The poem about the dog I posted here last week reminded me of the many dogs I have known over the years.  Several were regular characters in my life during my days at East Carolina University.  My favorite was Bear.                                                                      

Bear, named by me because of his size, was the biggest yellow Labrador retriever I ever saw.  I knew him all four years at ECU and he was a frequent visitor to the dorm.  A janitor told me Bear was around the campus for at least 10 years.  I eventually learned where he lived, and that his real name was Duke.  The one time I called him by his real name, he looked at me totally confused.  He was Bear to me. 

I’ll never forget the afternoon I went to meet a friend of mine who was earning a few extra dollars by serving as the proctor for an exam in the absence of the teacher.  Bear tagged along as I hustled across the campus.  He bounded into the classroom building with me, which wasn’t unusual at ECU in those days, but suddenly he slammed on the brakes.  I turned back. “C’mon, Bear, what’re you doing?”  Panting heavily, his brow was furrowed.  Something truly was upsetting him.  He frantically looked around, standing near the doorway, trying to figure out how to get where I was, down the hall.  “C’mon, Bear.”  

He started walking carefully, yet hurriedly, along the edge of the hallway, as close as dogly possible to the wall.  The only thing I could figure was he was frightened for some reason by the tile pattern on the floor.  It had a checkerboard effect, and he must have thought the black tiles were holes.  The edge was solid, and that’s where he walked. 

I finally got him up the stairs, and we struggled again on the second level.  By now, Bear was beside himself, his deep-voiced displeasure echoing thru the empty hallway.  We went into the room – yes, I took the frenzied dog with me into the classroom where people were taking an exam – I made plans with my friend, and told him I had to get Bear out of there.   So, with great effort, I managed to coax Bear down the stairs, back again along the edge of the hallway on the first floor, and when I opened the door for him, he ran out of that building faster than I ever saw him move before.  He didn’t look back.  

Another day, after I served Bear some dog food (hmmm, why did he keep coming back?), I got out the broom to sweep up crumbs he left.   I said, “Bear, I should make you sweep the floor,” and offered him the broom.  Much to my surprise, he took the handle in his mouth and dragged the broom across the floor over the crumbs!   If you don’t believe me, look here.