Archie the Airedale

When my family moved from Yonkers to Dobbs Ferry in 1972 I immediately noticed a distinct difference between the two locales. It had nothing to do with the fact that Yonkers was more urban or that Dobbs Ferry was more socioeconomically elevated. The difference was dog care.

In Yonkers people used leaches and walked their dogs. And all dogs on my block in Yonkers walked to a green space in an apartment community called Tudor Woods--a  green space which I remembered as a massive area  until I went back to the old neighborhood this past October and was shocked to observe that the Tudor Woods green space was a mere a 150 x 150 unbuildable lot. The other glaring detail I observed so many years later was that there was not one architectural detail analogous with it being named “Tudor.” It was 100%  post war brick.

But back to Dobbs Ferry. In Dobbs Ferry no one walked their dogs. If people did walk their dog(s), it was without a leash. It appeared that people all over the town just opened their doors, let their dogs out and expected them to return. (maybe I shouldn’t  be so surprised—that’s what mothers did with their children in those days too—before we learned about pedophiles and what really went on in rectories). Miraculously, people managed to retain their dogs despite no invisible fences, micro-chipping, or personal dog trainers (they weren’t invented yet. 

Across the street from my house on Briary Road lived a young family that I grew to know and love.  They owned an Airedale named Archie. Archie was a really not-so-bright dog despite the fact that he was a pure bred terrier.  My father would say Archie rode on the short bus to dog school. Archie was also temperamental and not particularly fond of many people.

The family who owned Archie would let him out each morning. Archie would then lie in his favorite spot: the middle of Briary Road. Archie would lie in the middle of the road and would not move. He basked  there all day long winter, spring, summer, and fall. And the neighbors became accoustomed to this behavior. So when they drove up or down the road they would just drive around him. But when strangers would drive up or down the road, they would obviously get concerned. Drivers would see Archie lying there and they would honk their horn. But Archie wouldn’t move. If the dog did anything at all, he would just bark. On many occasions I or my mother would yell to or signal the stopped honking vehicle to just go around the dog. But more often than not, our reward for this kindness was that people would mistake Archie as our dog, and yell at us for not bringing him inside.

Now, you should have no doubt-- it’s not that the family didn’t love their dog. They did. This wasn’t animal abuse. The family just respected Archie’s “space.”And it wasn't just the norm, but it was also within the town code (no fences) for people to allow their dogs to roam free. So Archie just “did his thing.” And in 1972 for people and I guess for dogs too, it was all about the right to “do your own thing.” Madison Avenue had even marketed the slogan. It was the age of “free to be just you and me.”

And one day my brother Mark parked his 1968 electric blue Plymouth Valiant on the side of the road near Archie’s favorite sleeping spot (ie the middle of Briary Road). And apparently Archie didn’t approve of my brother’s parking location. Because Archie, who barely moved from the center of the road but to attack the mailman, decided to pick a fight with my brother. Archie got up and followed alongside of Mark. As my brother walked, Archie barked. What I imagine the dialogue to be if I understood dog-speak and I could hear my brother’s conversation with Archie from where I stood, it would be this:

Archie: Yo dude. Move your car. It’s too close to my sleeping spot.

Mark: Out of my way Archie—I am not moving it.

Archie: Dude. Move your f-ing car or I am going to bite you.

Mark: No— you dumb dog.

And that’s when Archie jumped up and attempted biting my brother. And that’s when I watched my brother take his fist and punch Archie squarely in the head like he was a person. It was the only time I think my brother ever got into a fist fight—and it was with a dog. And thankfully, my brother won.(How embarrassing would it have been if he hadn’t?)  Archie, who was already a little bit mentally impaired, stumbled away with even fewer brain cells than he had before the scuffle—that’s how hard my brother punched him. There were birds chirping over Archie's head like in a Buggs Bunny cartoon. And Archie never picked a fight with Mark again --although he continued to forever lie in the middle of the road.

But my family never forgot Archie.  When my father was sick, we would talk about that crazy airedale and we would laugh. And until the day my father got too sick to do so, he would do impressions of what he thought Archie was saying when he barked.  And my father would lower his voice an octave or two while simultaneously letting it lilt melodically up and down-- and with a slow cadence would say: My name is Archie. I am a dog. I go Woof Woof Woof. And we would all laugh.