CHAPTER 23

The new job in Santa Rosa meant that I had an hour’s drive in the morning, another hour at the end of the day. I took off early in the afternoon, and stopped at the Humane Society in Novato. The building resounded with barking and when the volunteer led me into the kennels, the barking increased.

“This is what we have right now,” she said. We walked along the row of cages, the dogs pressing against the wires we passed. A Chihuahua, some other tiny dogs that yipped rather than barked, a big white-coated dog whose bark was a significant bass, a mixture of discarded or abused animals. We came to the last cage where a German shepherd, somewhat the worse for wear, coat shaggy, did not press against the wire. It lay in the back of the cage, watching us.

“This is Grizzly,” she said. “He looks calm, but he’s deceptive.” She moved closer, stopped and put her hand on the latch that secured the cage door and the dog bolted at her, slammed into the cage door, growling.

“He looks out of control,” I said.

“No. It’s a peculiarity of dogs like him. He’s intensively protective of wherever he lives. If we put a leash on him, you’ll find that he’s quite manageable.”

“You mean if I were to take a dog like that home, he would attack anyone who came to my doorstep?”

“That’s the drawback with this dog. He’s probably too old to be re-trained. Anyone who takes this dog will have to deal with that problem. It’s one of the reasons he’s still with us. A couple of times he got taken, only to be brought back because he went after visitors or the mailman or a pizza delivery boy.”

“I’m looking for a dog that can be left alone in my house, frighten off prowlers.”

“As long as he can’t get at the prowler, he might be a good fit.” She held out a leash. “You can take him for a walk. We have a big lawn area outside the back of the kennels.”

She began to unlatch the door to the cage and the dog came at the door again. “Good dog,” she said, reaching into her pocket for a doggie treat. She held out her hand and the dog stopped growling, sniffed at her hand through the wires. She opened the door, clipped the leash on the dog’s collar, and it came out of the cage gingerly, taking the treat from her outstretched hand.

“He knows me,” she said. “I’m the one who walks him. Once he gets to know who feeds him, who cares for him, he’ll do what you say. But he takes a lot of getting used to.” She handed the leash to me. “Out that door,” she said. “If you meet other dogs, he’s good with them. He’s a great dog but the only problem is that territorial nonsense.”

I took the dog outside. It pulled at the leash, sniffed at bushes, and was generally well mannered. It seemed a fortuitous meeting. When I got back inside I said, “What’s the procedure in adopting a dog like that?”

“There’s paperwork. We send somebody to check out your house. You give us some background information and if there’s nothing untoward, you’re cleared. There’s a three hundred dollar fee. It’s one of the ways we finance what we do. And there’s a two-week trial period. If anything goes wrong, you can bring the dog back. You have to register the dog with a vet. There’s a good one in Fairfax, where you live. And that’s it.”

I spent the next half hour filling out the papers, gave them a check and drove home. If all went well, I could pick up the dog in three days. The only dog I was familiar with was the puppy we bought for our daughter when she graduated from sixth grade. It was seven years old when she was killed, and my wife had given the dog to a friend of our daughter. She couldn’t bear to have the dog around the house. But when the dog grew old and cantankerous, the friend gave the dog back to me and I kept it until I had to put it down. And now I would have a new dog. One that would lunge at the door the next time anybody scratched at it. If anyone did.