Baron

 As a young kid who craved adventure and often faced dares accompanied by chicken noises from my friends, I was eager to prove that I wasn't easily scared. Here's a little background for you.

Back in elementary school, my friends and I didn't want to ride the school bus home; we preferred walking through the neighborhoods, kicking cans, and throwing stones at stop signs—just boys having some fun. Our houses were two blocks away, and we sometimes cut through an alleyway where the houses were so close together that we had to squeeze our way down the length of the alley. This shortcut would help us get home well before our moms began to worry. However, one day, something did happen on that shortcut.

As we entered the alley, a huge German shepherd fenced in a yard leaped at us, scaring the life out of all of us. We knew the dog had chewed a significant hole in the fence and could almost reach us. We were left to weigh our options, and more importantly, figure out which of us was brave enough to sneak past the snarling dog, who looked like it would love nothing more than to eat our faces. A challenge was issued, but none of us volunteered.

For the next few days, we took the bus home while we tried to figure out how to get past the terrifying beast without losing any limbs or faces. One kid suggested drugging it by putting bleach in a dog biscuit, but we all agreed that was too cruel. Another idea was to throw a steak over the fence, and when the dog started eating the raw meat, we would run as fast as we could to the other side, safe and sound. That plan was settled, and we decided tomorrow would be the day to execute it.

Unfortunately, there were no steaks in my freezer, so I took a couple of pork chops instead. They would have plenty of time to thaw in my backpack during the school day. We walked slower than usual as we headed to the alley, peeking inside to make sure the beast hadn't escaped. As we got closer, without warning, the dog slammed against the fence, drool dripping from its massive mouth filled with rows of teeth designed to rip through even the toughest meat.

Just as I was about to toss the pork chops over the fence, a man suddenly appeared and shouted a few commands. To my surprise, the dog lay down quietly. "I see you've met Baron," the man said. "Did you know that he was once a police dog? I was his handler for five years. When he turned six, he retired from the force, and I took him home to live out the rest of his life without danger. However, some things he never forgot, like the time he chased down a group of kids robbing a store. He wanted to scare them, so he cornered them and showed them his massive teeth while drooling until I caught up with him.

I imagine he thought you were another group of boys posing a threat, which is why he went into attack mode. Let me assure you, if he had managed to escape under the fence, you boys would have been his dinner. Now, one at a time, please come close and offer your hand for him to smell." "No way!" my buddy shouted as he ran away. "I'm not doing it; I need both hands!" said another. "I'll do it," I said, my heart racing.

Very slowly, I inched closer to the fence, holding out my hand as I said his name. Baron walked toward me, his warm breath brushing against my palm. "Go ahead, pet his head; he likes that." I followed his instructions, and within a minute, the beast transformed into a gentle dog and a wonderful friend.

From that day forward, every time we arrived at the alley, we'd call out his name, and he would appear at the fence, wagging his tail and welcoming the hands that reached out to him.

The following year, we changed schools, which was far from the alley, but every few days we'd visit Baron, tossing treats over the fence and petting his head. He remained our friend for several more years, and when he passed away, he was honored with a police funeral attended by dozens of officers from around the county.

Later in my life, I gave my son a puppy for Christmas, and you can probably guess what I named him.  

Mike                                                                

2025