Big Dog Good, Small Dog Better

I have always admired large dogs. Seemed to me that bigger was most
certainly better. Small, nondescript terriers and other undesirables
punctuate my childhood memories of East London city streets. Many
people owned such animals, stoically enduring lack of space and other
inner city restrictions. Unquestionably, the few large dogs in my
neighborhood radiated purpose and strength. Unlike their rat-like
counterparts these noble beasts strode majestically through small
alleys and city streets.

Complementing the dogs, their owners clearly defined differences
between blue and white collar. Stockbrokers and bankers would call to
heel their sleek hunting dogs. Carefully dressed ladies strolled in
nearby parks trailing pampered Afghans hounds. Down by the wharf
steelworkers and laborers, joking or cursing in the company of their
bulldogs and Stafford shire terriers sneered at such nonsense.

Local saloonkeepers encouraged regular patrons to accompany their
canine companions. This situation required many a small but rugged
terrier, secured to a barstool rung for the duration of an evening's
merriment. Such liberal behavior would afford most lively and
unexpected entertainment. It was not unusual for the entire clientele
of a small "pub" to spill out into quiet darkened streets and witness
human or canine protagonists resolve their differences. These impromptu
sporting events usually occurred on a Friday or Saturday evening
providing great spectator appeal at reasonable cost. A natural
consequence of such violent activity served to encourage onlookers and
participants to quickly resume their previous drinking stations.

I have walked east end back streets many evenings in the company of bar
room refugees. Usually master and dog would require assistance, neither
able to navigate the narrow alleys unaided. Police interference was
virtually unknown. Our worthy officers found it necessary to frequently
test the bartender's inventory personally assuring themselves of purity
and cleanliness.

Sunday mornings were serious reflective occasions. The faithful would
quietly assemble in the old brown stone church. Many among the
congregation had obviously suffered recent injury. A disproportionate
number of worshipers sported bruises and abrasions. Glaring fiercely
from his pulpit, the tall, white haired preacher would exhort the flock
to sober peaceful conduct. This strategy repeated weekly, was effective
only for a few days. Friday night would see many lambs stray from the
path. Christianity showed me at an early age that holiness was
essential during the week but may be conveniently avoided on Friday and
Saturday.

Growing from baby to youth in this rugged community taught me valuable
lessons remembered to this day. I was never aware of being poor or
living in the worst part of the city. As if upon a gigantic stage I
moved comfortably among a diverse cast of unique, talented actors. I
will always be thankful for that freedom to live and learn without
prejudice or hindrance.

Francis O'Riley loved children as much as he loved his dogs. It may
have been this empathy with living creatures that struck a response in
those who met him. Frank was a thin casually dressed fellow. About
thirty-five years old, ready smile somewhat hesitant manner. He stood
just over five foot ten, light brown curly hair cropped unfashionably
short.
Frankie spoke with a lilting Irish cadence, so softly that one
strained to hear him. When angered, his lean, angular face would fade
behind piercing gray eyes, dancing with cold, glittering
intensity.

Every weekday afternoon Frank would teach class for a small group of
unkempt neighborhood children. These lessons filled a void created by
an uncaring city school system. His classroom was a quiet cul-de-sac a
few yards from his house. In poor weather, school was held within the
confines of his small dining room. This roadside academy instructed
pupils in facets of learning unavailable from the public system. Here a
student may learn wrestling and kickboxing, courage, honor and
honesty.

Fighting was Frankie's pleasure and in this discipline he excelled. His
other indulgence was training and conditioning two pit bulldogs that he
owned. Frank told me that he brought the dogs from County Kerry in
Ireland, that they were purebred fighting pit dogs. Likable though they
were his animals were unimposing. I did not understand why he thought
so highly of them.

Frank would run his dogs every evening. Starting at a brisk trot he
would circle Goodwin's yard and return home, establishing a routine
journey of approximately four miles. To the discriminating eye both
bulldogs were in fine condition. Sean was wide and stocky. His scarred
body defined by heavy muscle. Sally, rangy and long legged stood
slightly taller than Sean yet weighed several pounds less.
Sean was predominately white. A chocolate patch covered the left side
of his face. Sally, unrelentingly black, but for a small white streak
between the eyes, extending to her nose. Both animals were friendly and
playful.

Everyone knew Charlie Goodwin as a larger than life character. This
huge man, with wild black beard and extravagant manner, was the owner
of a scrap metal; auto-dismantling business located some four miles
from my home. His property was secured by makeshift chain link fencing
on three sides, backed by a high brick wall to the rear. Street access
was available through two steel framed gates covered with chain link
mesh.

Although the yard was reasonably secured from intruders, a genuine
deterrent to any uninvited sightseer was an enormous dog habitually
prowling the property.

Chopper was the archetypal junkyard dog. Breeding and ancestry were
shrouded in mystery. Dark brown with dirty gray patches were his
natural colors. This depressing appearance was often complemented by
streaks of oil and grease. I had great respect for the dog. A truly
intimidating beast weighing at least one hundred pounds and possessed
of an evil disposition. The animal was dedicated in his indiscriminate
hatred for strangers and other dogs. It occurred to me that both
Charlie and Chopper complemented each other with formidable appearance
and ferocious behavior.

Charlie paid me the equivalent of a dollar to operate his scrap metal
shear on Saturday. My job was pulling lengths of steel pipe from a huge
pile, and feeding them into an ancient engine driven shear.
In this manner, unruly lengths of pipe were cropped to manageable
proportions before re melting. For a twelve-year-old schoolboy this job
at Goodwin's Scrap Yard was an unprecedented honor.

During summer months Charlie extended his working schedule to avail
himself of extra daylight hours. Frankie, with bulldogs in tow, would
visit Goodwin's yard stopping for a few minutes to chat with Charlie
and his men. This routine was established during three years that Frank
worked with his dogs. It was refined to a level that had Charlie
prepared with a fresh bucket of water for the dogs and a bottle of beer
or cold drink for Frank.

A warm summers evening late July or thereabouts. I ran with Frank and
his dogs to the scrap yard. We arrived at closing time. Work had ceased
for the day. A small group of men were idly chatting before leaving.
Charlie was in fine form having downed a drink or two before we
arrived. He was holding forth on a variety of subjects from politics to
world finance.

Evil Chopper was installed in front of the small office building. His
range of movement limited by a length of rusty chain padlocked through
a ring in his collar and secured by an old automobile axle driven into
the ground. Positioning the dog in this manner gave him access to a
small section of fence facing the street. He was often found near this
location growling or barking at any pedestrian arrogant enough to walk
on the same side of the road.

Frankie rounded the corner with Sally, and wheeled through the front
gate. Chopper greeted them, fully extended on his chain, barking
dementedly.
About five minutes later, following the same route we passed the fence.
Chopper, sighting Sean running happily beside me could no longer
contain himself. I was suddenly aware of the creature's presence as he
flew into the fence, snarling and barking with rage.

I jumped back in fright. Sean leaped forward to confront the aggressor.
Enraged beyond reason, Chopper jammed his muzzle through the mesh links
growling and snapping in a futile attempt to secure a victim. Sean
viewed the situation with delight. Accepting the protruding nose as a
rare gift, the little dog clamped down heartily and began to shake his
enemies snout. Chopper howled with impotent rage. I yelled from fear
and surprise commanding Sean to release that awful nose. A few seconds
later Frankie appeared. Straddling Sean with both legs, he placed his
hands across the chest and pulled free a determined bulldog. Chopper
shook his head and sprayed a fine red mist across the fence. He was
still snarling with fury as Frank marched dog and boy into Charlie's
yard.

Frank explained in an unnaturally loud voice exactly why some kids
could be trusted with simple tasks, and other brainless boys allowed
their dogs to run into trouble without a second thought. I think
Charlie felt sorry for me. After several minutes of verbal lashing,
Charlie called enough. "No harm done, Frankie boy! Yer ole dogs in one
piece." "Not my dog I'm worried about." Replied Frank. "In any event,
the boy's been taught better than that."
Charlie considered this last statement before answering. "Watcher mean,
it's not your dog yer worried about? Yer bloody lucky Chopper's still
on is chain."

"The bulldogs are lovely lads," said Frank "but full of fire. Got to
watch em all the time. I told the boy over an over, keep clear of stray
curs. I don't want no trouble with me dogs."
It must have been Frank's unintentional slight that stung Charlie. His
naturally booming voice was edged with anger. He informed Frank that
real curs were Frank, his dogs, his friends, family and any living
resident of Northern Ireland. Frankie pointedly ignored the insults
explaining how his dogs were bred for fighting. Although Chopper looked
big and tough he was really a windbag. Lucky Sean did not drag him
clean through the fence.

I wanted to tell Frank how sorry I was for not paying attention. I
wished I could tell Charlie that Chopper was the best dog in London.
Gazing into Charlie's face, I noticed for the first time how his
unkempt black beard jerked every time he spoke. The angrier he became
the greater the movement of his beard. I became lost in a reverie.
Fascinated by thick black foliage surrounding Charlie's face. As I
stared into the flushed angry face I imagined Chopper crouched within,
ready to leap from the beard growling and snarling.

The owner of this magnificent facial adornment was unaware of my
scrutiny. Suddenly, reaching into his back pocket he withdrew a handful
of soiled bills. He slapped the wad of money in the palm of his other
hand. Charlie's voice had dropped several octaves. He said slowly "You
got a lot to say. Now here's what I got to say...Hundred quid" Charlie
looked quickly at the small group of spectators to gauge the impact of
his words.
Emphasizing the point again he slapped the roll of money in his hand.
"A hundred pound that Chop's will bash both your dogs in a few minutes.
What I'm saying so we all understand is, I bet you a hundred; Chopper
will send both them dainty rat catchers running.

Frankie shook his head. "I couldn't do that. I don't want to take your
money or see your ole' dog hurt. Besides I don't have a hundred to bet
with." Charlie grinned broadly. "You aven't money? Well here's a wager
to suit yer pocket. My hundred to your fifty. I say Chopper will
flatten both yer dogs. Anyhow only an Irishman would come up with
fighting dogs that look like that." Charlie now obviously pleased with
himself Pointed at Sally and roared with laughter. "What do they fight
Frankie? Mice, cats?"

Scattered laughter from the few bystanders enjoying this bantering
between Charlie and Frank. I was astonished at Charlie's wealth. One
hundred pounds. Riches to challenge the imagination or elevate pauper
to prince. Such a sum represented about two years' wages for me. Yet,
here was a man fishing in his back pocket pulling forth this amount
without even counting.

Standing with hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, staring
fixedly at the ground, Frank seemed unaware of the onlookers. There was
silence in the small crowd as they turned, expectantly awaiting his
reply. "You are," said Frank without lifting his eyes, "an ugly auld
bastard. Chopper is the better looking between ye. Both of ye have one
thing in common though. Yer both full o' gas." Frank lifted his head.
Staring into Charlie's face he spoke clearly for all to hear. "Here's
me offer. I don't want money. If I win, you shave that miserable hedge
from yer face so we can all see how ugly ye really are. If you win,
I'll work a week for ye for free."
"Yer on!" Charlie stretched a hairy arm and shook Frank's hand. "One
thing though." continued Frank "I ain't putting two dogs on Chopper. Me
little girl gave you some amusement. She can do the fightin."

Charlie opened his mouth in disbelief. "That ain't right. Chopper's
three times her size!" Frankie appeared unconcerned and winked at
Charlie. "Make sure to catch yer boy when he starts running," was his
reply. Having witnessed the proceedings. Listened to insult and
slander, I could not believe Frankie would engage in such stupidity. He
was going to lose the wager. Poor Sally would probably sustain serious
injury before Charlie and his men could save her.

I pleaded with Frank to take us home, promising to watch Sean every
inch of the way. Frankie clapped me on the back. "Watch Sean every inch
of the way into the office and shut the door behind you. Both of ye
watch from the window." Sean was not tall enough to watch from the
window. I stood his hind legs on a chair and with front legs resting on
the sill; he was able to view the show.

Fred Hawkins knelt on the ground speaking softly to Chopper. The huge
dog was straining against a short length of rope secured to the vacant
steel ring in his collar, the other end secured to Fred. As Frank and
Sally approached, Chopper's behavior became almost comical. He leaped
into the air snapping and growling. At times, standing on rear legs, he
would paw at the air in front of him barking ferociously.

Sally, by contrast appeared frail, almost docile. Yet as I stared, she
strained into the lead that Frankie held. This little dog was actually
trying to reach her huge opponent. I realized then why Frank so admired
his dogs. Here was a skinny little creature facing almost certain death
in the jaws of an enormous adversary. Instead of running, she was now
pulling away from Frank in an attempt to meet Chopper.

Although Sally was doomed in this battle, Chopper would never be the
winner. A simple act of courage had overwritten appearance and size,
forever changing my opinion of small dogs.

A few minutes of negotiation between Frank and Charlie determined rules
for the match. Jack McNally was timekeeper, the only fellow in
possession of a watch. At Jacks count of three, Fred and Frank would
release both dogs. Due to the difficulty of handling Chopper it was
agreed to leave his collar on. Charlie insisted that the fight continue
for no more than fifteen minutes. If, at that time, no dog had an
obvious advantage, a draw would be declared.

Charlie standing with hands on hips shook his head. "This ain't much of
a fight," he said. "I really don't want yer little dog banged up."
Through the large open vent above the window I could hear their
conversation clearly: Despite Chopper's continual barking.

Timekeeper Jack paced off twenty feet, marking each end by digging a
shallow line with a crowbar in the compacted, oil soaked ground.
Chopper threw himself into a paroxysm of rage. Fred Hawkins heaved on
the rope and roundly cursed his canine companion for a mindless
idiot.

Frankie was holding Sally with no collar or lead. Frank and Fred faced
each other restraining their dogs behind the lines. Jack reached the
fateful three count.

Fred in his anxiety to liberate Chopper, neglected to remove collar or
rope. Chopper flew forward but lost his footing. He became momentarily
entangled with the rope, scrambling furiously to right himself. Sally
darted toward her opponent.
The mighty one, regaining his composure, opened wide huge Chopper jaws
preparing to chastise this impudent brat daring to confront him in his
own back yard.

Sally deftly dropped her shoulder as the teeth closed like a bear trap
scant inches away.
Dancing nimbly, this tantalizing wraith moved back and forth, sliding
then feinting as Chopper's jaws snapped shut again. At the next attempt
Sally ducked beneath the great head, jumped forward and firmly attached
herself to the base of his ear. Chopper roared, snorted, twisted and
bucked in a futile attempt to reach his antagonist. Straightening her
front legs Sally backed away dragging Chopper by the ear, as a mother
might drag a petulant child by the hand.

Sean and I, watching from the balconies saw Charlie Goodwin frozen in
mid stride. With mouth agape and arms outstretched he appeared as some
ancient deity awaiting sacrificial offerings.
Frankie was removing imaginary dirt from beneath a fingernail with his
pocketknife ignoring the battle. Fred Hawkins was still kneeling at the
scratch line. Timekeeper Jack stood staring intently at the fray. He
forgot to check his watch until the following morning.

Through this unlightly dream sequence Chopper and Sally glided. A
ritual mime forever locked in the memory of a ragged schoolboy. Sally
continued her strange dance. She held Chopper by the ear leading him at
will in a continuing circle.

The only sound disturbing this strange evening was growling and panting
punctuated by a hollow "clack" as the huge dog snapped time and again,
missing his intended victim by a tiny margin. A few minutes later Sally
released her hold. Chopper had no chance to react. For the second time
that evening he found himself entertaining a small but lively bulldog
on his nose.

Sally's assault upon an already abused Chopper snout wrote the final
chapter in the battle. As she locked down and started to shake, Chopper
was no longer barking. Backpedaling and yelping a bewildered junkyard
dog tried to extricate himself from the jaws of a canine alligator.
Frankie was the only spectator not immobilized. A few quick strides and
he threw his arm around Sally's neck. Securing the little black dog, he
worked the handle of his pocketknife between her back teeth releasing
Chopper from further punishment. Chopper continued backward shaking his
head, pawing at his nose.

Frankie and I, accompanied by two bulldogs trotted through the gates of
Charlie's yard before anyone had realized we were gone.

Saturday morning saw me bleary eyed and sleepy, walking past Charlie's
office on my way to the shear. My boss was already waiting. Seizing me
around the waist he threw me into the air catching me under my arms. He
pulled me close to a fresh shaven grinning face. Charlie sported a
large handlebar mustache but was otherwise facially naked.

He was a handsome man magically shaving at least fifteen years of age
from his appearance.
The difference between bearded and shaven Goodwin's was quite
remarkable. Not only did a square jawed, even featured face emerge from
years of concealment many of his friends failed to recognize him.
Another curious aspect of his shaving was that after years of
incarceration behind the great black bush, much of Charlie's face had
been hidden from the sun. In consequence, cheekbones and forehead were
weather-beaten, showing deeply tanned patches of skin in stark contrast
to the parchment-like cheeks and jowls.

It was difficult not to stare at Charlie after the facial purging. For
several days I had the uncomfortable feeling of conversing with a giant
panda.

There are unanswered questions at the end of our story. Matters left
unresolved. Was Chopper a spineless windbag, as Frank intimated? No, I
believe frustration and confusion stopped him.
He was after all, an exemplary guard dog but with no incentive for
recreational fighting. Chopper may well have given his life defending
Charlie or his property. As with all creatures, there is usually more
beneath the surface than we are given to see.

Charlie thought no less of his boy for losing. He told me that Chopper
stopped because he realized he was being used as an instrument for
amusement. Exploited by people he trusted.
About six months after the battle apparently in pursuit of a cat, he
was found with a short length of rusty chain still attached to the ring
in his collar. Chopper lay dead. Crushed beneath the wheels of a
delivery truck.

Even now our tale is not quite done. Stories of dogs and men never
really end. As one generation gives way to another, children and pups
become parents. Onward flows this river of life. An endless cycle of
rebirth and renewing. Charlie never did get another junkyard dog. Never
replaced his old friend.

A year or so after Chopper's unfortunate demise, Sally whelped her
first litter. A little late in life at six years old: but nevertheless
giving birth to five fine pups. Encouraged by several friends eager to
take any offspring, Frank bred her to Sean. The last remaining pup was
given to me. This little wonder was a mirror image of Sean
predominantly chocolate with a white patch covering the right side of
his face. Mother would not let me keep him. We had no room and the
landlord said 'no pets.

Five months old now, Patch, as I had named the pup trotted happily by
my side. Frankie walked with Sally. Sean was at the vet receiving
treatment for an ear infection. We greeted Charlie enthusiastically,
Patch jumping and pawing for attention. After customary refreshment and
the usual conversational topics exhausted, Frankie bade farewell.

Almost as an afterthought he turned to Charlie. "Tis well known," said
Frank, "that no decent soul can stand yer disagreeable company for more
than an hour." "So" he continued, "I'm leavin this innocent creature
with ye, in the fond hope that he will teach you some manners."
Thrusting Patches lead into Charlie's hand, Frankie winked at his
astonished friend and ambled from the office.

The next evening we ran with the bulldogs to Charlie's yard. At the
gate stood our master with his new friend. "This boy's a beauty!"
enthused Charlie. "Much too good to stay at the yard. This one will
live with me at me house." "Now," continued Charlie, "I 'aven't the
time to waste, I 'ave me dog to walk." "Oh, forgot to tell yer, I
changed 'is name."

Frank stared in surprise. "What miserable title have ye burdened the
poor feller with?" He asked.
Charlie raised his eyebrows. "Miserable title? Well, I suppose yer
right. I named the little geezer Frankie. Not much of a name though,
not the sort of name I care for but it reminds me of a bad tempered
little Irishman I know."

We stared after the receding form of a man and his dog. Shirtsleeves
rolled up a jaunty spring to his step. Charlie whistled a simple happy
tune. In his wake little Frankie ran and jumped. As this timeless
haunting image faded forever dissolving into a faraway city evening
Frankie spoke. "Tis time to get back home lad." "I think he really
liked the dog," I said. Frankie nodded slowly but said nothing. I
believe he brushed away a lock of hair from his eyes but it was too
dark now to see.