Neighborhood Security Dog

It is seven in the morning and I am ready for my daily neighborhood perimeter check. I live in a cul-de-sac with six buildings, each with four apartments and some have a small yard in front or back. It is my job to keep the neighborhood safe and I am all business when it comes to my job. My name, Sir Maximus Winston the First, is longer than I am, so most humans who know me call me, Max. My human, Sheila, tags along with me on my daily walks, once in the morning and again in the evening. The morning walk is quicker than the evening one because Sheila has to go to, “ugh work.” Since the evening walk is slower, we stop to visit the neighbors and then sit on the steps to watch the sunset. The sunset always looks the same to me, but Sheila will sigh and comment on how the evening sky is beautiful.

I am a Yorkie Terrier, with warm brown eyes that match my fur, a rather large black, wet nose, and my fur is soft, not coarse. I am independent rather than stubborn as others of my breed are known to be, I have keen instincts and can be lively if a tennis ball is thrown.

We leave our apartment and make a right. When I walk, it is with a purpose, I do not waddle. My short, powerful legs move rhythmically, and my butt wiggles. No animals live in this gray apartment building but there is a small girl with long braids in her hair. She smells of chocolate and macaroni and cheese, which is why I allow her to pick me up and squeeze me tight.

In the next building, there is a man who owns three cats, and if you ask me, that is three cats too many. The cats sit in the windows, twitching their tails, and looking down at me as I pass. Sometimes I bark, “stupid cats” or “ha-ha you can’t come outside” to them to remind them how dogs are superior.

In the building after the cats, is a human who owns a fish tank. We went inside his place once to see the fish. Curious, I tilted my head right, then left, then right again, trying to figure out why in a world filled with dogs, a person would choose to own fish. The fish swam from one end of the tank to the other, all day long and were oblivious to anything happening outside their little, watery world, so I keep an extra close watch on this building.

We pass the dark gray building next, it has a small fenced yard with neatly trimmed grass and bushes. A dog lives there, he is small and stout like me, but we are not friends. He is too stupid to form any kind of a relationship, outside the one he has with his tail. He chases his tail whenever he is not busy sleeping, eating, or pooping. It is mentally exhausting trying to have a conversation with him, so I gave up. “Moron,” I bark, “what are you going to do if you catch it?” Secretly I am jealous of his long, fluffy tail since all I have is a nub.

The last apartment’s color is so light it is almost white, which matches the hair of the old woman who lives there. This is my favorite stop on our evening walks. The old woman walks slow, with a stick that I’m not allowed to chew on, and her scent is strong and harsh in my nose. It is a mixture of roses, lemon soap, and medicine creams. Even with her overpowering scent, I still like her best.

As she scratches behind my ears, she tells Sheila and me stories of the dogs she has loved in her life. She talks about her first dog, how together they would play chase in the yard, snuggle on the couch, and when he licked her face it made her giggle. Her eyes get misty as she recalls the dog that stayed by her side after her first heartbreak. She whispers that saying goodbye to a dog, the grief was real and hurts more than she thought she could bear. Some of her stories I’ve heard multiple times but being a dog lover, I don’t mind. Maybe it is because she scratches behind my ears better than anyone else.

When it is time to head home, I lick the old woman’s fingers, even though they taste funny. A lick from a dog is how we communicate with humans. For example, a lick might mean, thank you for feeding me, I love you, or your fingers taste like hamburgers and fries. My lick was to inform her, how much I appreciate her stories and head scratches.

After the evening perimeter walk, Sheila likes to have a snack with peanut butter. I too, like peanut butter. How the creamy texture sticks on my tongue, the scent of roasted peanuts and sugar sends my nose twitching, even though I have to do a lot of licking afterward to clean my muzzle. Sometimes she lets me lick the spoon clean while she prepares her snack and sometimes she doesn’t. I imagine that heaven has peanut butter available for dogs all the time.

My favorite times of the day are when Sheila comes home and she’s as excited to see me as I am to see her. She jumps, dances, claps her hands, calls me her good boy, kisses my head, and acts like she has not seen me in years. I respond by twirling in a circle, bouncing, and wagging my nub in agreement that we have been apart for too long.

My other favorite part of the day is when we snuggle on our bed. Sheila tells me about her day while stroking my head and we fall asleep together. If Sheila lays on her side to sleep, I curl up behind her knees, keeping her warm with my love and fur.

Sheila understands how important it is for me to check the neighborhood for unfamiliar smells. She lets me pause and sniff at the mailboxes, the fire hydrant, my favorite bush, the street sign, and along the fences. I can tell when one of the cats has escaped and where they went exploring with their newfound freedom or the time the girl with braid’s ice cream melted and dripped a delicious pattern on the sidewalk.

One morning I detected a new scent in front of the fish tank building. I classified it as human and walked around the area with my nose close to the ground, sniffing as I went. Sheila tugged on my leash but I do not obey her, I needed to find out who belonged to this new smell. I noticed a tall, skinny male by the rose bushes, holding a slicing tool that looked like a weapon. I barked to alert Sheila.

“Looks like they got a gardener,” Sheila said. “A gardener works in the yards making them look nice”. She liked explaining words to me and I appreciated how she never talked to me like I was a dumb dog.

I barked once more at the gardener, a warning that I would be keeping an eye on him. He must not have understood because he smiled and waved at us.

While Sheila is at, ugh work, I sit on the back of the couch, looking out the window, and continue in my duties as the neighborhood security watch. I warn everyone with loud high barks when the mailman arrives, quick woofs for food delivery people, and long low growls for anyone I don’t recognize. 

The day after the gardener arrived in our neighborhood, I was awoken from a nap to a loud reverberating sound that hurt my ears. I jumped to attention and looked out the window to try and discover the source of the irritating noise. I noticed that some leaves, dirt, and grass cuttings were blowing only in one section of the street. Investigating further, I saw the gardener holding some sort of wind machine. That’s what was making the noise!

I barked at the man, “Turn that off! It’s too loud!” He completely ignored me. Rude.

When Shelia came home that night I tried to tell her about the gardener making all the noise while I napped. I don’t think she understood because she kept telling me what a good boy I was and how much she missed me. I gave into her excitement and twirled in a circle. Maybe if I had tried harder to explain how I didn’t trust the noisy gardener, Shelia never would have been in danger.

Shelia and I continue our twice daily perimeter walks, visits with the old lady, and the little girl who squeezes, and each time the gardener was at a different building, cutting the grass or trimming bushes.

One night, hours past snuggle time, my ears heard an unfamiliar sound. It was a soft sound with a creak and it started in the kitchen and then moved to the hallway. That was enough information for me to jump up and investigate. Stealth and surprise are important tools for a security dog. I walked with care and precision, my paws never making a sound, from the bedroom to the kitchen where my nose picked up a scent. It was a smell that I recognized but was out of place in our apartment.

I scanned the living room and stopped when I saw a tall shadow. When the shadow moved, I heard the soft creak and recognized the scent. The gardener! The gardener was in our home!

For a second I wasn’t sure if I should alert Shelia, what if the gardener was dangerous and wanted to hurt her? I decided to give a deep growl that started low and grew louder each second. The gardener turned toward me and I showed him my sharp white teeth. The fur stuck up on my back to prove I meant business.

“Nice dog. Good Max,” he said

The audacity of calling me by my nickname, did he think I was stupid?

My growl intensified as I moved forward and with every step I took, he took a step backward towards the front door.

He opened the door and attempted to run but I clamped my teeth on his pants and wove myself between his legs. He fell backward, out the door, and down the porch steps. When he landed, there was a sharp noise that hurt my ears, but I clenched my teeth and held on tight to his pant leg.

Lights came on from the windows in the cul-de-sac, and people came out in their night clothes, glancing around, confused. A neighbor, I think the fish owner, shouted, “Someone call the police.”

Sheila came running and found me with the gardener’s pants still in my teeth. She bent down and spoke to me with a gentle, calm, but trembling voice, “Good boy. It’s alright. You can let go now. Good dog.”

I let go but kept an eye on the gardener as Sheila lifted me into her arms and held me close. I could feel her body shaking so I licked her face.

The man who owned the cats ran over to us. “Is Max hurt? It sounded like a gun went off.”

Sheila moved her hands over my body, legs, paws, and head three times before she was satisfied that I was unharmed. Sheila had a few tears running down her face. My previous licks must not have indicated to her that I was fine. I was just doing my job and everything was going to be alright. I licked her once more hoping to convey my thoughts better. Sheila gave a small laugh and squeezed me almost as tight as the girl with braids does.

The cat owner crouched down and put his hand near the gardener’s throat, who incidentally had not moved since he fell.

“He must have hit his head on the steps,” the cat owner said, “he’s breathing but unconscious.” Then he kicked an object away from the gardener’s hand, walked over to us, and scratched my head. I let him even though the cat stench coming from him was intense.

Since my capture of the fake gardener, who is really a thief, my popularity in the cul-de-sac has increased enormously. Now we start our morning security walks earlier because so many neighbors come out to say good morning and to talk. Our evening walks take even longer. The little girl with braids usually has a treat for me along with a tight squeeze. When we visit the old woman, she tells a story about a heroic dog that saved his owner and kept a neighborhood safe. The cat owner scratches my head and smiles at Sheila in a way that makes her face change color. I am keeping a close eye on him now.

I have a new favorite part of the day. At Sheila’s evening snack time, she tugs my beard, puts her forehead against mine, closes her eyes, and we send love to each other. Then I get a spoonful of peanut butter. Every. Single. Night.