad also taught us to hammer nails without hitting our fingers.

When we got Pogo, our German Shepherd cross, Dad lectured us on the relationship between human and dog. We had to be masterful with the dog. We must never be cruel, but had to let him know who was boss. On that spring day he assessed our new pet with a dispassionate eye. "A dog has just one bite." His voice held finality. At first, I didn't comprehend. Then Dave asked the question I was trying to formulate.

"What do you mean, Daddy, one bite?"

"Well, you see, a dog that bites has to be put down."

My brother and I exchanged a look. The shock in Dave’s eyes mirrored my own dismay.

He turned back to Dad. "But what if it's the human's fault?"

I nodded eagerly. "Yeah, what if the person teases the dog until it gets mad?" We knew better than to tease animals, but some kids didn’t. Like the neighbour girl, Diane.

Dave chimed in. "Yeah, or what if the dog is guarding something, the way Pogo guards your car?" Dad said nothing, and my brother explained his reasoning. For a guard dog, surely it was fair for him to bite a bad guy on behalf of his master?

That sounded logical, and I waited expectantly. But the look in Dad’s blue eyes dashed my hopes even before he opened his mouth. With no trace of doubt or uncertainty, he repeated his dictum. "A dog that bites has to be put down." As Dave and I turned away dejected, Pogo came over wagging his tail. He wanted a walk, so we headed for the river.

It was a hot day in June when Pogo bit Diane. It happened like fate. She came to the door to see if I could come out, and for no reason I could see, Pogo jumped up and nipped her on the nose. He didn’t draw blood, but she went home crying. Nothing more was said at home, but the next day after school, Pogo wasn’t there to greet me. Dropping my bag, I went out on the porch and called loudly, "Pogo, Po-go."

No response. Instinct told me he was gone, but I hoped I was wrong. It was Thursday, and Dave wasn’t home. He'd gone straight to Garth's house to watch Paladin. Mom didn't like us to watch westerns, especially "Have Gun will Travel." There was a gun in the title, so she deemed it unsuitable.

"Po-go." Disconsolate, I called a few more times. After awhile, I went back in and looked in the open bedroom door. Dad was lying on his back reading a book, his soft grey hair on end, his drugstore reading glasses halfway down his nose, and one ankle crossed over the other.

"Where's Pogo?" I asked from the doorway.

No response. He seemed absorbed in his reading. I wasn’t sure he'd heard me, but I didn't repeat the question. A part of me didn't want an answer. The silence left room for denial. Meanwhile the talk of one bite echoed in my head. Pogo was normally gentle, but there was no denying he’d crossed the line. Even worse, he bit a little kid. No matter that he hadn't really hurt her, only scared her. No matter that she might possibly have asked for it. No matter that she had no business checking to see if I wanted to come out, since the last thing I wanted to do was risk my dignity by playing with someone three years younger.

I walked out the long driveway to the road, a T-junction where Braun Street met Agar Avenue. Hoping in vain to see him loping toward me, I called his name down each of the deserted gravel roads. Then I turned and went to the back of our yard where it bordered the bush. Again and again I called, "Po-go. Po-go. Here boy!" As hope faded, my voice grew toneless.

All this time, Dad lay on his bed in the house, hidden behind his book. When Mom came home and made his lunch, it was nearly four. This time he’d have to leave for work without Pogo. More than once he’d told us how Pogo growled a warning when a stranger came too near. Tonight there would be no dog to lie and guard the car until his shift was over. 

Once Dad’s car was out of sight, I turned to face Mom. "Where's Pogo?"

"I'm sorry, my dear. Pogo won't be back."

My voice rose to a wail. "How do you know?"

"Well, you know he bit Diane. We're lucky they're good neighbours. They could have made trouble. Someone else might have sued us."

"She was probably teasing him again," I said miserably.

Mom’s voice was gentle as she went on. "You see, my dear, once they bite someone, you can never be sure. Pogo was a big dog. He could have really hurt someone."

Was. She said was. "You mean he's dead?"

"I'm sorry, my darling. Just one bullet."

At that, I was out the door and running.

"He didn't suffer." Mom's voice rose behind me, following on the wind as I fled.

Looking back now, I feel the most profound compassion for my father, veteran of the war, proud member of the Royal Canadian Naval Volunteer Reserve. A peerless warrior, he thought he had to maintain his authority and take the action he deemed right. On that long-ago day, I was angry, and I judged him a coward for refusing to admit his deed. Now I know he too felt the loss of Pogo, and I feel sure he knew his children's grief. He simply couldn’t speak of it.