Memories of Beck

 Beck was the best dog friend I ever had but the night he came after me was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

I knew Beck from the day he was born. Ken and I had adjoining property in Arkansas where we were living off the grid. Whenever Ken and his family traveled I took care of their animals. Ken  wanted to get an Airedale puppy so he made a deal to care for a pregnant female and raise the pups for a couple months. He would get his pick of the litter and the owner would take back Lady, along with the rest of the pups. Or something like that.

As I recall, Lady was on the high end of height and weight for a female Airedale and Beck’s father was as well. That made Beck a pretty good size too. I don’t know how much he weighed but I was a bit over 6 feet then and if we were standing together I could touch the top of his head and behind his ears without bending. I think that the parents may have both been registered; if they were, I don’t know if Beck was. The name Beck came from Beckham Creek which ran nearby.

As he grew, Beck and I formed a friendship because I was around a good bit helping Ken with various projects. By the time he was grown I could call him and we’d go for a walk in the woods. He’d range around, always keeping aware of what I was doing and where I was going, but when I turned for home he’d pull in beside me and we’d walk back together. I rarely had to say a word to him.

We’d mess around too. If he’d come around looking for some attention, sometimes I would pick up a stick and start tapping his hips. He would try and grab the stick and I’d try to keep it away so that I could keep tapping him. Eventually he would grab the stick close to my hand, where it was moving slower, pull it away from me — I didn’t have a chance against him — go off a ways and drop it. He’d come back and we would do it over until I relented and scratched his neck and ears instead of picking up another stick.

We also had a greeting ritual when he hadn’t seen me for a while. Beck would come bounding up in full body wag, put his front feet up against my chest (when he did that we were pretty much eye to eye) and I would rough up his ears, and neck and face. The whole time he would be making little “ahoo, ahoo” howls and I would mimic him. Ken didn’t care for it when we did that but I never asked why. I suspect it may have had to do with the possibility that Beck would think it was OK to jump up on people. Beck certainly could have knocked almost anyone over if they weren’t prepared, but I always knew he was coming and I think he was smart enough to know that he should only do that with me. Anyway, we only did it for a few seconds until I said, “OK. That’s enough. Go lay down.” And that was the end of it — until the next time we hadn’t seen each other for a while.

Sometimes when I was caring for Ken’s animals I would spend alternate nights at his place and mine so I could get things done at both places but care for his animals every day; I didn’t have any animals at the time. Once when I was spending the night at Ken’s place I went out the  back and walked down the hill a ways to take a pee in the woods, as was my custom. There was enough natural light so that coming out of a house lit by oil lamps my eyes quickly adjusted and I didn’t have to carry a flashlight. I hadn’t given any thought to where Beck was, but it turned out he hadn’t heard me come out of the house and had come around to the back porch while I was down in the woods. As I started back up the hill, Beck came off the porch directly at me in full attack mode, with snarling barks like he did when he saw a bear. It was the low but loud, aggressive bark that comes from deep in the chest of a large dog.

Hearing that sound, understanding the animal meaning of it, knowing the size of the animal it was coming from, and seeing him charging directly at me struck absolute terror in me; something that rose instantly from the deepest survival reactions of my brain. In my shock as he rushed toward me I managed to croak out his name. Just the one word. I had neither the capability nor the time to say more. When he heard my voice he immediately stopped barking and pulled his charge off to the side so that as his momentum carried him past me, his side struck the outside of my leg a good blow but not enough to move me.

When he got stopped he turned and came back to me in a full whimpering cower of apology: arched back, head down, tail between his legs. When he got to me I reached down and petted his shoulder. I said, “That’s OK. Good boy”. Upon hearing my words, his  back straightened, and his head and tail came up. And we were good.

Beck died a few years later. For several years Ken ran crews of tree planters and Beck traveled with him. One year while they were out he got real sick but seemed to bounce back. Ken told me he thought that bout of whatever it was shortened his life. I can’t say how old he was — all this happened something like 40 years ago as I write this.

Over the years memories of Beck arise from time to time and whenever the back porch episode comes to mind I wonder what would have happened to me if in my shock I hadn’t been able to speak. I know that I would have had no chance of staying on my feet if he had hit me square in the chest because that is where he was aimed and he had a full head of downhill steam. 

I wonder if he would have recognized me before he got to my throat.