by Nick Trout
Of course I was blind to all this matrimonial turbulence, breathless at finally having a dog that would actually live in and stay in our house. And what a dog he was, so different from Cleo, black and tan with oversized ears, snout and, most striking of all, paws. His paws were massive, as though he had been born with the wrong feet, each one several sizes too big.
“What are we going to call him?” asked my father, reining us in when our petting became too exuberant, when the puppy became mouthy in his own defense.
This seemed like an easy question. For as long as I could remember, I was allowed to watch a children’s television show on the BBC called Blue Peter. The show started in 1958 and is still running to this day, and it regularly featured the presenter’s pets. At the time, each of the two male presenters had a German shepherd, one a female called Petra and the other a male called Patch. These were the only other German shepherds I had ever seen, so it seemed perfectly logical that all male dogs of this particular breed be named Patch.
“Patch it is,” said my father, glancing over at my mother, hoping our elation might go some way to melting her icy reception. He was in the wrong and he knew it and having his son name the dog was the clincher. The naming of an animal is like an engagement ring, a betrothal. Once it has been offered and accepted, it’s virtually impossible to take it back. My father had much work to do to mend the rift with my mother, but he truly believed he could turn her around, bring out the dog lover hidden deep inside her, and make her realize his sin was not selfish but motivated by a desire to invigorate and complete his family.
As Patch matured, his wooden-puppet puppy moves smoothed out, coordination, strength, and stamina setting in as he began transforming into a lean and muscular machine. During this time, his floppy ears finally decided to perk up, though the changeover was staggered, one ear up, one ear down for a while, giving him a goofy, slightly perplexed expression as my father worried whether or not he had been sold a lemon. When Patch finally had a pair of pricked ears, he was handsome, classically and beautifully marked and destined to be a big dog, a dog who would always garner respect and the label “formidable.”
Early on it became clear that Dad and I were far more invested and interested in Patch than my sister or, obviously, my mother. Fiona was only a few years old at the time and she quickly discovered that this cute and cuddly fur ball called a dog was actually headstrong, independent, and inquisitive. Dolls and stuffed animals were a whole lot easier to play with—they were indifferent to dress up, they never lost the plot, and they stayed where you put them. And her tendency to scream when she ran around didn’t help matters. What might have been a useful learning experience for Patch, accepting the unpredictable and shrill sounds of a child at play as another normal, nonthreatening stimulus, frequently turned into a chase in which he barreled into her and knocked her down. Looking back, my father realizes he missed a teaching opportunity for both dog and daughter. Consequently Fiona and Patch maintained a relationship that was more civil than genial. More forced roommates than family, they coexisted rather than engaged with one another.
My mother, on the other hand, had a cold facade to maintain. She had never wanted a dog and on some level having Patch around was always a reminder of a moment of weakness in her marriage, a sort of permanent scar left after a brief rift where trust and communication went by the wayside. Unfortunately for her, there were times when I could tell she actually enjoyed the dog’s company. Patch would jump up on the sofa next to her, pad around, and lie down, his head on her lap, chocolate eyes meeting hers, daring her to resist his charm, daring her not to pat his head or stroke his velvety ears, and though she made a fuss, shouting, “Duncan, get this dog of yours off of me,” she would succumb, passing a hand over his head or his bushy tail before he disappeared.
From time to time, when she thought no one was looking, I might catch her talking to Patch, engaging him in puppy banter and play, stopping abruptly and pretending to do something else if she discovered I was there. Her only concession to his merit in our household was her approval of the heightened security he provided by nothing more than his presence.
This apparent division of the sexes in our appreciation of dogs seemed to be written in our genes and, on the surface, gender-linked. I had been given my father’s dog-loving DNA—fascinated by these four-legged creatures, drawn to them, thankful to have them around and part of my life. My sister, on the other hand, seemed to have received my mother’s dog-aversive genes in her DNA—a take-it-or-leave-it attitude of “Share my space but don’t get in my way or cramp my style.”
Despite my personal desire for this dog to be “mine,” it didn’t take very long for me to realize that my relationship with Patch was not, and never would be, the same as his relationship with my father. When I watched the two of them together, Patch seemed more excited, more responsive and satisfied than he ever did around me. It was like the two of them were a couple of teenage girls who had shared their first sleepover—all inside jokes, secret signs, and an exclusive language only they understood.
At first, their rapport and the way Patch chose Dad over the kid whose crocodile tears helped secure his future with our family felt like a betrayal, like I was the friend who got him the introduction and now I was the one getting dumped.
“Why can’t I hold the leash? How come Patch drops the ball at your feet and not mine?”
Briefly, this feeling of being used made me angry at my dad, but it was quickly replaced with another predictable vice—jealousy. Maybe, when I first suggested getting a dog, I should have clarified how this dog was supposed to be mine. He was meant to sleep at the bottom of my bed. He was going to learn my tricks, appear from nowhere when I called his name or whistled my special signal (assuming I eventually learned how to whistle). I would be the envy of friends, family, and strangers who marveled at our relationship, our silent bond and all the adventures we were having. Surely, it was only a matter of time before Patch caught his first bank robber or rescued me from a pack of wild hogs.
Fortunately, whimsy surrendered to reality. When five minutes and a handful of milk bones did not succeed in teaching Patch how to respond appropriately to my cocked-thumb-and-forefinger pistol and play dead, I began to see how much time and effort went into having a dog as a companion. My dad was the one who fed Patch first thing every morning, the one taking him for long walks, the one teaching him basic training skills. As far as I could tell, the two of them weren’t secretly saving lives or solving mysteries and Patch hadn’t learned to sing, let alone play dead, so I could forgive them their camaraderie, as long as I could still take the reigns when my schoolwork lightened up and the time was right for me. In the interim, I learned to accept the fact that my father had acquired a new shadow, no longer black but black and tan, and shaped like a dog.
One time, when Patch was still a puppy, I interrupted the end of a training session in the backyard. Dad waved me over as he was offering praise for a job well done and instead of the usual arbitrary belly rubbing, scratching, patting frenzy that normally ensued, he gently and methodically stroked specific areas of Patch’s fur as the dog sat before him.
“We’ll start with the face,” he whispered, running his hand from muzzle to cheek, one side then the other, “then we’ll go to chin, then ears …”
Patch turned to mush, uncharacteristically relaxed, as if my father were a gifted masseuse. Eventually he toppled over onto his side, the focus in his eyes all weak and wobbly, overwhelmed by the sedative power of his master’s touch.
“And now we’ll do feet,” said Dad, kneading Patch’s toes one by one, “we don’t want him to be shy around his feet. Those big black nails are always going to need a trim from time to time.”
I nodded my approval.
“And tail,” he said, opening his palm wide, sweeping down the entire length, keeping the rhythm slow and even. Patch closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.
“And finally, I’ll give him a scratch in his fa
vorite spot.”
Dad moved to the thin turkey skin of Patch’s armpits and worked his fingers, the dog letting out a sigh as if it was all too much.
This didn’t seem right to me. Armpits were for tickling and other than that they seemed pretty much redundant. Patch wasn’t squirming or giggling so where was the pleasure in scratching a dog’s pits?
“How do you know it’s his favorite spot?” I asked, hoping he would be forced to reveal another of their secrets.
Dad smiled.
“You only have to look at him to know. And think about it. It’s one of the few places on his body he will never be able to properly scratch himself. He can’t easily reach his armpit. He can’t rub it against a tree. It’s got to feel good me doing it for him.”
My little fingers joined my dad’s and Patch approved, adjusting his forelimb to put me in just the right spot. I looked over at my father as he raised an eyebrow, moving his own hand away as I continued to scratch, the transition seamless, Patch lost in tranquil ecstasy. It was my first and best lesson in animal handling.
My only genuine birthday party was compensation for the disasters of Christmas past. For a while there, I had been cursed, the victim of back-to-back catastrophes on what should have been the most important day of the year. Struck down by German measles when I was six years old and confined to bed in a state of feverish delirium, all I could remember was my sister’s squeals of delight as she savored the limelight. The next Christmas promised to be the best ever, since Fiona and I had both been given our dream presents—identical big orange bouncy inflatable kangaroos, the kind you straddled and hopped around on. After no more than two minutes, I parked my new mode of transport near a gas fire, eliciting an impressive explosion and floods of tears while Fiona savored all her bouncy fun, affording me a pitying glance and a lazy royal wave as she hopped away. There would be no second chance, no replacement for me. My gift was intangible, boring, and a miserable reminder—a lesson in the value of taking proper care of my things.
So the offer to host an actual birthday party with cake and games and the promise of far more presents than I normally received seemed too good to be true.
“What about Patch?” said Fiona, obviously jealous and trying her best to scupper my prospects. “He’ll scare people.”
Mum nodded her agreement as though the women were once more united, naysayers using their indifference to Patch as an excuse to cancel.
“Don’t you worry about Patch,” said my father. “He’s older and a lot less excitable than he used to be. I’ll keep him locked up in our bedroom. It’ll only be for … what … an hour or two.”
I smiled, Fiona frowned, and we all waited for my big day to arrive.
When it did, I was rewarded with an enormous pile of gift-wrapped presents and the torture of my mother’s insistence that I not open them until after my guests had left. The gang was all there—Amanda, Timmy and Keith, and a number of friends from school. With great enthusiasm we played “Simon says” and “Pass the Parcel” before chowing down on sandwiches and chips, blowing out candles, and getting chocolate cake all over our faces. I was too excited to think about Patch pacing overhead, eager to join in all the fun, in part because I never heard him barking or trying to scratch his way out of his confinement.
Eventually someone suggested we take the party into the backyard so that we could play blindman’s bluff, which required more open space. Timmy volunteered to be “it” and put on a blindfold as we all circled, goaded, and teased, whooping and screaming with every failed attempt he made to tag us. I can still see him now, hands outstretched, groping and fumbling as the screams changed in an instant from delight to fear, merging into a unified wailing chorus as an enormous German shepherd burst from the front door and came bounding toward us.
To this day, Fiona denies any involvement in the affair, though her duplicitous and satisfied smirk as my mother vowed I would never have another birthday party made her seem a little too pleased. However it happened, Patch was on the loose and excited to catch up and join in all the fun. Bear in mind there were only two kids not screaming: me, because I knew there was absolutely nothing to fear, and Timmy, because he couldn’t see what was coming.
If you’re imagining a military attack dog taking down a hostile target then think again. Patch had become our family dog, desperate to be included, cantering around with a spring in his step, smiling, long pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. His biggest threat was his body weight and momentum, not his teeth. He wasn’t barking or lunging or posturing. This may have been his turf, but there was nothing aggressive or territorial in his behavior. Still, when Timmy finally sensed something was wrong and took off the blindfold, I couldn’t blame him for being afraid. Besides, the Brothers Toenail had little or no experience with pets except for a goldfish and we already know what became of him.
So Timmy took off after the other kids, headed for the bottom of the yard where there was a good climbing tree and the possibility of an aerial escape from danger. I made a grab for Patch, slowed him down, and Timmy made it, but not without claiming his bottom had come within a gnat’s whisker of being devoured by the Hound of the Baskervilles.
Well, you can imagine the scene at the parent pickup, Patch’s predatory attack the only topic of conversation among all the kids, my mother leaving my father to handle the situation, to apologize, to reassure. Irate parents whisked their offspring away while they bombarded him with questions. Didn’t he understand kids were at higher risk for being bitten because they naturally vocalize and run, engaging an aggressive dog in a chase scenario? And just look at the dog, a German shepherd, and a male one at that, a breed exploited for its aggressive behavior. Could he ensure that this never happened again? They certainly had one suggestion that would ensure it never happened again.
Thankfully, through a combination of groveling apologies, promises never to host a similar event (not that any of the kids would have attended), and poor Timmy having his bottom inspected in front of all of us by his mother, with not a scratch in sight, my father and Patch were reluctantly forgiven.
With everyone gone, I went back inside the house. Patch was outside in the backyard playing ball with my father, relieved to be burning off some energy, unaware of all the fuss. It didn’t seem fair that he had been so misunderstood. He’d done nothing wrong.
I looked over at the pile of presents, looked out back at my father and our dog.
The presents could wait a while longer.
Patch’s spirited antics at my birthday party persuaded my dad to be even more vigilant about keeping him away from strangers, precisely the opposite of what he should have done. But I do understand his intentions. Duncan had struggled through his twenties, finally starting to get his life in order, learning a trade as an electrician, loving it and hoping that one day he might be good enough to teach electrical engineering to others. In a small and simple way, Patch had played his part in helping the man settle, giving him structure and routine, making him set aside their exercise time, time well spent on reflection and contemplation.
More than any other breed of dog I encounter in my work, German shepherds seem inclined to gravitate to one particular individual in their pack. This relationship is special and they develop a unique chemistry. The dog is tuned in, checks in, relates to, anticipates, and connects in a manner altogether different from its behavior toward everyone else. Having locked on tight, the human who has earned a German shepherd’s trust and respect will, in return, be rewarded with unquestionable and abiding loyalty.
Understandably, my father savored this unique bond, a relationship with a kindred spirit, so different from anything else in his life. Maybe he was afraid of everything he stood to lose if Patch misbehaved in public, frightening, let alone injuring, children. We could also blame his desire to nurture a dog who would provide security for our household; after all, his original sales pitch had been based on the dog’s innate ability to deter the Prowler. What good was a d
og that wagged his tail or licked the hand of every stranger who dropped by?
In the end, Patch’s limited socialization skills made two distinct impressions on me—sometimes regret and sometimes pride.
Patch took his responsibility as the family bodyguard very seriously, on call 24/7, offering constant surveillance, prepared to protect and defend against any potential threat, no matter what form it might take. At that time, long before the advent of hybrid vehicles, Britain was inundated with one particular electric vehicle—the so-called milk float. Operated by a milkman, these pokey little trucks would glide around neighborhoods making their deliveries in the wee hours of the morning, taking away the empty bottles and replacing them with fresh milk just in time for breakfast. Generally, our milkman, George, did not conform to this disagreeable schedule, invariably pulling up after breakfast had been served, limiting my options to toast and marmalade. However, what he lacked in punctuality, he made up for in personality, a big smile permanently pasted on his face, always armed with a wisecrack, a joke, or a condemnation of the British weather. If I timed it right, I could meet him at the front door, where it was his habit to put down his milk, pick me up, throw me into the air, and catch me on the way down. It was all innocent fun, something that, according to my father, earned him the label “jolly.” These days I would have been torn from his arms, and the poor man reported to his manager, and we’d be online trying to discover if George was actually a registered sex offender!