The Size of Fight in the Dog

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“It’s not the size of dog in the fight; it’s the size of fight in the dog.” In the late 1960’s, at the age of 6 or so, I don’t remember having heard that saying. But I do remember Coco. The memory has, no doubt, been sweetened over the decades (this was almost 40 years ago) and enhanced by retelling. Coco was a dachshund with the heart of a Patriot and the protective love of a Parent. A garage sale dog who loved and was loved.

Coco loved my four brothers and me. He was as gentle as a newborn lamb to the children my mother babysat from time to time. Patient as Job. A truly wonderful friend.

Back in the day, we walked everywhere it seemed. The neighborhood was a world waiting to be explored by a curious kid who loved the outdoors. We lived in a very nice house on a very nice street with a grass-covered cul-de-sac in a very nice neighborhood. At the end of our street was a big, beautiful, brick house with a big, aggressive, territorial dog with a bit of an attitude and major anger-management issues. I think he was roughly the size of a grizzly, but then again I was only six so maybe he was only the size of a mountain lion. I dunno.

Again, I’m rather sure the memory has been painted with time…but as I was walking to my house after a long afternoon of exploring, collecting rocks and playing kickball with friends, I heard a snarl and felt enormous pressure and impossibly hot breath on the back my neck as I approached the cul-de-sac. I yelled, I think. I don’t recall. What I do remember is that I soon heard impossibly loud barking as I was slung to the ground. Whatever had me no longer did. I ran home…it was only a few houses away…but it seemed like miles.

When I got to the courtyard of our house, I looked back over my shoulder to see Coco in the middle of that grass-covered cul-de-sac holding on to the throat of that big, aggressive, territorial but now tremendously terrified dog. Coco must have heard my yell and dug under the fence. Coco slowly released that newly repentant, humble, moose-sized dog from his wrath and grasp. And as that chastened dog bolted to the friendlier confines of his fenced yard, I heard Coco snort, saw him shake his head and watched him dust his back feet as he walked back home unscathed.

Coco. Such a wonderful friend. Comforted us when my parents divorced. Travelled with us to a new, smaller town. He may have gotten sprayed by a skunk and quilled by a porcupine during his senior years, but I never again saw him in a dustup with any other creature. And in the country, there were plenty of animals with attitudes.

I guess those animals knew better than to mess with Coco. Or maybe, like me, they saw the size of the fight in Coco’s heart.

 

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