Daddy vs Bucky The Wolf Dog

My children had it so much easier than I did, particularly when it came to school. They didn’t have to go to the library and wait for a book to be returned so they could work on an assigned report. They also didn’t have to carry 30 books home in a backpack and two grocery bags to do one night of homework. They could access their assignments and material online.

Even better, they have Chromebooks to use.

They didn’t have to wait until the end of the day to be with their girlfriends and boyfriends. They could text and facetime each other all day…

…and they didn’t have to contend with Bucky…

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Back in the 70s, the walk to Franklin Elementary school was a same-street, 6-block trek down Alder Street with any combination of my neighborly classmates.

The first block was really cool, no issues. Just encouraging “have a good day” waves from mothers and some fathers as we passed along the familiar houses. It ended with Star Tap, the local pub, and Old Man’s Store, our block’s confectionary. I say our block because it seemed every block had one. A candy store.

To be honest, there were actually four candy stores within a two-block radius. Ours wasn’t open before school, but it gave us something to look forward to on our way home. But I ain’t talkin’ about that today. I’ll save the story of Old Man’s Store for another day. Time to cross the street, over to 139th.

The second block? That’s where the terror began. No, not from my elementary school bully (you like how these stories all come together?). I didn’t see him until I got to school. There was no haunted house or warning to cross over to the other side of the street for fear of passing through gang territory. The second block had Bucky. Bucky, the Wolf Dog.

Yeah, you read that right: WOLF dog.

Bucky was the local bully. Bucky was the fiercest street gang, comprised of the most vicious fighters, all lumped into one immense mammal. Bucky was the daily obstacle course. Bucky was Gandolf The Black, standing in our paths, growling, “Youuuu, shall not… … PASSSSSS!”

As far as I can recall, Bucky was 1/3 German Shephard, 1/3 Wolf and 1/3 Grizzly Bear. To look upon him was like getting a firsthand glance at Cerberus, the multi-headed hound from hell, sans the additional heads.

He was larger than most dogs, particularly in width. Those dimensions alone were freakishly terrifying. His eyes, if you stood by the gate long enough to brave his thunderous charge from the back yard, seemed fiery red. But no one stood there long enough to confirm that because once he came running from the back to the front, everyone bolted for fear that he would leap and clear the fence.

His fur was unkept. Wild. As if he had been carelessly brushed in different directions after bathing in static electricity for a good half hour.

To put it bluntly, he was everything nature intended to never happen.

You would think that being behind a steel fence, no one cared about the fact that he never jumped over it. But this was one creature whose bark seemed just as menacing as his bite. I can’t quite describe it. It was a combination of a low-pitched hungry growl, an angry howl, and the moans of a tortured soul.

That, in itself, was enough to make children scamper. It was a sound that haunted you the rest of the walk to school. Sometimes, it would wake you in the night if he found his way into your nightmares, where fences were nonexistent.

Still, once everyone got clear, it was all nervous laughter and jokes as we continued on our way.

Looking back, I honestly don’t know why people even bothered to walk on that side of the street. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that walking on the other side would have prevented all that. Yeah, I know you were asking yourself that same question while reading.

I’m not sure what year it was. Possibly somewhere around 1979 or 1980. I just remember it was a summer afternoon and we were about 4 or 5 houses away from home, coming from Old Man’s Store when the screams began.

When I turned, all I saw were kids running in our direction, some jumping over fences into the neighbors’ yards and some onto the tops of cars. Naturally, we didn’t hang around to investigate. Being typical kids, we took off running as well, no questions asked.

“BUCKY’S COMING!!!! BUCKY’S LOOSE!!” was all I could make out as I closed the top of my paper bag, having lost a good amount of penny candy from my sudden charge out of the starting blocks. Initially I had been carrying it in the palm of my hand with the top open for easy and continuous access. That was the popular method of enjoying candy, carrying and dipping in as if you were enjoying a bag of theater popcorn.

In the distance, I could hear that familiar bark/howl/roar as one last glance over my shoulder revealed a mass of black, grey and dark brown fur in the distance as young teens continued to scamper.

I reached my house at the corner of 138th in no time, cutting across our fenceless lawn, yelling the same warning to my sister and two brothers, who were throwing a frisbee to each other in the adjacent street.

Running as fast as I could, I knew I couldn’t make my way up of the four steps to my porch and stop to open the door to my living room. Momentum forced me passed it, along the side of the house and into the back area. My siblings followed in panic.

If ever there was a time that I wished we had a fence surrounding our own yard, this was it.

Hearing his frightening bark getting louder and closer, I ran straight to the back yard and leapt onto one of our family cars, followed by older sister Denise and Terry, my middle brother.

We were safe.

I don’t know if it was lack of confidence in his leaping ability or a decision to take a different path, but my youngest brother Craig decided to slide under the second car, the station wagon. It seemed to be a good idea, that is until he realized he hadn’t gotten low enough just as he reached the underside of the bumper and slammed into it, face first.

Hearing the loud bang of skin and bone on metal, we all forgot about our own safety and fears and quickly jumped off of the vehicle, down to where Craig lay, holding his mouth and crying. Bucky was the last thing on our minds as we pulled him to his feet. When we pulled his hands away, his palms and his chin were wet with blood.

At this point, Bucky would have long since been upon us, but he never turned the corner. Bucky’s one-beast rampage continued straight forward, into Callahan (“Baby”) park, located catty-corner to our house and onto the basketball court, which had long since emptied, leaving only a bouncing basketball.

We rushed Craig back along the sidewalk, to and up the front porch steps, just in time to barely avoid being struck by the rapidly outward swinging door.

And there, holding the doorknob, was Big “Ken” Davis.

My father.

Superman.

People on the block knew that if there was one thing my father couldn’t stand, it was continuous, unnecessary outside noise while he was watching his Bears, Bulls and Cubs games. And if he had to come out to shut you up, you sometimes found out what it was like to be a “Davis” kid. Yes, he whooped other people’s kids. But that’s what growing up in “The Harbor” was like. It truly did take a village…

All it took was one look at Craig, standing there holding his mouth. My father pulled his hand away and asked what happened and if he was alright. “Yes, sir. I’m ok,” Craig answered, realizing he wasn’t as hurt as he initially thought in the moment’s panic.

“He tried to slide under the car, running from Bucky!” Denise added. “He hit his chin…”

Not stopping to listen to another word, my father quickly descended the steps and walked on the sidewalk, back along the back yard to the alley. Once there, he grabbed the nearest “alley apple” (urban colloquialism for half brick) and walked back to the front of the house. By this time, Bucky had cleared the park and began his quiet trot back in our direction.

I’m not sure how he saw and reacted so quickly, but in a millisecond, Bucky froze and jumped back as the speeding brick narrowly missed him, striking the curb, nearly vaporizing on impact into a cloud of dust and fragments. The boom of the projectile on concrete sounded like an M-80 firecracker being blown a few blocks away.

When the dust settled, Bucky stood still, surveying the area as if looking for the culprit.

It didn’t take long to find him either. Standing directly across the street, hands balled into fists, was Big Ken.

Livid.

Although he failed to strike the angered animal, he succeeded in getting his attention.

Bucky was demonically intelligent. As least that’s what we gathered by the look on his face as his low, bestial growl and gaze remained fixed on my father. He knew it had been thrown at him. And he knew my father threw it. So, there HE stood.

Livid.

Nobody moved. Everybody knew that this was it. They all knew my father, all too well. They also knew that if anyone could and would challenge Bucky, it was him. This was the man who always told people to never run from a dog. He always talked about how we had the advantage over these four-legged creatures. He used to say that a dog can bite you, but you can bite back. You can also, kick, punch, body-slam, throw, choke and anything else you wanted to do to it. Don’t get me wrong. He loved dogs and loathed the thought of harming one. But if it’s “mine against canine”, sorry Fido.

Despite his logic and the claims from his life-long friends that my father never once ran from dogs, going back to childhood, I didn’t have the guts to test that theory for myself.

But then again, I didn’t have to.

He was about to prove it.

We all stood there, silent. No one cared that Bucky was loose anymore. No one acknowledged that there was no steel fence, protecting anyone from him. No one even considered that he might suddenly switch up and chase any one of us at any given moment.

It was Kingpin vs. King of the Concrete Jungle.

Everyone stood in anticipation, wondering who would make the first move and how this epic battle would turn out.

The cars coming down the street had also stopped. This was Ken’s corner and if he was outside, something was up.

Then, as swiftly as he had entered our side of the neighborhood, Bucky lowered his tail, dropped his lazily swinging tongue and walked off, conceding defeat. He continued west on 138th street towards Pulaski Street, Main Street, Deodar, right down the middle of the street.

Everyone remained in their positions, staring at a rapidly fading Bucky and then back at my father, whose heaving chest subsided slowly as his fists slowly unclenched before turning and working his way back to the porch. Craig was looking out of the living room window, holding a cold compress that my mother had given him. Denise, Terry and I just stood there proudly, thinking, “That’s OUR dad” as we poked our skinny chests out in silent proclamation.

Activity soon restored itself as people returned to the sidewalks and the basketball court. Some gathered in small groups to discuss what they had just witnessed, knowing it was the one and only time that the story would be remembered as it happened. It would not be long before the tale was twisted and spun as yet another suburban legend that everyone in the Harbor would claim they were there to behold as it transpired.

I walked in and made my father a tall glass of ice water, anticipating his needs. I made a second one and set it next to him on the coaster, knowing he’d want a second. He always did.

I wanted to make sure he didn’t call me to bring him another as I walked out of the door, down the porch steps and back down Alder Street to Old Man’s store.

Most of what was originally in my bag had long since been collected off of the ground by the neighborhood kids like the residue from a busted piñata. That’s what you get when you don’t secure your stash.

But I had about $3 in my pocket.

More than enough to get another bag full of penny candy, which I would eat as I did before, palm up, top wide open.

“That’s MY dad,” I smiled, whispering softly as I continued down the block…

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