FIGHTING PETER

Peter was not a pretty dog. Even before passing years had chiseled
away at his exterior, he was never known as a handsome boy.
Predominantly black in color with dark red brindled patches hung
carelessly about his person, Peter projected the appearance of somone
wearing a ragged, ill-fitting jacket.

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 probable addition of American Pit Bull Terrier stock. Short sturdy
legs and wide chest supported a large head upon which, a tattered left
ear flew like a pirate flag.

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

I was thirteen years old, temporarily paroled from London's inner city
school system. Free, to spend six gloriously happy weeks of summer
vacation with, slightly eccentric relatives at my grandfather's farm.
Mother's family, Aunt, two Uncles and Grandfather, lived in plesant
rural isolation. Collectively they farmed seventy acres of rich
peaceful meadowland situated in the heart of England's Berkshire
Downs.

If there was ever a canine haven free from traffic unreasonable
neighbors and humiliating leash laws Grandfather's farm was surely the
place.

In spite of solitude, space and abundant natural resources there were
no pets of any description at the house. No dog yawned and stretched in
front of the open hearth on a winter's evening. Not even a solitary cat
prowled the paths and gardens. I do not believe any members of the
family disliked dogs or cats. It was simply that with such variety of
wild creatures to be found at every turn, keeping any animal as a house
pet never occurred to anyone.

A gentle spring afternoon. Uncle Reg walked slowly. A small lane
bordered on one side by fields and the other by pine trees and woodland
would soon pass the turning to Vine Farm. At this little junction a
thick rhododendron hedge obscured a slight bend in the path.

Walking steadily towards the lane that would lead to their farmhouse
Uncle's progress was rudely interrupted. As he drew level with the
rhododendron hedge a sudden violent commotion caused him to jump away
in alarm. Accompanied by great rustling of leaves and snapping branches
the hedge parted disgorging a bedraggled black dog 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 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 forth he never left my
Uncle's house.

Grandfather and Aunt explained the peculiar arrival of the bulldog in
detail as they drove me from the tiny railway station to their farm.
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
would be a loyal friend.

During twelve weeks since Uncle's first encounter with the dog a
routine was established satisfactory to all. Lifting his leg happily on
the wheel of an old Fordson tractor Peter would first assure himself
that all was well with family and farmyard, before continuing upon a
tour of inspection. This included small lanes and roads leading to the
village. He now sported a wide leather collar that my Aunt had given
him but he was never restricted from wandering at will.

Meandering along peaceful country roads Peter had become a familiar
sight. 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 with children at the school gate, and sometimes
persuaded to participate in 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 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
miles of country road to the village. After many diversions and
distractions we emerged at the end of a gravel path leading to the high
street. 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 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 astonishing size and forbidding countenance. Despite an
intimidating appearance 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.

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, unaware of Bruno's scrutiny had crossed the road to engage the
mail delivery lady in conversation. After much patting and tickling of
ears he rejoined me on the side of the road that would soon position us
directly beneath the lurking Bruno.

Peter finished sampling aromatic delights at the bottom of the wall and
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. The 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 actually flew. Whatever
means of locomotion the animal employed matters not. Suffice it to say
that Peter was on the ground and next second firmly affixed to the
front leg of an 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
was not sure whether it was Peter or Bruno shaking that enormous head
so violently. Suddenly Peter's hold was broken.

Having temporarily freed himself from the unkind grasp of his
tormentor, finding all four feet planted firmly upon the ground Bruno
galloped 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. Try though he may he was unable to impede the flight
of the unhappy Bruno. Reluctantly Peter released his grip and gazed
longingly after the retreating Dane.

Gradually I became aware of a great clamor behind me. Turning I saw the
mail lady explaining to a distraught owner how 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 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 a fair and reasonable man. After a cursory examination,
determining that the few wounds Peter had sustained were not serious I
was instructed to return home and tell my story to Uncle Reg. Doctor
also suggested that "damned fighting dogs" should be suitably chained
or otherwise restricted from their unpleasant inclinations.
So it was that a badly shaken schoolboy accompanied by a cheerful
little bulldog returned from their memorable encounter at the
village.

The gravity of this situation required a family meeting. I began to
describe the horrible adventure and saw great consternation upon the
faces of my audience. As my tale unfolded the mood lightened. Uncle Reg
was actually grinning at the thought of Bruno's downfall. Grandfather
praised Peter and congratulated 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 contributed to their unhappiness or
displeasure for any reason. 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. 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.
Sometime later after pleasantries and small talk were dutifully
exchanged, the Bruno-Peter conflict was retold. This time from the
doctor's perspective.

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 the dog had an unnerving
effect upon everyone he encountered.

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

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

Bruno required thirteen stitches to repair the havoc that Peter had
wrought upon his face and leg. The dog was carefully refurbished in the
doctor's small surgery that very afternoon.

Having sincerely apologized for Peter's 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 would call him a damned
GOOD fighting dog" Turning again the old man walked slowly into the
dusk.