Atlas

For Atlas the Airedale, a dog’s life was heaven. His luminous eyes shone in quizzical, mischievous anticipation, his mustache-framed mouth smiled permanently, and his wiry coat glowed like amber. He had rocket fuel energy and an anvil’s tolerance for pain.

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Atlas grew from puppy-size to pony-size, and had three modes of action: eat, sleep, and run. Anything that moved was prey, especially cars. That dog had more lives than a bionic cat. On countless post-car chasing occasions he limped home, bleeding and missing divots of fur. Once he lost half an ear. Determined to break Atlas’ car-chasing habit, Dad attached a burlap bag to his pickup’s tire. Theoretically, Atlas would bite the whirling burlap, flip violently before letting go, and be sufficiently terrified so as never to attack cars again. When Dad drove by, Atlas chomped the bag and whirled like clothes in a washing machine. Dad stopped, Atlas unwound, and triumphantly galloped away with a mouthful of burlap.

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One day a funeral procession passed … the answer to a car-chasing dog’s prayer. He attacked in Airedale ecstasy — until the hearse ran over him, bringing the entire procession to a halt. When the driver tried to help the howling hound, Atlas latched on to his coat. For Dad, the veterinarian’s bill, a new coat for the driver, and the mourners’ righteous indignation constituted the last straw. Atlas limped around in a cast for a month, and during that time Dad saw an advertisement for an electronic collar “guaranteed to break car-chasing dogs, or your money back.” The remotely-controlled device had two spikes embedded in a receiver, and the user was instructed to shave a spot on the animal’s throat, place the spikes there and draw the buckle tight. Dad sat under a shade tree by the road, and Atlas, fully recovered and sporting his new collar, took up his usual ambush position. Soon, far down the blacktop, an amorphous blur took shape in the rising heat eddies. Atlas crouched, one and a half ears rotating. When he attacked, Dad flipped the toggle switch. Instantly, Atlas cart-wheeled, landed on his feet, still in hot pursuit, and pogoed up and down as Dad repeatedly jabbed the switch to no avail. Years rolled by. Atlas finally gave up his favorite sport, and spent his days snoozing in the backyard. One morning, as I went to feed him, an armadillo appeared. Despite age, arthritic joints, and missing teeth, he attacked with all the gusto of his younger days, repeatedly pouncing on the creature, trying every way he could to get a tooth-hold on the armor-like shell. His excited whines increased in intensity. Suddenly, he yelped painfully, staggered sideways, and fell. At last, Atlas’ warrior heart was giving out. I flew to his side. A dog trusts his eyes and ears, but when he really wants to know something, he uses his nose. Atlas snuffed my hands, woofed one last time, and joined the eternal chase in hound heaven. He was, to the last, Atlas.

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