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Boy Bites Dog
I took my favorite baseball bat (Ok, my only baseball bat), and a hatchet, and started chopping. A few minutes later I had very serviceable club, about 18-20 inches long, and with a short, but still sharp point on the end. I started carrying that in my paper bag from that point on.
I didn’t tell anyone, of course. Because I never did. I was 11… plenty old enough to be making my own decisions.
[fuzzy screen, indicating flashback]
When I was 10, I called up the city paper and told them I wanted a route. Nowadays, most suburban papers seem to be delivered by adults, but back in the olden days, it was all done by a vast army of kids. A couple of days later, a guy showed up at the front door looking for me. He was the district manager for the paper, and had a route nearby my house where the current guy was getting ready to graduate high school, and he needed someone new. I hadn’t told anyone about it; I was the one doing the work, so why was it anyone else’s business? It turned out that the minimum age was 12, so I only got the route when I agreed to share it with my 11 year old brother. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea… he wasn’t the one who’d made the call. That was me, in my never ending quest to always have money in my pocket.
It was one of the last evening papers, so for the next 4 ½ years we were out delivering, 6 afternoons a week and Sunday morning. I took the right side of each street, he the left. Each of us had about 40 houses to cover, basically two blocks long worth of houses, with the end streets.
Now the stereotype is always about dogs chasing mailmen, but in the rough and tumble world of suburban newspaper delivery, paperboys were also on the line. The difference was that the mailmen were armed with dog mace. We had nothing. And there was a monster on the route.
Halfway down the first block, on my brother’s side of the street, was the biggest damn German Shepard I’ve ever seen, even to this day. It was pure white, and big enough that even though they had a five-foot wooden privacy fence running around their back yard, we could still see the dog, because it would stand up and look over the top of the fence.
It was little over one year later, on a cold, frozen Sunday morning in February, when the first encounter happened. I was on the last street, a block over from where the monster lived. I had just tossed a paper on a porch and was walking across the driveway towards the next house, when something jumped out at me from between the two parked cars in the 2-car driveway. The monster had me by the arm, and was trying to drag me down. He had his teeth set and wasn’t letting go.
I used my Intimidating Shout to drive him back, a barbarian yawp of power. Ok, it may be that I screamed like a girl, but I was 11, still decades away from my voice changing. Whichever it was, and truthfully I couldn’t have answered for sure even five minutes later, I scared the monster off and survived.
3 months later, the same thing happened to my brother, but this time instead of long underwear, a sweatshirt and a heavy winter coat, he was wearing a tank top. The monster had his teeth into his elbow, and would just not let go. My brother ended up with 33 stitches in his elbow.
That night, after he got back from the emergency room, my folks were talking things over. This was a dog that had already bitten 4 or 5 people, and they were taking about hiring a lawyer. I was in favor of loading a couple of pounds of ground beef with rat poison and tossing it over the fence. But I was vetoed, so the next morning I was out in the garage making myself some protection. Because my brother was going to be out of action for weeks and I was going to be covering the whole route.
And two weeks later, I had occasion to use my new weapon. I was nearly done delivering one day, when a different dog charged out of a back yard. This was another German Shepard, not as big as the monster, but still a full grown male. Given that I was never more than average in size, and wearing the ‘Slim’ sized jeans, pound for pound it was pretty much a fair fight.
I shoved my hands down into the paper bag. Like any paperboy worth his salt, I had the saddle bag style bag. With a hole cut in the middle, I put my head through the hole and carried the papers front and back. Being almost done, there were only two papers left in the bag, but I gripped the club at each end. The dog came straight at me at full speed, snarling all the way, and from 8 or 10 feet away jumped straight at my face.
With my arms covered by the canvas bag, I set my feet and met the jump with a motion like a football player hitting a tackling dummy and we crashed into each other. And then I went after him, swinging and kicking for all I was worth.
At some point I went down, but went right on swinging. For 10 or 20 seconds the scene was like the Tasmanian devil; just a spinning blur with an arm or dog leg occasionally visible, until the dog decided he’s had enough and ran for it.
I got up and finished the route, crossing the street to where my favorite customer, Mr. Sweeney, was waiting, he having seen the whole thing. He and his wife were always really nice, always in a good mood and the best tippers on the route. Of course they were drinkers; that might have had something to do with it. He looked me up and down.
“Are you Ok?”
“Yeah”
“Yeah… I guess you are.”
It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized I had forgotten about the club, and had never even pulled it from my bag. As far as the title goes, I can’t swear that I actually bit the dog. But then again, I can’t swear I didn’t. I never told anyone about this either. Why would I? I had handled it.
From the time forward the monster was always chained up. And as for the other one, I never even saw that dog again. Either I had taught it a lesson it never forgot, or I had killed it.
Whatever.
Published in Group Writing
I had a paper route from 11 to 17. 80-70 customers throughout, delivery guaranteed before 7 am. Mom never had to wake me and I always covered my bill on time.
My little mutt accompanied me, a dachsund-terrier-beagle mix. She was the most intimidating dog on our street, and none of the others messed with her.
Love your story, though.
The neighborhood dog who always came charging out of his garage when I walked by finally parted his chain one afternoon.
I grabbed a trash can lid and smacked him right in the beezer as he came in. He scampered back to his garage whining.
He never came out at me again, chain or no.
That’s a good tale. Or not, I read it so who cares what I think? None of their business.
Loved it. Thank you!
A friend had our local semi-rural paper route. I relieved him when he was sick or on vacation.
There were a pair of ankle biting dacshunds on the route. Hard to counterattack from atop a bike. Wish dad played golf and had an old putter.
I also had a route all through my high school years. I remember being the only kid my age who had money. It was a good lesson for a kid.
I found a shortcut to my first house that went through about a quarter mile of woods. Every morning, at about 5:30, I’d walk that route. It was beautiful. It was also a little spooky.
The winters were the worst though: 5:30, February, New England. I’d wear a parka with the hood fully zipped, like Kenny from South Park. By the end of the route, the fake fur at the end of the zipped hood would be covered in ice from the moisture in my breath.
One dog, an ankle biter. Got at me once. Not a big deal. But yeah, paper boys were definitely on the menu for your neighborhood dogs.
Thanks for the story.
I love dogs.
People who do not control their dogs? Not so much.
Sad that you had to do what you had to do.
(Good story, well told, btw.)
Admirable sentiment.
Loved it
I used to like the early Sunday mornings, other than the getting up early part. Most of the year in Ohio it would be dark the whole time.
I had an independent streak from early on. If I could deal with something myself, I did. And telling others about it was entirely incidental.
Great story!
Uh, so when did your voice finally change?
My mother was the district sales manager for the Chicago Tribune. My elder brother started with three routes, our whole neighborhood. When I got old enough, there was a high-rise retirement tower a mile away, and I got that route. Then my brother got old enough to have a job at a grocery store, and I suddenly had four routes, plus I would wind up helping my mother cover vacant routes sometimes. But I never remember a single incident with dogs on my routes.
On the other hand, when my mother was running for a county-wide office, I was sent to knock on doors and place door-hanger flyers. I was perhaps twelve. Walking along a sidewalk in another neighborhood, I had a pair come at me. I got back to the car lickety-split and said, “That’s enough for me.”
Should have had your brother use Divine Intervention at the same time.
Thanks for the post!
Good story Judge, thank you.
Great story. Had a paper route, I guess I got lucky in that I only had one dog who was crazy angry. I told the owner if I got bit again his car would need new windows and tires.
The dog was always chained after that. And the tips increased.
Wow. Kids today have no idea what the real world can be. My brothers were paper boys back in the day – like you. They worked hard and pulled bikes with heavy baskets through deep, cold snows . . . but I don’t think they ever had encounters as threatening as yours and your brother’s.
Wow. Great story telling Judge Mental.
I didn’t mention that the guy graduating was the son of the district manager. They always seemed to have routes.
Forgot to ask: was your short club/spear put to any other interesting uses?
I carried it under the front seat of my first car for years. Never had occasion to use it, though.
Great story, Judge. Thanks for sharing, lo these many years.
Thanks for the mental nudge, Judge.
About a quarter mile down the road, the one I used to pedal my bike to church for altar boy duty at my advanced age of nine, there lived a GIANT German Shepherd named Sarge. Going towards town, the road went downhill slightly, so the gambit was to go as fast as possible past his driveway, so by the time he knew there was fresh boy flesh to be chased, I’d be safely past. Of course, the trip home was hellish. Good thing I was slightly holier on the way back, given all my dabbling in Latin, cheap Sauterne and Holy Water. I simply had to pedal past, heart pounding, hoping I’d live until breakfast. But, Sarge was never interested in such a vulnerable target, apparently. He never even ran up his driveway to hoot at me.
The next trip down the hill to church, replete with wild barking and much baring of serious teeth, would set me on edge for the return. Never trusted that creature.
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My paper route was simple in comparison. Squirt gun filled with ammonia. No permanent damage to devilish canines, but they hated that stuff in their eyes.
The worst dog that chased me on my route got a rude awakening once I was driving, though. He would smell me in my VW beetle and charge out. Couldn’t get to me of course, but filled with the fury of a 17 year old remembering his past sins, I opened my door in his face at a fairly low speed and delivered a memorable bashing. Doubt I hurt him, but after that he was done with me.
I have a collection of James Thurber’s stories somewhere around the house. As I recall, he tells a somewhat similar (fictional) story, except that the boy’s mom takes care of the situation. She shoots the dog, obtains a miniature version of the same breed, and ties the new dog up in the back yard where the old dog lived. The owner discovers the replacement dog, is confused, but adopts it and never mentions the episode to anyone.
Now why didn’t I think of that?
My brother had a paper route that expanded so much I became a subcontractor. The only bad dog on his route was a Pekingese that was generally good about staying on his property. But quite often he got George by the leg of his jeans before he could get to the street, usually resulting in George dragging the dog to the street, where the he would let go, and run for the house.
One morning, we decided to do part of the route on horseback, George had his pony and I had Harry, dad’s project horse. Harry was a Quarter Horse mare who was bred for racing, but the old man thought she’d make a good roping horse. Only problem she was skittish as all heck, and when she started to buck, I had an even chance of staying seated. Before George got a chance to get off his pony and deliver that paper, the Pekingese charged to the curb, stopped for a second and then headed into the street, yapping all the way. Harry put her hooves together and tensed-up like I’d never seen. The yapping critter worked up enough bravery to get close and finally nipped a hind fetlock. Harry didn’t kick as much as she launched that dog, probably eight feet up and ten back. I’ve never heard a more satisfying Doppler effect coming from a yapping furball.
40-45.
True story: I got carded for beer when I was 40.
I had a morning route for the Washington Post with 80 customers. It was in a pretty good neighborhood, so the tips were great – I bought my first car with $300 in Christmas tips .
One of the customers was Sen. Frank Church who would be waiting angrily at the front door if the paper wasn’t there by 6:00 AM, so I would get up at 4:00, deliver the papers and then come back for a short nap before school. To this day – over 55 years later , I still get up at 4:00.
My only problem with a dog was a Basenji who would chase me every day as I went downhill on my bike. Since I was going downhill, I had a big advantage. It seemed like a great game until the day I decided I would stop and pet him. Big mistake, it wasn’t a game for him.
Wow. Lots of paper routes. I expected comments about being like Ralphie from A Christmas Story. Whenever I mentioned it working in NYC, people would laugh. Suburban stereotype.