It was the summer of 1950 and we lived on Osbourne in Verdun, a working class suburb of Montreal Quebec, it was a hot summer night and Skipper was out for his constitutional when suddenly we heard yelling and a blood curdling howl. Dad looked out the window and said "It's Skipper" and headed for the stairs Roz and I in close persuit.
When we reached the second floor balcony Dad said :"stay here" and as he ran down the next flight he was yelling at someone "Don't shoot him, for gawd sake don't shoot him my kids are watching".
Roz and I lay on the second floor balcony, our young faces pressed against the rot iron railing, crying.
In the glow of the streetlight we could see a man pointing a pistol at Skipper who was on his hind legs and had a firm grip around it's waist with his front paws. The other dog was howling in pain.
Dad continued to plead with the man and after, what seemed like an eternity, he slowly lowered the gun and after a while Skipper released his grip on the other dog and dad brought him home to our welcoming arms.
The man in the street was our neighbor, an Irishman and Sargeant on the Verdun police force.
It wasn't until years later that I realized Skipper wasn't hurting the other dog he was simply pushing her home.
And, like Roz and I. that Irish cop wasn't aware that female dogs howled like an Irish lass when making love.
P.S. From that night on we were instructed to walk Skipper on a leash and not let him run loose. About three weeks later we were walking him together and I begged Roz to let me hold the leash, I no sooner took the loop when Skipper bolted and ran knocking me to the ground and dragging me several feet before I let go.
He ran south toward Wellington Street and as we were running after him we heard the squeel of car tires and a thud when we reached Wellington Skipper lay motioless in the road.
Not all stories in life end happily but life goes on and we remember them fondly
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