Fighting Peter

FIGHTING PETER
Peter was not a pretty dog. In the days of his youth, even before
battle scars and furrows of the passing years had gently chiseled away
at his exterior, he was never known as a handsome boy.

Predominantly black in color, with dark red brindled patches hung
carelessly upon his person, Peter somehow projected the appearance of a
person wearing a ragged, ill-fitting jacket. This unusual presentation
was further enhanced by a shock of white fur extending about the base
of his neck, forming an irregular collar. Although the dog's origins
and lineage were uncertain, it was generally agreed by those
knowledgeable in such matters, that Peter was about three years old.
English Staffordshire bull terrier by inclination, with possible
addition of American Pit Bull Terrier stock. Also considered was a
large head, wide chest and short sturdy legs. A tattered left ear was
seldom mentioned. Obviously having earned this badge of courage in
combat, it should be worn with pride. In truth, it was the very calling
card of a tried and tested warrior.

It may be that my description of Peter implied that he was downright
ugly. This was certainly not the case. Rather an overall impression was
one of joviality; a rough tough honest fellow, ever ready to greet a
new day. Always happy to make a new friend.

My first meeting with Peter was in late August 1961. I was thirteen
years of age; a schoolboy temporarily paroled from London's inner city
school system, free to spend six gloriously happy weeks of summer
vacation with delightful and slightly eccentric relatives at my
grandfather's farm.

Mother's family, consisting of my favorite Aunt, two Uncles and
Grandfather, lived in splendidly rural isolation.

Collectively they farmed seventy acres of rich, peaceful meadowland,
situated in the heart of England's Berkshire Downs. The farm supplied
every want and need of the family. There were large vegetable gardens
and fruit orchards, milk was taken fresh from the cows, bees gave
freely of their honey, chickens and ducks donated a seemingly
inexhaustible supply of eggs. Cold clear water was pumped by hand from
several covered wells.

If there was ever a canine haven free from traffic, unreasonable
neighbors and humiliating leash laws, Grandfather's farm was surely the
place. Oddly, in spite of the solitude, space and abundant natural
resources, there were no pets of any description at the house. No
housedog yawned and stretched in front of the open hearth on a chilly
winter's evening. Not even a solitary cat prowled the paths and
gardens. I do not believe any members of the family actively disliked
dogs or cats. It was simply that with such variety of wild creatures to
be found at every turn, keeping a dog or other animal, as a house pet
just never occurred to anyone.

May 1961. A gentle spring afternoon. Uncle Reg slowly walked two miles
of country road from the bus stop to the farmhouse. A small asphalt
road, bordered on one side by fields and the other by pine trees and
woodland, would soon pass the turning leading to Vine Farm. It was at
this little junction, where a thick rhododendron hedge obscured a
slight bend in the path, that Uncle Reg first encountered Peter the
bulldog.
Walking steadily along an uneven grassy track that would eventually
lead him to the farmhouse, Uncle's progress was rudely interrupted. As
he drew level with a thick hedge bordering the lane to his left, a
sudden violent commotion caused him to jump away in alarm. Incredibly
the hedge parted. Accompanied by great rustling of leaves and snapping
branches, a bedraggled black dog was disgorged unceremoniously onto the
path.

The animal stood before my Uncle like an evil goblin. Hindquarters
caked with mud, huge toothy grin displayed; this insolent ragged
apparition appraised its new surroundings then fixed Uncle Reg with a
direct, uncomfortable stare. For many a long moment man and beast stood
before each other immobile and silent.

Regaining his composure, comforted by the knowledge that this creature
before him was probably not some vengeful demon, Reg spoke softly to
the animal. I have no idea of matters discussed, but the conversation
had a profound effect upon the dog. From that time on he would never
leave my Uncle's house.

Grandfather and Aunt explained the peculiar arrival of the bulldog in
vivid detail as they drove me from the tiny railway station to their
farm. Apparently Peter, as Uncle Reg now called him, was installed as a
permanent resident. He would sleep in a small woodshed adjoining the
farmhouse. During daylight hours he patrolled the farmyard and quiet
village streets.
Despite numerous inquiries and large hand written signs posted in local
stores, no clue was forthcoming to explain the dog's arrival or his
previous lifestyle.

I met Peter on the evening of my arrival. Pushing open the kitchen door
with his nose, he stood framed in the doorway staring at me, unmoving.
In those brief moments of mutual appraisal I knew without doubt he was
a loyal friend.

It was later studying the dog, that I realized his future was
preordained. Peter was a blue collar, working man's dog. Here was not
the sort of boy nice girls would invite to meet their anxious parents.
Never would he be clucked and cooed over by rich eccentric old ladies.
No jaded Hollywood actress would invite him to her boudoir. His path
would be a rugged one. In small waterfront taverns he might be heard
singing bawdy songs with old cronies. He would sit with laborers at
construction sites, leer at passing ladies and eat simple food with
grubby hands.

For all my childish contemplation the bulldog cared not one whit.
Lifting his leg happily on the wheel of an old Fordson tractor, he
would first assure himself that all was well with family and farmyard,
before continuing upon a tour of inspection. This would include small
lanes and roads leading to the village. Peter now sported a wide brown
leather collar that my Aunt had given him but he was never restricted
from wandering at will.

During twelve weeks since Uncle's first encounter with the dog, a
routine was established, apparently satisfactory to all concerned.
Meandering along peaceful country roads, Peter had become a familiar
sight to the local populace. He would frequent village stores and often
dine with the owner of a tiny restaurant at the end of Market Street.
After lunch he may be found chatting happily with children at the
school gate, and sometimes persuaded to participate in lunchtime ball
games at the adjoining park.

Strangely enough, an unteathered bulldog, a ragged one at that seemed
to pose no threat to life or limb. Peter was never concerned with the
activity of farm animals and trusted to associate freely with them. He
did however involve himself with other dogs. This keen regard for his
brothers and sisters, carved a cross he would bare throughout his
life.

During the second week of my visit, Peter and I walked three pleasant
twisting miles of country road to the village. After many diversions
and extraordinary discoveries that dogs and schoolboys will always make
when investigating woods and streams, we both emerged at the end of a
gravel path leading to the high street. Intending to make our way
towards a solitary hotel and terrace of small stores, we crossed a
narrow wooden bridge and approached Doctor Grace's house on the corner.
A wide, ivy covered stone wall obscured the old brick house that served
as both outpatient surgery and living accommodations for Doctor Grace.
Within its' stone boundaries, the old wall also secured the Doctor's
dog.

Bruno was a Great Dane; a gigantic dappled beast, feared and admired
for his daunting appearance and prodigious strength. Despite
astonishing size and forbidding countenance, Bruno was actually a
friendly playful creature. In those far off days English country
doctors regularly made local house calls. The dog was a familiar sight
sitting in the small car beside his master as they went about their
business. Dog and Doctor were inseparable. When not traveling abroad
with his owner, Bruno, imprisoned within the grounds of the house would
often climb to the roof of a dilapidated chicken house, thus enabling
him access to the top of the wall.
Jumping from chicken house to wall was an easy task and this huge dog
would often be seen strolling around the perimeter of the property. At
a distance strangers would sometimes mistake him for a small horse
engaged in unusual aerobatic displays.

As Peter and I approached the Doctor's house, I could see Bruno lying
atop his wall monitoring our progress. Enjoying a warm unhurried
afternoon, the dog lay peacefully front legs dangling, great head
lolling over the side of his wall. From this vantage point he was able
to survey the length of the street; a gigantic benign gargoyle,
unobserved and unassailable.

Peter meanwhile, unaware of Bruno's scrutiny had crossed the road to
engage the mail delivery lady in conversation. After much patting,
tickling of ears and wagging tail, Peter rejoined me on the side of the
road that would soon position us directly beneath the lurking Bruno. On
many previous occasions I had greeted Bruno the Great under this very
wall and was always hailed with wagging tail and friendly demeanor.
Today was no different. The huge dog pleasantly acknowledged my
greeting then resumed his previous quiet observations.

Peter had finished sampling aromatic delights at the bottom of the wall
and now hurried to join me. He trotted beneath the place where Bruno
was stationed, still ignorant of the monster above. The greatest of all
Great Danes stretched down as far as he dare greeting Peter with a
singular guttural bark. This awful choking "woof" was as loud and
intimidating as one might expect from the behemoth Bruno.

Hearing this canine foghorn Peter leaped from the ground. In doing so,
caught sight of Bruno for the first time. It seemed to me that he did
not jump again but rather flew. The mail lady said, among other things,
that she had never seen a dog jump so high. Whatever means of
locomotion the animal employed does not matter. Suffice it to say that
Peter was on the ground and, next second firmly affixed to the front
leg of our unfortunate Bruno. So violent was this assault that the poor
beast was unseated from his lofty perch. Both dogs fell heavily to the
ground.

I watched in horror as Peter, landing squarely upon all four feet,
proceeded to clamp down once again upon his bewildered adversary. This
time it was the side of the face that received such unwelcome attention
from those hostile jaws. Bruno struggled to his feet but Peter had not
relinquished his hold. I could not be sure whether it was Peter or
Bruno who was shaking that enormous head so violently. Suddenly Peter's
hold was broken.

Bruno, having temporarily freed himself from the unkind grasp of his
tormentor, finding all four feet planted firmly upon the ground,
galloped away from this arena of madness and cruelty with all possible
dispatch. As the mighty champion hastily bade farewell, our bulldog
would not be so lightly dismissed. Once again he attached himself to
the Great Dane, this time upon a rear leg.

Peter was carried like unwanted baggage, but try though he may was
unable to impede the flight of the unhappy Bruno. Reluctantly it
seemed, Peter released his grip and gazed longingly after the
retreating form of the chastened Dane..

Gradually I became aware of a great clamor behind me. Turning, I heard
the mail lady explaining to an obviously distraught owner how it was
that his faithful companion had been so rudely put to flight. Two
school children simultaneously informed the doctor that his dog was a
cowardly bully, running away when the other poor little dog turned to
defend himself.
Peter slowly sauntered to where this small crowd had gathered.
Grinning affably, he gazed innocently into the face of Doctor
Grace.

The doctor was, as always a fair and reasonable man. After a cursory
examination of Peter, determining that the few wounds he had sustained
were not serious, doctor Grace instructed me to return home and tell my
story to Uncle Reg. He did suggest that "damned fighting dogs" should
be suitably chained or otherwise restricted from their unpleasant
inclinations. So it was then that a badly shaken schoolboy, accompanied
by a happily grinning bulldog, returned home from their memorable
encounter at the village.

The gravity of this situation required summoning our entire family. I
began to relate the horrible dealings at doctor Grace's house. At first
I could see great consternation upon the faces of my audience, but
gradually as my tale unfolded the mood lightened. Uncle Reg was
actually grinning at the thought of Bruno's discomfort. Grandfather was
praising the dog and congratulating my Uncle for having chosen "a good
un."

Our family enjoyed a long standing friendship with Jim Grace and his
wife Betty. They would never have knowingly contributed to their
unhappiness or displeasure for any reason. Therefore, after further
brief discussion, it was decided that I accompany Grandfather and Uncle
Reg that very evening upon a diplomatic visit to the doctor. Hopefully
to repair whatever damage had been done to their relationship. Peter
was not invited.

Eight o'clock or thereabouts was the time chosen to call upon doctor
Grace and his wife. By then the last patient would have undoubtedly
departed. Refreshment would probably be served. Grandfather rang the
doorbell. I believe we were all slightly relieved to hear Bruno's
distant coughing bark.

Jim opened the door greeting us warmly. As expected, we were ushered
into their large untidy living room and fussed over continually by
Betty.

It was sometime later, after pleasantries and small talk were dutifully
exchanged, that the Bruno-Peter conflict was retold. This time from the
doctor's perspective.

Apparently Jim had searched diligently for his dog, finally
apprehending him between Market Street and Hambridge Road. Bruno was
bleeding profusely from a gaping tear extending between eye and lip.
Covered with fresh blood, galloping along the village high street,
Bruno dog had an unnerving effect upon everyone that he
encountered.

The police station was inundated with frantic calls describing a
demonic beast cavorting by the village clock tower. trailing warm blood
from its' victims. A police constable was at once dispatched to arrest
this satanic horror. Arriving shortly thereafter, armed only with stout
stick and trusty bicycle the officer made ready to confront the evil
one.

Fortunately Jim Grace appeared in time to prevent an escalation of the
inevitable conflict between good and evil. After recording the required
statement with all due formality, doctor and dog were admonished to
conduct themselves in a manner befitting reasonable and sober citizens.
The heroic constable peddled away. Justice was properly served, our
policeman gratified to have single-handedly bought such a volatile
situation to a satisfactory conclusion.

Bruno required a total of thirteen stitches to amend the havoc that
Peter had wrought upon his face and leg. Repairs were duly made in the
Doctor's small surgery that very afternoon.

Bruno was properly refurbished with no additional problems. Having
sincerely apologized for Peters uncouth behavior, we eventually took
our leave and bade Jim and Betty a pleasant evening. Happily reason and
understanding prevailed. The doctor and his wife would continue to
remain good friends.

We made our way along a poorly lighted gravel path leading from the
front door to a small back gate. Jim again cautioned Uncle Reg in a
tone of mock severity to keep his damned fighting dog under
control.

Grandfather stopped, and turning to Jim shook his head slowly. "I don't
know that I would call young Peter a dammed fighting dog," he said.
After a long expectant pause he continued..." No I wouldn't call Peter
a damned fighting dog at all." Clearly then his words rang like a bell
in the quiet scented evening. He said, "No sir, I wouldn't call Peter a
damned fighting dog. I would call him a damned GOOD fighting dog!"
Turning, the old man slowly walked into the approaching darkness.