Theresa Lewis

When we were kids, mom decided we had to get a Saint Bernard dog. He was beautiful, but totally untrained. He was considered to be the runt of the litter because his proportions were not standard. He could never be a show dog, not that we wanted a show dog. We simply wanted a pet. Our dog, Brandy, was a towering seven feet tall when he stood on his hind legs.

Needless to say, because of his size and his youth, he was extremely powerful. It was our job to take him for walks around the neighbourhood. Sometimes we girls would try to walk him, but Brandy had a mind of his own. I can honestly say that I have been dragged through many a yard and countless shrubs. I soon learned that if it was my turn to take him out, I would only do it after dark and late at night when there were fewer distractions. Brandy would bolt for birds, squirrels, other dogs, cats and even small children.

Back in those days, we had no dog whisperers to teach us what we needed to know about training dogs. It was all done by trial and error…mostly error, I have to say. When Brandy decided to bolt, he dragged his walker through people’s gardens and bushes and across roadways, all at lightning speed. There was never a chance for anyone to gather their wits and try to control him.  Except for my mother, we all had our horrifying experiences with Brandy. Walking him was like walking a wild stallion. His bodily evacuations were the size of a horse’s. When neighbours complained about finding lumps in their gardens, there was no way to deny that our dog had been the benefactor of those gifts. One by one, we girls would back off walking him. Taking the dog out then became the responsibility of my brothers.

One night, my dad came home around midnight and noticed that Brandy was dancing around on his tippy toes. He asked all of us when the last time was that the dog had been taken out. No one knew the answer. My dad was annoyed and decided that he would take the dog out for his walk. That was my dad’s first and last time.

The reason my dad had come home so late was because he had been out at the tavern with his buddies after work. We all tried to dissuade him from walking the dog for more reasons than I can count. First of all, it was a horribly cold night in January. My dad was still wearing his business suit with a white shirt and tie. The man never wore winter boots; he wore only those silly toe rubbers. His winter coat was a long black woollen one that was very expensive. On his head, he always wore a grey fedora. No part of his attire was conducive to dog walking. We all tried to tell him that, but he refused to listen. Another reason we gave him was that there was no way he could control the dog. Dad insisted he could. He said that all he had to do was to tie the dog’s leash tightly around his hand and wrist and all would be fine. With that, he opened the front door and dog and dad exploded out of the house.

My dad came back into the house barely five minutes later. He was missing his foolish toe rubbers, his grey felt fedora, his glasses and the dog. His beautiful expensive winter coat and business suit were covered in slush and grime. His necktie was in tatters as was his white dress shirt. He was panting from having run a race for his life while doing a Houdidni escape to extricate himself from the dog’s leash. My sister immediately ran outside to find the dog as well as to find my dad’s missing apparel. Like Hansel and Gretel following the trail of breadcrumbs, she followed the trail of glasses, rubbers and hat until it all led to where the dog had stopped.

Not too much was said by anyone but my mother who muttered under her breath that dad was a silly old fool. I can assure you that my dad never, ever walked the dog again after that ordeal.

Weeks later, dad said that the dog had dragged him around the corner then across the street. He had to admit that Brandy was the most powerful dog he had ever known.

It took a long time to train Brandy not to charge off down the street, but somehow my brothers did manage to train him. Once they trained him to do what they wanted, they thought of other mischievous things to train Brandy to do. One thing they taught him was to answer the phone when it rang. Brandy would grab it in his mouth, toss it on the floor and bark into it. That trick went over like a lead balloon with mom.

Another trick they taught him was to take my father’s grey felt fedora off his head when he arrived home from work. The dog would run up behind my dad and stand up on his hind legs with his paws on dad’s shoulders and snatch his hat off his head. It was cute and funny until one day when he did it; he caught my dad by surprise, hit him too hard on his back and knocked him face first into the closet. I honestly don’t know what my parents ever did to warrant having such monsters for children.

The End