Harry has a veterinary practice in rural Connecticut and like many of his professional colleagues, enjoyed the company of a good dog to help pass the miles as he made his daily rounds. For many years Fred, a Jack Russell Terrier, was his co-pilot. Fred was a tough, scrappy little dog ‘bout the size of a ten pound subway sandwich.

But he minded his manners, for the most part, except when he bit the tail off the barn cat. And he did learn to “palm” a soccer ball. Considering his size it was quite an achievement. But it resulted in his being banned from the field.

Harry learned the extent of Fred’s affection and protectiveness on a brisk New England spring afternoon. He was heading up Highway 84 in his vet truck, late for a colic call. His mind was reviewing all the possibilities from overeating to a gastric torsion–one never knows with a colicky horse. Its only equivalent in real life is Russian roulette.

He was talking to Fred who was a good listener. His concentration was intruded upon by a siren which brought him back to reality. Glancing at the speedometer he thanked his lucky stars he was only going 85 mph.

Harry pulled on the narrow shoulder. The officer approached around the passenger side and asked to see Doc’ s driver’s license. Fred sat stone still like a lion on the steps of the New York City Library. Only his eyes showed he had gone on full alert.

The officer reached across Fred to take the license. His regulation blue uniform jacket sleeve presented itself like a leg-o-lamb. Fred struck. It was as if a snarling Tasmanian hyena was trying to rip the leg off a gnu carcass! Fred was tenacious, Harry was pulling one direction–the officer, the other.

Harry, with visions of life in federal prison at Danbury, offered to buy the policeman another jacket. Fondling the tattered remnants, the officer declined. Thank goodness he was still able to write the ticket.

But it left an indelible imprint on Fred that returned in another incident involving directions to a bridge which crossed the swollen Farmington River. Harry got out to speak to a local policeman. They were standing a few feet from his vet truck when the officer raised his arm to point the way. Fred leaped, no, actually catapulted from the open truck window like a five yard pass from the bionic man, latched onto the regulation uniform tie and was ferociously gnawing it to shreds, swinging like a ham bone from a tree limb.

Harry remained nonplussed. He thrust his arm out, plucked Fred off like he was removing a tick and said, “You were saying?”