NOVEMBER 16, 2023
DOG TRAINING
ANOKA, MN – AUGUST 16 – 31, 1967
The next morning, I hopped on my 10-speed and rode to the public library on the other side of town. I checked out several books on dog training and hauled them back to the house, where I plunged into my own sort of crash course on how to get control of that big dog imprisoned in our back yard. After a good deal of reading, I ventured out to apply what I’d learned.
Over the next several days, I put all my efforts into training Björn how to sit, stay, heel, fetch and shake. I did not teach him to roll over. That seemed a lowly stunt for such a beautiful creature as Björn. The speed with which he learned five simple commands suggested to me that he was, in fact, highly intelligent. Plus, I could see it in his eyes, his countenance, and in his smile. We had fast become close friends. From one of the books I also taught Björn something that would save his life and save me untold grief.
The lots on our street were wide and deep, and off the leash, Björn would have plenty of room to fetch and dash about when paroled from his kennel. I knew, however, that Dad would never allow Björn to run loose around the neighborhood, irrespective of the ordinance that prohibited free-range dogs—an ordinance that was rarely if ever enforced, much to the vocal displeasure of Dad and Fred Moore. Thus, my plan was to follow the advice in the dog-training book: repeatedly walk Björn around the boundary of our lot. Every day, first thing in the morning, and again later in the morning, yet again before lunch and after lunch, mid-afternoon, late afternoon, just before supper and right after supper, I walked Björn on the grass along the curb, then across the driveway apron to the other side, then along the lot line on the east, the back lot line and the lot line on the west side back to the point of beginning. I let him pee along the way, marking his territory.
One day during the last week of that August of 1967, I approached the kennel. Björn wagged his tail with such vigor, I thought he was going to shake it right off. I had a tennis ball in my hand, and upon opening the door to the kennel, I hurled the ball across the back of the lot. Björn streaked after it and on the run, snatched it up in his long jaws. Reversing direction instantaneously, he dashed back to me and pushed the ball into my hand. I repeated this routine probably seven or eight times before Björn showed signs of fatigue in the heat of the waning days of summer. His long tongue hung low from the side of his jaw.
While he stood and panted behind the back of the house, I fetched his water dish from the kennel and brought it up to the faucet. Once I’d filled the dish, Björn slurped and sloshed to slake his thirst. He revived himself quickly, as I was soon to find out.
Our street was fairly quiet, which was why we played in it so much. At that particular time of that day, however, what turned out to be an old dump truck could be heard grinding down Levee Avenue, three lots to the west, then bending around onto Rice Street coming toward our house. Björn, of course, heard it too, and without warning, shot away from his water dish and bolted around the corner of the house toward the front.
“Björn!” I shouted. “Come back here!” I chased after him as fast as I could and turned past the corner of the house just in time to see the truck approaching. It was hauling a flatbed trailer with chains bouncing all over its deck and making a horrific racket. “Stop! . . .” I yelled. “Björn, stay!” The dog was hell-bent on intercepting the truck, and if he even heard me, he was not in the least bit affected by my panic-induced commands. He was on a certain collision course with the truck, and I realized that before my eyes I would see him flattened, killed in an instant. I was helpless to prevent the tragedy.
But suddenly . . . Björn applied his internal brakes. At the curb—the edge of his territory—he came to an abrupt stop. The truck and trailer rolled by, chains jangling. With a cigarette casually dangling from his lips and his elbow hanging over the window opening of the truck door, the driver gave Björn a casual glance.
In what was the greatest relief I had ever experienced, I collapsed on the grass and gazed at the blue, wondrous sky. The next thing I knew, I was looking up at Björn’s friendly, collie face. He stood over me, panting. “I love you, dog,” I said. His big tongue slobbered over my cheek. I rewarded him with the biggest hug I could manage, sinking my fingers deep into his luxuriant coat.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
