Baron

Because of Baron, it's always been important to me that my dogs exude maximum friendliness. 

Good old Gracie ticks all the boxes. 

We had the sidewalk to ourselves in the home stretch of our walk when I notice that Gracie, who'd been trotting along at an easy 15 feet ahead of me, suddenly slows her pace. As I cruise up alongside her, she carefully moves into her "heel" position at my left side, and presses herself against my leg. 

A quick look tells me everything.

Across the street, walking with his own human, is a big black dog. Short-haired and long-legged with upright triangular ears, dogs with these features seem to intimidate Gracie, and I suspect she's had some unfortunate encounters with big black dogs in her past.

I understand exactly how she feels. 

* * * * *

His name was Baron. 

He was an big black dog with sleek fur and triangle-y stand-up ears, and he lived at the far end of my little lakeside neighborhood. Baron spent most days hanging out in his open garage which stood just a few feet off the narrow track that passed for a neighborhood road. With my mom, I'd encountered Baron many times; he'd bark an aggressive blue streak at us, but when my mother boldly commanded him to go home, he would obediently shut his mouth and slink back into the shadows of the garage. 

Although some people mistake Gracie for a little red bear, 

I've never met a single person who was afraid of her.

One winter day when I was a bitty little thing, my mother and my younger brothers and I went to visit some newfound family friends who lived in the next neighborhood over from ours, beyond Baron's house. Wrapped up against the cold, I trudged with my mom along our familiar snow-covered neighborhood lane as it passed the back sides of houses that fronted onto the lake, past Baron's house, along an unfamiliar section of beach, across an even more unfamiliar lakeside park and down a completely foreign lane to our friends' house. 

It was, for my experience, a long, exciting and wildly exotic journey.

We visited for an hour before my mom announced that it was time to get home for my baby brother's mid-morning nap. I was more than happy to head back, but my playmate announced that she was not ready for me to go. In fact, she wanted me to stay for lunch. 

Quickly, the moms put together a plan for me to do just that. They determined that I could walk back home by myself - "You know the way; just follow the lake," my mom coached me - and so it was decided.

A few hours later, this unfamiliar mother bundled me up in my Michigan snowsuit, called my mom to tell her I was on my way, and gently pushed me out the door.

I should probably mention that I was just barely four years old. 

And I was easily a half mile away from home. 

I was a cautious but capable little thing, and I brought all my powers to bear on my journey. The first leg of the trip towards home - down the friends' lane, through the park, across the beach - was formidable. But I remembered my mother's advice - just follow the lake - and soon enough, I found myself back in the more familiar terrain of my own neighborhood. 

Weak with relief, I trudged along the snowy path toward home. The scary part of my trip was over.

She will not bark in your face. Ever. I promise. 

But I had forgotten all about Baron. And sure enough, just as I passed by his garage, he came rushing out. His big, black face staring defiantly into mine, Baron began to bark.

I was terrified. 

I thought of how my mom handled Baron. How she stood her ground in front of him, and commanded him to go home. I summoned up all of my four-year-old nerve and delivered the same message: "Baron, go home!"

But Baron did not go home. 

In fact, Baron stepped closer to me. And then closer again. Barking and snarling with increasing enthusiasm. His flashing white teeth terrified me and all I could think of to do was to back up.

I backed up around the perimeter of his fenced-in yard.

I backed up to the edge of the frozen lake. 

Baron followed me, matching every one of my backward steps with a forward step of his own.

His barking intensified.

Now he had me pinned up against the shore of the lake. Desperately seeking an avenue of escape, I saw only one option. I backed up and out onto the well-frozen ice. 

Baron still followed me.

In fact, he seemed to gain confidence as my terror grew. 

Further and further out onto the ice he forced me, barking with every step. While I was slowly making progress toward my house, I was back-stepping further and further away from shore. At least a hundred feet out in the middle of the desolately empty and icy frozen lake. 

At this point, I was sobbing uncontrollably, icy tears rolling down my face, terrified beyond words.

And then I looked up.

High on the hill above the lake sat my house, strong and safe.

Against the white snow, I saw a tiny figure rushing across our yard and down the steps toward the shore. 

My mother was coming to save me.

The general lay of the land. 

Later, I learned that since the phone call notifying her of my departure, she'd been watching for me, stepping out the door and peering down the lane from time to time in hopes of seeing me marching toward home. It was after a handful of these lookouts that she finally noticed a tiny child standing in the middle of the frozen lake as a big black dog stood between her and the shore. That quick glance explained everything.

Still sobbing, I stayed frozen on the spot as my mother slipped out onto the ice, crossed the considerable distance to where I stood, and scooped me up in her arms. She shooed away the still barking Baron, then quickly carried me toward home.

* * * * *

Gracie is still pressing her big, strong, shaggy red body against my leg, and she glances across the street, keeping her eye on this big black stranger. 

He may be perfectly harmless but I understand.

I reach down to pat Gracie's back as we pass the Baron look-alike, and I quickly walk my girl toward home.