Mr Bill

Obviously, compared to Cesar Milan, I got nothing. But I know Dogs.

I grew up with dogs. A while back I mentioned one of the more memorable canines in my history, but I'm afraid I misspoke in that telling;  the truth is I don't recall us ever owning a dog less than 60cm (nearly 2 feet) at the shoulder. I guarantee I never had to bend down to pet one of our full-grown dogs.

Ever.

At one point, Mom had posted "Large Dogs" in sticky letters on the side of our house in the Sticks to advise the uninitiated what they would find if they ventured further up the driveway, into the back yard. "'Beware of Dogs' makes people think they're dangerous," she'd said. "I just want people to know they're there."

That made sense, and still does. It's my observation that dogs, no matter the size, are only dangerous if you do something stupid.

You saw the plural. Mom and Dad were always of the opinion that a pair of dogs was better than one; they keep each other company. One was usually several years older than the other, and helped train the new pup into the pack.

I'm pretty sure the only reason I survived childhood in the Sticks was because of our dogs. Well... that's not exactly right.

The only reason I survived to the age of seven to move to the sticks was because of our first dog. When Mom, at her wit's end, would finally give up trying to find me, my brother The Artist would hold a piece of my clothing for the dog to smell and send him after me.

And then the dog would lead me home, covered in mud, sticks and glory having spent several blissful  hours playing on the banks of the Columbia river.

As stated - the dog routinely saved me. Mostly from infanticide.

To this day I recall my last moments with that dog. I suspect I was his last human contact before passing - he went downstairs in the house in the Sticks, knowing it was time, accepted his friendly, familiar pat from me, looking up at me with a  smile on my way up for breakfast, and that was that.

I was eleven. So was he. That Hurt.

And, as it turns out, He wasn't The Dog.

Dad, as usual, picked out The Dog. He was from a litter of a police shepherd and an unregistered purebred Alsatian shepherd, and big and clunky as a puppy, brought home because he was inquisitive. He was calm, even-tempered and didn't bark often. He was also energetic, athletic, and very, very intelligent.

He would also become gigantic.

Dad named him after a Norse God and a local Glacier. The Artist took note of his placid, accepting demeanor and dubbed him Mr. Bill.

When he was four years old I would run him and the other dog on a spur of Highway 3 that had been bypassed by the new construction. I used a Chevy Blazer. I clocked him at 35 miles an hour in the broken terrain of the roadside ditch. Fallen trees and all.

I would play with the dogs. We'd wrestle. The Dog was big and strong, but my reflexes were sharpened from playing with the older dog, a lightning fast Norwegian elk-hound cross that was running to fat. I'd alternately tap her cheeks, and she'd try to relieve me of my fingers.

Great fun. Excellent for your hand-eye coordination. People wondered why my forearms were commonly scratched all to hell up to the elbows.

And she made it so The Dog couldn't compensate for my dodge. We chased each other around the yard a lot - usually ending with me catching him by the scruff of the neck in mid lunge, neatly avoiding his playfully snapping enormous fangs, and pinning him.

My friend the Forester tells me both of those games were fairly terrifying to watch.

The Dog, however, gave Dad fits as he would not be contained in the yard. Dad eventually had the backyard fences to six feet, with prison-like chicken wire sloping inwards on wood frames. And he'd still clear it.

And would pretend he couldn't hear you calling him.

To my knowledge, both times The Dog ever harmed a human being were by pure chance. One of the neighbourhood kids was playing tag with a group in our back yard and tripped over him. The Dog, used to this sort of thing with us, rolled up with his forepaws extended and caught the kid in the armpit with a dew claw. Drew blood, of course. Mom watched it happen.

Quite naturally, the kid screamed blue murder that The Dog bit him, and the RCMP were called.

Mom relayed what she saw, and the officer sensibly realized that if That Dog bit a ten year old, the ten year old would be short an arm.

And that's when she posted her sign.

The other time involved my brother, The Artist, who still sports a scar on his lip. We suspect The Dog had become senile at that point - that happened not long before he'd passed. But, as usual, I digress.

Dad was, however, becoming concerned that he'd have to do something as The Dog - while being probably the most benign family pet we could have, was a potential menace to the local wildlife. That was shortly after we finally got him off the elk he had chased across the Elk River.

The Dog solved the problem for Dad by waking up one morning with retinal detachment. Evidently it's a common genetic failing in the breed. At six years of age, The Dog was entirely blind.

It kept him on the ground, and cautious about sticking around. It also gave him milky white eyes from cataracts, making him even more terrifying to meet at the door of the house.

But it also had an effect on his judgement.

This would explain why, at 4am one morning on the last camping trip I went on with The Dog, he decided that porcupine might taste as good as it smelled, and got his muzzle judiciously laced with over a hundred quills for his trouble.

These things happen. The seriously unfortunate bit was that it happened on the first night in to a 3 day at Fish Lake.

Obviously, Mom, Dad and I cancelled the trip that morning, and rolled home, with a short stop in Fernie at the closest Vet.

I, being vaguely gorilla-shaped, got to carry the 60 kilo (that's a little over 130 pounds for my southern friends), blind, drooling, semi-conscious shepherd back to the truck. I chalked it up to Karma. At least he was all right.

The elk-hound was now his eyes. And when she passed shortly after, the New Dog picked up the slack... and appropriately so.

The New Dog was a yellow Lab Mom jokingly named after Dad's favorite libation, as Dad was wont to yell that upon entry to the house.

"Now," she'd said, "at least he'll be calling the dog."

If the Shepherd was intelligent, The Lab was a freaking genius. By the time he was barely a year old, I - visiting from University at this point - watched him drop his favourite kong in a 4 gallon pail of rainwater because he knew The Dog wouldn't be able to find it.

Most of all, The Dog trained me brilliantly with regard to how to approach and handle other dogs.

I  put myself though University working as a Security Guard, among other  things. One evening, the wife of one of the tradesmen drove up through  my gate house to have lunch with her husband. I walked up, handed the sign-in sheet to her, and stepped over to the big Rottweiler in the bed of the truck and was ruffling his ears with both hands, talking to him the way one speaks to a dog when one is ruffling his ears with both  hands.

She stared at me in open mouthed astonishment. "He NEVER lets anybody do that."

I shrugged in an offhand manner. "We're in the same business,"  I told her.