The dog was small and compact with a tough stance and short sturdy legs, a barrel chest, whiskers, and a demeanor not playful or aggressive or friendly, but something else, as he came trip-trapping toward me on the narrow lane above the town of Pola de Siero. His coat was a curly mix of black, brown, and dirty white. Some kind of tough little terrier, I thought, eyeing him warily. Out for my morning run, I had just rounded the corner on an uphill stretch cutting between some old close-set houses on one side and stock pens on the other, and here was this stout little sentinel, patrolling the lane. Behind me, two dogs continued to bark at me from inside their fenced yard, though I was now out of their sight. I was glad they were enclosed. This fellow was not enclosed. I slowed. He slowed. I stopped. He came on.
On that first morning when, veering from my usual route to try a different one, I had encountered him, he first inspected me, then let me pass by. The second time that I took that way home, he was in his exact same spot, as if waiting. Again, he came trip-trapping slowly forward to meet me, neither hesitating nor hurrying, just serious, almost officious. “You again?” I could imagine him thinking.
The third time he didn’t slow but came right up to greet me, not wagging and frolicking but amiable even so. And his welcome has been steady ever since—not joyous but accepting, not Oh, finally! but Ah, there you are. The routine is the same: He meets me in the middle of the lane and briefly checks my credentials—one official sniff and once-over glance, top to bottom. That’s his welcome. Next, a step closer at the same time he turns away, obviously to allow me to rub his ears. I have to stop to do this properly, but I’m panting because of the hill, and the moment’s rest is a relief. “Hi, Bruno,” I say when I see him positioned squarely in front of me in the street. “How’s it going?”
He doesn’t answer but looks meaningfully at me, as if to say, “All’s clear. So far, so good.”
Is he pleased at the name I’ve given him, or does he dismiss it as just one of those silly human behaviors—this naming game? Name a thing to get a handle on it, from children to pets to endearments for sweethearts, and use the name to shape the other. Mackie, Tula, Oso, and Toby—four of my past or current dogs. Nothing imposing about any of those names, no Thor or Chief or Kaiser. Bruno fits in nicely, I think. “You are Bruno, aren’t you?”
Still no answer.
And then he turns and, two steps ahead of me, trots up the road, barking left and right, as efficient as an escort clearing the way. Still ahead, inches from the lane, are another three dogs, all barking vociferously from behind their gates, but Bruno is here to deal a sharp reprimand, as he proceeds, opening the path for me, safeguarding me along the lane. And I almost never wondered, after that first time with my honor guard, if I hadn’t made a mistake and he was really, secretly, a Brutus, and I had better watch my back. No, he is Bruno the billy goat, at his post, letting me through.
