Toro
TORO
I remember my father and his good friend, Jim, raising German Shepherds to train for the military when we lived in Benton Harbor. Both men were astute entrepreneurs, and both loved animals. Me? I never met a dog I didn’t LOVE, so of course, my favorite memory of those years comes from an unexpected confrontation between me at three years old and a big alpha dog named Toro. Toro was large for a shepherd, and I remember he had a lot of black markings, more than normal for the breed. What I clearly remember now is my father always muzzling Toro whenever he was uncaged. I didn’t understand. Why did Toro have to have his face covered? The other dogs could be trusted; why not him? In my toddler mind, I was convinced my father just didn’t understand that Toro could be just as sweet as the other dogs if he was just given the chance. I soon seized my opportunity.
It was a sunny morning. I was wearing a light jacket, and my fine blonde hair blew in the light breeze. The cage that held Toro and the other dogs was on the side of the house, and I headed over to say Good Morning and watch the animals. Almost immediately, there was the great Toro! He came right over to the fence, and in my mind, that meant that like the other dogs when they approached, he wanted affection. No fear of consequences, I reached my arm through the wire fence and started stroking the huge black dog. Toro did not flinch. He did not lean into the stroking. He seemed only to accept the innocent petting I offered. Then both of us heard my father calling me. Toro seemed to get more agitated, and although he still didn’t move, he pulled his lips back in the well-known German Shepherd smile that means they are ready to snap. Still, he didn’t growl, he didn’t move. Still, I continued to pet him and tell him what a good doggy he was. My father rounded that corner, and to his horror he saw his tiny daughter with her arm up to the shoulder through a fence that separated her from the most dangerous animal he’d ever known. At my father’s approach, Toro started to growl lightly, but still he didn’t move.
My father changed his voice and manner immediately, softening and calling to me gently, “Kristie, Kristie, come here please.”
“Look Daddy, Toro’s nice. I told you he was. Look, he likes to be pet too!”
“I see that. Can you pull your arm out please and just come here so I can talk to you?”
“Sure, Daddy. Can we pet him more later?”
As I removed my arm from the fence, my father snatched me up and carried me away. I don’t think I had ever seen him so scared and emotional. He explained to me that Toro definitely liked me because he had never let another person anywhere near him without snapping, but any little thing might set the big dog off, and I was never, ever, ever again to touch Toro if he wasn’t wearing a muzzle. I promised but only if my father promised to give me plenty of opportunities to love the big dog when he was out of his cage. Again, my father had to explain that these were working dogs. They had a job to do protecting military installations and our military personnel. They needed to be tough, fierce, and we couldn’t baby them too much.
Shortly after that, Toro was adopted out, and I learned that part of being a poor child meant having an attachment to something that doesn’t stay long. My father and Jim raised the dogs to bring in extra money for their growing families. To them, the animals were just a means to an end. To me, they were beloved friends, and it was tough to see each new one come, get trained, and leave again. When we moved to Niles, there was no space at our new home for animals, and so the dog business ended, but I have never forgotten those years, and I’m sure I gained much of my entrepreneurial spirit from watching my father in those early years doing anything and everything he could to provide for his girls. For a long time I wanted to be a veterinarian, but as I got older, that aspiration changed. I still love and care for more animals than I can count, but I’ll never forget the great Toro!
