The Good Groenendael

My Groenendael, Belle, is a natural born killer. She has the canine instinct to stalk, seize, and devour that she exercises without compunction, apart from deer and wild turkeys, which she has been taught to leave alone. Even so, when she sees them she lays low in the grass and peers at them with spittle dripping from the end of the red hall carpet she has for a tongue.

In Arizona she has not come across deer or turkeys, so her restraint has not been severely tested of late, except on one occasion when a tiny visitor finagled its way into our home despite my best efforts to keep it out because I didn’t want Belle to hurt it.

My fear arose from her automatic response to the feral cats that inhabit a corner of our neighbourhood, which is a fierce growling that translates as “If I get my sharp teeth into your fur you will be my dinner!” or some such. Being a Chien de Berger Belge she has a pronounced accent that is sometimes hard to follow, although the cats seem to understand her well enough, and skedaddle in timely fashion out of fear for all their nine lives.

Now in her Arizona days, her attacks on wild life are confined to passing birds, crickets, permanently domiciled lizards, crickets, spiders, crickets, moths, crickets, cockchafers, crickets, and almost indestructible beetles that creep and crawl through our house and garden. She has never met a cat close up, and I didn’t want the blood of a kitten, and a baby kitten at that, on my hands or her claws and fangs.

It was around five am when I heard the noise. Sitting at the computer waiting for a story to write itself when I heard a strange sound. My initial impression was that my hard drive was grinding itself to powder and an uncharitable thought about Mr William Gates flitted through my mind. I sat silently, not clicking the keys to see if I could hear it again. Hear it again I did, but this time in the silence I could tell that it was coming through the window. I went outside to investigate the source of the whine.

In the area between our house and next door I was the smallest kitten I had ever seen. It looked lost and forlorn, and was a sight to tear at the heart. It mewed in a plaintiff small voice, which was the noise I had heard. When it saw me, it came with its tail antennaed and its wide-eyed gaze fixed on my face, as if pleading to be allowed to come indoors to shelter from the rising sun.

I knew that Belle was inside the house waiting right behind the door, because she always is. Belgians, being territorial, acutely inquisitive, aware, and highly protective make great guard dogs. Usually, when I leave the house by the front door, Belle comes with me. If I deny her, she stands looking at the door in case of a precipitous attack by a determined foe. I had to ensure that big-toothed Bell and little fluffy-cat did not meet.

As the kitten had talked me into getting it a drink of milk, I went back inside to get it, trying as I did to block the doorway with my legs and feet, but the kitten was in desperation mode and easily outfoxed me. My heart sank as I thought of Bell sinking her canines into the kitten. One bite would have had the ball of ginger deep inside Belle’s cavernous throat. I knew right then that it was not going to be a good day.

I turned inside trying to see through the gloom of a dark house to watch the scene of slaughter unfold. What I saw was barely believable. Belle was laid down in the attitude of the Sphinx twelve feet from the door. Before I could utter a cry of warning the kitten made a beeline for my glossy beast and rubbed its little pink snout on Belle’s big black nose. In response, Belle gave the kitten a slurpy lick on the face. Peace reigned, and there was no bloodshed. I was relived and gratified.

The kitten had to go outside before Gay woke up, as while she likes animals, she does not have the disposition or fatalism of Noah’s wife, so out it went with a dish of milk as big as itself, and the door closed behind it. Belle received the highest commendation for her kindness to a weak and vulnerable moggy, and a humble apology from me for even thinking that she would pull the stuffing out of the kitty to get at its plastic squeaker, as she does with all her soft toys.

Next morning at the same time, the squeaker came again with the kitten’s return. I re-issued its milk ration and closed the door. We never saw it again after that, and milk left out for it – just in case it came to see its new friends – went untouched. Belle and I hoped that a kind neighbour had given the little chap a good home.

It was an interesting interlude that provided me with some early morning thoughts about the need to overcome our basic instincts to mistrust those who are different, and who might be expected to be natural enemies. Just as in the old story, the one who turns out to be the loving neighbour was not of his own kind, but a man who was the cultural, religious, and national enemy of the man in grave need, so my beautiful Belle stepped up and responded to an overture of friendship from one who is the natural enemy of her kind, but her response was equal to that of the Samaritan.

It occurred to me that we could learn a lot if we were to listen very carefully to dumb animals. I know I have.

Copyright ? 2006 Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED