Bottom feeder par excellence: German shepherd dog barking
The real trouble, as Sonny saw it, wasn't so much Benny Junior or his father Benny Senior, the surly super, but their full-grown dog Bullet. Named, appropriately, after the loyal and highly intelligent German shepherd once owned by TV and motion picture cowboy star Roy Rogers, this South Bronx variation on the black-and-tan hound was as mean and vicious a mongrel as Benny and his sort-tempered dad had been - more so, in their canine's case.
Bullet had the unfortunate tendency of hiding out in the darkest regions of their basement. Coincidentally or not, both Stratford Avenue complexes shared the same basement and laundry facilities; and each were connected by long, dark passageways that allowed residents as well as outsiders easy access to the two buildings. To gain entry, anyone, including Sonny and his family, could climb down a short set of steps into a narrow tunnel-like structure that opened up onto a claustrophobic courtyard revealing the twin complexes' backsides. From there, pedestrians could follow one passageway to the left and into 1245 Stratford Avenue, or the other passageway to the right into 1255 Stratford. Rows of empty or half-filled garbage cans lined both pathways, which made walking to the adjacent elevators somewhat treacherous, given that the basement lighting was of poor quality.
Somewhere along those two dimly-lit shafts - equivalent, in Sonny's mind, to the monster Grendel's legendary lair - lurked a growling modern-day facsimile in the German shepherd Bullet. Why the beast was allowed to roam free among the empty garbage cans and around unsuspecting tenants was a mystery few if any of the neighborhood's residents could provide an easy answer to. There was no doubt the dog's prowess as the guardian of their realm, a makeshift Cerberus in charge of the South Bronx Underworld, gave tenants peace of mind in that its presence was deemed sufficient enough to ward off strangers and unwanted intruders. Maybe so. But it did next to nothing in easing Sonny and Juanito's concerns for their safety, or those of their close friends.
Sonny hated to go down to that basement. For one, he was afraid of the dark (and it could get extremely dark under the poor lighting conditions); for another, that mangy mongrel sensed Sonny's fear, which made his apprehension about going there that much worse.
In retaliation, Sonny invented all sorts of excuses for avoiding that dreadful place. Poor Sonny! He couldn't help it if he was afraid of both dogs and the dark. Unfortunately, Sonny let his imagination run wild with surreal visions of his being attacked by a wild mongrel named Bullet; of his being torn apart, limb from Puerto Rican limb, while that ferocious beast gorged on his skinny innards, chewing his arms and legs as if they were meatless chicken bones. Just the thought and image of that mangy mutt devouring his extremities gave Sonny the shudders, which never helped when Mami insisted loudly that he go down there and take care of the laundry. Pronto!
Sonny's fear of dogs stemmed from an early encounter with a ferocious boxer. Walking in his usual leisurely gait from his family's apartment to the Clason's Point Branch of the New York Public Library building, just under the elevated Number 6 Pelham Bay line subway station at Soundview Avenue, little Sonny had once been accosted by a leash-less beast prowling the front yard of some lax neighbor's homestead.
"Oh! Damn it!" Sonny shouted. "Freaking dog! You scared the crap outta me!" was all he could say to the barking but belligerent animal. "Okay, I'm outta here," Sonny muttered under his breath. "Asshole neighbors, why can't you keep your mangy mutt bottled up?" The boxer's massive form, certainly not as large as the super's German shepherd Bullet, was formidable enough to thwart any potential thieves from operating in the vicinity of the local subway station. Under cover of darkness and with the passing noise of clanging subway cars overhead, any burglars worth their salt would be able to do their dirty work undetected. With the boxer on patrol, however, they were forced to think twice, maybe three times at that, before committing any offences under its watch.
That early encounter soured Sonny's taste for dogs as pets - but not for cute little puppies - to a noticeable degree. For the moment, though, he was happy to give the animals a very wide berth.
One afternoon, as usual, Mami charged him with dropping off the trash. Sonny had performed this service a hundred times (a rough but no less exaggerated count on his part) and was at the least willing, for the time being, to help his mother out while the vacationing Papi was absent. Not that Papi was any more delighted to be taking out the garbage, which he felt was purely "woman's work." No matter, what had to be done had to be done, and Sonny was the one to do it. Sonny took a deep breath and sucked in his gut. It would be over in a minute, he reassured himself. After all, dogs don't stay in one place for long, now, do they? Nah, not a chance! They move around a lot. Always pacing back and forth, especially German shepherds. It's in their blood, in their makeup. Sufficiently pumped up, Sonny convinced himself that all would be well. In and out. That's the ticket. Nothing to be concerned about.
"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! ARGH!!!!!"
Caught completely by surprise, Sonny was startled. No, he was scared out of his wits! Bullet's massive head and shoulders, those prominent black-and-tan markings on its upper back, that big brown snout, those salivating jaws of death growled menacingly at Sonny from the darkest nether regions of the basement entrance. "Crap, crap!" Sonny shouted to himself. "Freaking bitchy dog was outside all this time!" He began to panic. "What the hell do I do now?"
Its mouth agape, Bullet gave out a warning snarl, the kind that was typical of the breed but reminded Sonny more of those nasty Doberman Pinscher's he had heard so much about. Bullet continued to growl noisily at him, the drool dripping from its curved jaws. It was sending out a signal, and the message was: don't mess with this beast. No dummy, Sonny got the hint. This was the break he had been waiting for. He knew, from bitter experience, that dogs (most of them, anyway) warn you ahead of time regarding their intentions. Take the hint, he reminded himself, and you will be fine. Maybe. Keep the hell out of their way, go about your business, and they will get the idea you pose no threat to their well-being. Uh-huh.
"Keep your distance," an agitated Sonny whispered to himself. "Good advice for me, good advice for Mr. Bullet here." Storybook images of the Big Bad Wolf with Little Red Riding Hood, and of Peter and that Russian Wolf, filled Sonny's imagination. Still, he stood his ground, petrified, unable to react or to move. At any second, Sonny expected this guardian of its realm would pounce on him with all its vicious might, sinking those monstrous jaws and dagger-like teeth into his scrawny little forearms. Or worse, into the pulsing veins in his neck, the blood gushing forth every which way, his heart throbbing, his vessels popping out from his sweaty bead-filled brow and forehead. Copious drops of blood gushing forth unchecked onto the basement floor. The beast's hot breath, spewing fire and brimstone and God knows what else it had, onto his lineless facial features...This was it! The end! Goodbye, world!!!
"Bullet!" A sharp, irritated voice sounded from nearby. "Bullet!" the voice shouted again. " ¡Para te! ¿Me eschuchas? ¡Para te con esso! Bullet! Stop that!" the voice repeated, over and over again. Until the chastened German shepherd backed off its attack. "Good dog. Good dog, Bullet," repeated the voice. Sonny stopped to listen. He couldn't see very well in the dark, another of his minor faults. But within a few seconds Sonny was able to focus long enough to make out superintendent Benny's hulking form. His voice, now palpably soft and tender, was communicating with Bullet in Spanish, reassuring the frightened animal that all would be well.
Where did the super come from? Where was he hiding? Amazingly, Benny Sr. must have materialized out of the shadows, in time to exert control over the miscreant mutt, now docile and at his beck and call. Bullet stopped in his tracks and went over to its master's side, licking Benny Sr.'s hand and fingers and nuzzling its huge head into the super's underarm. "Good boy, Bullet," Benny the super repeated. "Good boy. Good Bullet..." The super continued to pet and reassure the animal for what seemed minutes. Whatever brought the vicious beast to heel and resolve itself not to cross the line of decorum came as a godsend to Sonny, who for a split second thought he might crap in his newly bought Wrangler jeans pants. Sonny stood there for the moment, his mouth slightly agape, and thanking the Lord for his good fortune. He had noticed that, in a flash, old Bullet had transformed itself from the hound from Hell into man's best friend, as it was meant to be.
The threat thwarted, Sonny remembered that he still had the trash to drop off. Never mind that the trash can he chose wasn't from their building's complex. What the hell! Sonny dropped the trash bags into whatever receptacle was available and ran, with all the speed an eleven-year-old could summon under the circumstances, right to their building's elevator. Lady Luck continued to smile at and rain down on young Sonny's form. For there, waiting for him with hands on her hips, was Mami - holding the elevator door open and beckoning her son to go in.
"Santiago, ¿qué pasó? ¿Por qué te esta tomando tanto tiempo? What took you so long?" she insisted.
"Sorry, Mami!" Sonny blurted out. "I didn't mean to stay out so late!" Sonny was glad to see his mother. Glad? He was ecstatic. He gave Mami the warmest, lovingest hug his sore arms could manage. Sonny would never again take out the garbage. Not in that building, he wouldn't, nor in any other building. And in no way, shape or form would he ever, EVER, insist on their getting a dog or any animal for a pet. Not if he could help it.
(To be continued)
Copyright © 2024 by Josmar F. Lopes
