Читать книгу A Tail of Two Cities - Debbie (Mommy) Stump - Страница 9

Chapter 3

Kujo

Since our new friend had arrived on a weekend, George and I had some time to get to know him while things were quiet and construction was at a standstill. There was no more freedom at this point, to avoid another connection with the electric fence. George had installed a strong rope to the secondary garage on the property and close to the motor home where we could keep tabs on Scoobie’s activities.

We discussed changing his name since neither of us liked it much. No reflection on the cartoon character, but my husband preferred names like “Ralph” or “LeRoy.” My argument was that according to his previous “parents,” he had had a difficult beginning. Either born in the pound or taken there soon after, his first owner had abused him, which became more evident as time went on. Aside from a terrible scar on his leg, he was nervous around sharp, loud noises, cowered when anyone removed their belt, winced and hid from the garden hose, things from which he never recovered. It was almost impossible to give him a bath outside with a garden hose when the weather was hot. We would use a bucket of warm water, sponge it on him, then rinse him with more buckets of clear water. Later in his life, we were able to sneak the hose in from the back and use on a low trickle to accomplish the job. We decided to leave his name as it was but to spell it “Scoobie” to distinguish him from the more famous pooch. As it turned out, our grandchildren thought it was pretty neat having a real life Scooby-Doo in the family!

Jim and his wife, Terri, had not abused the dog, but simply didn’t have time to deal with his many needs. While at work, he was tied to a tree in their backyard, at which time, a neighbor would often tease him. He would break free of his restraints and run wildly through lawns, stand in the middle of the street, stopping traffic, and not coming when they called. Finally, he would exhaust himself and return to his home. This was just not the atmosphere in which to produce a sweet, cuddly pet.

The week began, bringing crews of workers to the construction site. We tied Scoobie to his spot in the yard where we could keep an eye on him. He was busy watching people come and go. George stopped often to give him a scratch on the head and talk to him. I visited on my way in and out of the house, checking its progress. This went on for several days until we heard the terrible noise of snarling, growling, and men yelling. George ran from the garage and I from the interior of the coach to find one of the workers with blood running down his leg and some of the others looking on.

What had happened? He claimed that the dog just attacked him for no reason. Panic filled my heart, and my stomach went into a knot. George spoke with the man, who said he was fine with only a superficial wound. Yes, Scoobie had all his shots. We gave the worker money enough for a new pair of work pants and all was well—for a few days until a similar situation occurred! Again, we offered to purchase a new pair of pants and decided that we should find another place to tie the dog, at least during working hours.

Sometime in March, George made a business trip to PA since it was nearing tax season. I had moved Scoobie back over to the garage while I was around the house that day to observe his behavior. I would often go out to talk to the dog in our constant attempt to socialize him. He maintained a friendly, playful demeanor around our family as he adjusted to his new surroundings. He was even very gentle with our toddler-aged grandchildren and never offered to jump on them or knock them down. We were extremely vigilant, though, still not knowing much about his violent outbursts.

While sitting at the kitchen table in the motor home, I watched the workers putting shingles on the roof. They pounded diligently, trying to cover the area at the back of the house over the home office and were in very clear view of my window. In class A coaches, the windows are always tinted to soothe the heat and glare of the sun, so I had a full panorama of the yard and house but could not be seen from the outside. One man was working on the corner closest to the garage when I heard him yelling. I stopped to take notice of what he was saying and why he was leaning over the edge of the eaves. He was taunting the dog, making him bark. The more he barked, the louder the man got. Finally, the worker got up, climbed into the bedroom window, and in a few seconds, he had come downstairs and was out the back door on the walkway leading to the garage. This walk split and the left side went to the driveway where the work trucks were parked.

Scoobie was barking more than ever now that the man was on his level and had stopped just mere inches out of the dog’s reach. His desired prey continued to taunt him, holding out his hand with a small piece of food in it. Becoming more furious by the second, I threw open the door of the coach and yelled, “Just what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Lady, I’m just trying to get to my truck!” was his surprised reply, thinking that no one was around.

“I’ve been watching you, and I saw what was going on. You are able to access your truck, and I suggest you get in it and don’t ever come back! If I see you taunt this dog again, I’ll turn him loose and let him handle the situation!”

That night, when George called from PA, I related the story and told him that we could have an explanation for some of the attacks. We still feared for possible lawsuits, so we took every precaution to keep Scoobie away from imminent danger. I must say that I did not see that potential victim on the jobsite again.

Even with our protection, there were six such incidents that spring before we headed north for the summer. We bought so many new pants I actually considered getting my mom’s tea cart and filling it with jeans of varied sizes. Then whenever we had another incident, I could just wheel it out and let them choose a pair. Sometimes it was just easier to hand them twenty dollars and keep praying that no one turned us in.

If you’ve lived or vacationed in the state of Florida, you know that it could not exist without the Hispanic workforce. This is probably most evident in the field of home construction. We are in awe at the way they hung drywall on stilts—just one of their many gifts. They take great pride in their work, and we are so grateful for their many talents. Even before Scoobie developed his ferocious reputation, we noticed that the Mexicans on our job had a wide path worn around the outer edge of the backyard in order to avoid the dog’s reach. They spoke no English, and George spoke no Spanish except perhaps a couple words that he’d heard on TV.

One day, while he puttered in the yard, the workers were making their way back around the perimeter. They pointed to Scoobie and attempted to ask something about him. George assumed that it was in reference to his bad attitude and proceeded to point to him and reply “Kujo! Kujo!” The men turned white and began to run. After that, they never ate lunch in the grass again, but stayed on the driveway close to the door where they could, I assume, run for cover.