Gumbo

Ten years ago, I worked in a warehouse, taking calls on the order desk.  One of my co-workers was a furry, four-legged fellow: a pit bull named Gumbo.

Gumbo was the colour of the Grand Canyon.  Kind of a rocky, orangey-yellowy brick colour.  His eyes were the same shade as his coat, so, when he held still, he looked like he was carved from stone.  His pelt was smooth as silk.  I liked to put my hands on either side of his head, on his jaw muscles, big as grapefruits, bulging under his stoney little eyes.

Mostly, Gumbo was just like any dog.  

The hallways in the warehouse building were covered with stucco.  Each morning, Gumbo would bolt from the elevator and press his side up against the white wall.  He'd walk all the way to the office leaning on that wall, getting himself a nice stritchy-scratch along the way.  After he'd been showing up for a month or so, a shiny deposit of  dog-pelt oil became visible, building up along the wall just above the level of my knees.  It didn't seem to concern his owner.

He liked to have his noggin rubbed.  He demonstrated quite an astonishing understanding of spoken English.  He napped in a corner on the hardwood floor.

But sometimes the pit bull in Gumbo came out.

I used to go across the street to a greasy spoon diner on chilly mornings to get a hot, Western sandwich.  It came on that kind of thick-sliced white bread that has almost no crust, cut diagonally, and wrapped tightly in silver paper.  When I got that sandwich back to my desk and opened the wrappings, banners of fragrant steam would unfurl into the air.  They'd stretch across the warehouse to wherever Gumbo happened to be impersonating an obelisk, and tickle the underside of his nose with savoury, tempting fingers.

Gumbo's ears would tent up.  Then he'd arise, shake himself off, and follow the beckoning smell back to the source: me.  I'd be into the second bite, with my mouth full, when I'd catch sight of him from the corner of my eye.  The growling would start, low in his throat.  I'd think of those enourmous jaw muscles, how they fit in the palms of my hands when he was calm, and how they could probably take my head off with one chomp if he got angry.

I did feel scared, but I didn't let it show.  I stood up to my full height, and said in a loud, deep voice: "Gumbo, NO!"  Lucky for me, he accepted my authority.  He'd duck his head down and unhappily skulk away.

I liked Gumbo, but I never entirely trusted him.  I knew that his obedience was conditional.  I'm still on the fence when it comes to pit bulls.  I believe they are to be appreciated with care and discernment, like handling a loaded gun.  You just never know.