When I was a kid our dog alerted on a cross dressing, underwear stealing house burglar hitting the house next door.
Cops were already in the area looking for him and it was a quick take down.
My dad owned a gas station that I worked at when I was a teen ager.
He also had a 100+ pound combination wolf/shepherd (that is how I remember him and I am sticking to that story).
On more than one occasion we found broken glass and blood on the floor in the lower bay windows when we opened the station.
Spike had a strict heirarchy:
My Dad=God
Family=Demi-Gods
Workers=Angels
Customers=Fun
Aggressors=Toast
And Mail trucks=HATE! (a Mail truck ran over Spike’s foot when he was a puppy).
One time, one of the (much older and bigger) workers got mad at me (I was 14 I think) and grabbed my arm. Spike grabbed his arm and just dropped to the floor (no blood — Spike was cool that way). Said worker got the point and never messed with me again.
Another time, I was attempting to hook up a rental trailer to some guy who kept giving me a hard time. Eventually, I unhooked everything, slammed the trailer down and told the guy to get the hell off my property.
Well, said “customer” made the mistake of getting out of his car and moving towards me in a menacing way. I yelled “Spike!” and Spike came up, hackles rising making a deep throated growl that almost scared ME! The guy made a move and Spike jumped just a tiny bit.
The next thing I saw was the guys tail lights and what I am sure was the smell of underwear fear.
When my Dad called me 5 years or so later to tell me Spike had passed I think I cried for a whole day. It wasn’t the same as losing Musica, but it was losing a beloved family member.
Good dog
