Somewhat Descriptive

The Unexpected…

Unfamiliar sounds emanated from the floor below – scraping, banging and human oaths. Shaken from the quiet afternoon my daughter and I rushed downstairs, coming to an abrupt halt in the kitchen where my husband Bob stood facing the door to the garage poised to strike. In his right hand he brandished the largest of our carving knives, the long blade shiny and sharp. His body was tense, his eyes focused on the large head and front paws of a huge German shepherd furiously gnawing at the wooden mullions holding nine small window panes in place. The animal’s weight and the pressure of his muzzle grasping at the wood was causing the assembly to buckle inward. The animal seemed determined to gain entrance to our home. We were determined to keep it out!

With his eyes on the dog and his defensive posture held firm, Bob ordered us back upstairs and demanded that we seal ourselves in the master bedroom, slide a piece of heavy furniture in front of the locked door, and stay put. We begged him to come with us, but he refused.

Once safely ensconced upstairs I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. Trying to convince the operator that three of us were in danger of a dog threatening entrance to our home was a nightmare in itself. After several minutes back and forth she finally agreed to send an officer to our residence.

I shouted to Bob that the police were on the way. Kim and I cautiously crawled out the bedroom window onto the garage roof where we could see and talk to the officer who would be coming to our rescue. Within a few minutes, adrenalin still high, we saw a patrol car slowly travel our long driveway and roll to a stop just in front of our garage. From my perch on the roof I retold our plight and the officer looked into the garage. He saw no dog and advised us to carefully crawl back inside so we could talk at ground level.

In the kitchen Bob had finally opened the wooden door but kept the storm door in place providing a fragile barricade between him and the attacker whose whereabouts were now unknown. And fragile the metal storm door was. The upper screen area had been totally shredded by the animal and the bottom metal section was punctured with holes matching the spacing of the dog’s claws. Thin rivulets of blood trailed from several of the holes and the whole door was misshapen from the attack. We then noticed the wooden door.   The mullions were splintered and portions worn away from the constant chewing of the German shepherd.

The officer was shocked at the condition of the two doors and was slowly coming to understand our panic. We asked that he please check the area again before we would step outside. On his second search he found the dog cowering in a dark corner of the garage. It refused to be cajoled from its spot, even when offered a piece of lunchmeat the officer requested. Still unsure of the animal we remained indoors, conversing through the damaged door.

Having no success getting the dog out of the garage, the officer called the station, explained the situation and asked if there was any knowledge of a wayward German shepherd. The dispatcher informed him that several days prior a local resident found a German shepherd in his kitchen very early in the morning. It had clawed its way inside through a window screen. The officer was told the phone number of the dog’s owner and placed a call. The owner was home and confirmed that her pet was missing; however, she had no transportation until her husband would return from work later in the afternoon.

The officer said he would pick her up and bring her to our property to claim the dog. As he climbed into the patrol car Bob asked what we do if the dog attacks again.

“Close the wooden door.” (He’s talking about the door with compromised mullions that was starting to buckle under the weight of the beast.  We were not happy!) After offering this advice, he headed out to the highway while we peered through the door at the dark recess where the dog still crouched.

Within a few minutes the patrolman returned with a woman who hopefully owned the dog. She jumped from the car and ran into our garage calling, “Budgie! Budgie! Where are you, boy?” “Budgie”, the big brute was named Budgie!! The animal leaped from his hiding place and slobbered kisses all over his mistress who finally noticed us watching events unfold. She headed towards us, the dog in tow. The officer directed her to examine the damage done by her pet as we remained on the other side of the mangled storm door. He told her she would be responsible for costs of repair and explained that he was being called back into the station and we would need to take the dog and her home.

By the clenching of his jaw I could tell Bob was angry! After the nightmare we had been through, we were now responsible for transporting the culprit and its owner home. Still unsure of the dog, Bob climbed into our Dodge Ram van and watched the two interlopers get settled in place. Giving my daughter and me an anguished look, he started the vehicle and headed out.

Days later, after calling to ask the costs for repairing the damage, the dog’s master arrived at our home to make restitution.   He examined the old storm door, finding it unbelievable the dog could puncture metal with his claws. As he handed Bob the check he told us he had just come from the vet’s where he put the dog down. The animal was deathly afraid of thunder. Several times in the past two weeks he broke lose and tried to find shelter in nearby homes. The man could no longer afford to pay property damages incurred by the pet.

We had totally misread the dog’s intent. The “attacker” was a “refugee” seeking a safe haven from Mother Nature’s rumblings. How were we to know?