E G O S P E W

Grendel was a sweet, large black dog with three serious character flaws:  she was twice my size and scared the liver out of me, she chased and bit postmen, and she left soft fecal piles that were inevitably my demise when playing in Charlie Creamer’s long sloping isosceles back yard.  Charlie was my best friend.  His father was the college chaplain.  His mother, Donna Reedlike in patient exasperation while raising her independent-minded rebel-in-progress, was generous with the paper towels and never winced at the smell.  Charlie and I were faculty brats.

I attended second grade while Charlie forged way ahead in third.  He was loudly protective of Grendel and vowed to save her from the evil arm of the Postal Law — which besides swinging aggressive chains and aiming spray repellant at her eyes, also threatened to have the monster agressor impounded.  Charlie’s grand plan to placate the authorities involved his molding her a muzzle out of clay in art class.  This seemed like a fascinating project, but to my unsophisticated mind, stretched the limits of materials properties, not to mention, art.

My last and most intense vision of Grendel and Charlie is this:

We were walking across the college campus (as faculty brats are wont to do) towards the new dorm construction that would result in Sherrill Hall.  (For any ancient alumni reading this, calibrate your mental maps.  My topographical recall is infallible.)  On our left was the recently completed chemistry-physics building and on our right was “South Dorm”, one of three early-’50s belligerently-rectangular brick edifices lining Pulteney Street.  Charlie, Grendel and I were meandering southward, considering a traversal of St. Clair Street to check out the construction site for the future dorm.  It was a hot summer Sunday with nobody much around. Moreover, there were limitless cinder blocks, wooden planks, deep pits, drying concrete, wet mud, and enormous worker wasps to investigate.

Grendel, gifted as most dogs, gathered our intentions and took the lead, cantering across St. Clair.  At the same moment, an enormous old Plymouth sedan had turned the corner from Pulteney, driven by a senior member of the faculty (I’ll call her Miss Murdoch) and accelerated up St. Clair, unaware of our intentions or trajectory.  Grendel bounded ahead, directly in front of Miss Murdoch.  The car’s domed hood was so high and Miss Murdoch so tiny behind the wheel that she never saw Grendel.  Meanwhile, Charlie and I, frozen at the curb, held the perfect perspective to observe every detail as the car rolled slowly at Grendel.  

Directly in the Plymouth’s path, she was overwhelmed by its mass.  But, being so old and towering, the car also had large wheels, high axles, and just enough space for Grendel, cowering and yelping, to crouch down as the car moved over her, its drive shaft spinning against her fur.  Miss Murdoch never had any idea, never heard Charlie’s screams or Grendel’s protests, and off she drove in total oblivion. 

Grendel emerged as the rear bumper passed overhead, very ruffled, a bit oily, but intact.  She exploded back to full height and, at top speed, headed back past us, terrified, straight for home.  Charlie took off in pursuit.

I started to follow but realized I couldn’t run before attending to a frequent sartorial affliction.  “Charlie, wait up!  My shoelace . . . I have to tie it.  Hold on!”

“No-o-o!  I can’t!  I have to go . . . ” Charlie wailed over his shoulder.

How could he abandon me?  I just have to tie my shoe. 

So I stood, watching the black streak of Grendel disappear into the distance, cutting diagonally across the quad, and Charlie running the fastest I had ever seen, after her.