“Steve, last night, the junkies broke in again. This time they smashed the front window and took the rest of my plumbing tools. So, take a look son, that my boy is Wolf. Now it’s his job to watch the shop at night, and your job to take care of him.”
My old man pointed to the shattered front window of his plumbing shop. A giant wolf-type dog lay stretched out over the entire shelf on the other side of the broken window. Wolf lifted his head, the size of a gallon milk jug. His mouth hung open and his eyes–one blue, one brown–invited me to come closer.
I reached out my hand and smoothed the thick fur on top of his head. He closed his eyes and leaned his massive head into my hand. I gave his neck and shoulders a good rubdown. He fell asleep. That’s how our friendship began.
It was June 1968 in the South Bronx and I had just graduated junior high school P.S. 82. Every morning I’d come downstairs from my apartment and head next door to the shop. I’d wake Wolf up with a “C’mon boy, let’s go,” jangle his heavy chain leash and we’d hit the streets. We hit the bodega for a soda for me and to the butcher shop for bones for Wolf. For once tough guys kept their distance. From across the street I’d hear, “Hey Steve! Wanna fight my Doberman?” or “Nobody gonna mess with you now bro!” Before Wolf, they did mess with me. I was the wrong color.
With Wolf by my side, I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t alone. That summer, me and Wolf fell in love.
At the end of August, I was shooting hoops at the P.S. 90 school yard when a kid came running onto the court yelling, “Yo Steve, they beatn’ up your brother!”
I sprinted the two blocks home. A kid was shoving my brother against our building, trying to take his money. I pushed the kid away, pushed him hard. He fell over backwards, hitting his face on the stoop. Through tears and bloody snot, he looked up at me, “My big brother and his boys gonna get you.”
I told my brother, “Go get dad!” I knew he was sleeping off a drunk but at least that got my brother off the street.
Alone, sitting on my stoop, my head in my hands, I was terrified. Nobody was going to help me.
I glanced over to the plumbing shop where Wolf was snoozing on his shelf. Wolf was my plan! Wolf was all I had.
“C’mon boy, let’s go.” He yawned, hopped off the shelf and stretched out to his full six-foot length. I clipped on his chain leash and together we walked back to the stoop, to wait.
I wrapped Wolf’s leash twice, tight around my fist. Pulling his leash up close to me so he’d look ferocious, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, his teeth in a snarl, his mismatched eyes bulging out of his huge head. I was damn near strangling him. I hated doing it, but I didn’t think I had a choice.
Together we waited.
The gang turned the corner, some holding baseball bats. One look at Wolf and they kept their distance. The big brother planted himself three feet in front of me, “Why’d you do that to my little brother for? You so much older and bigger.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him. I’m fourteen, your brother’s sixteen. He was going after my little brother. I had to do something.”
The brother kept both eyes on Wolf who was still snarling and straining against his leash. “Someday you ain’t gonna have that mutt with you. You better watch for me on every corner. I’m gonna get you man.”
The brother and his gang walked away. Before he got to the corner, he stopped and looked back. For a moment, our eyes locked.
That’s when I knew he wasn’t going to get me. Like me, he was a big brother. He understood.
That September I started high school. Me and Wolf couldn’t spend as much time together, but every night we hung out. One evening, I went to the plumbing shop to catch up with Wolf, give him a bone and a romp around the block and then tuck him in for the night.
Outside the shop Jimmy, the scumbag who worked for my old man, stood leaning against the storefront, drinking a Colt-45 out of a paper bag. His cigarette hanging off the side of his mouth, he sneered at me as usual, showing his rotten brown teeth.
I looked around inside the shop. My old man was on the cot, snoring, an empty bottle of scotch dangling from his hand.
Wolf’s bowls and leash were on the floor. No Wolf.
I screamed at Jimmy, “Where’s Wolf? What did you do with him?”
Jimmy smirked, “Nah man, wasn’t me. No, it was your daddy. He got good and drunk. He lost your dog in a poker game.”
It felt like a kick to the gut. I couldn’t breathe. Gulping for air, I raced up and down the streets, searching in alleys, basements, the schoolyard. No Wolf.
I walked back to my stoop, up the eight flights of stairs to my dark apartment. I didn’t cry. I do now.
