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Grandpa, Rusty and Me 7/11/2016 5:38:23 AM
It is little secret my grandfather was a made man in the Mafia who controlled a good portion of Newark, N.J. He also had a four hundred and forty acre farm in Backing Ridge, N.J. My grandfather was a hunter and held no fewer than twenty-seven hunting dogs of all breeds. He annually stocked his farm with pheasant, rabbits, quail and created space and shelter for deer as well. Near the farm house was a grape arbor about sixty feet long with picnic tables and barbecue pits made of brick and concrete. During the summer months his mobster friends drove up on Sunday to discuss business over dinner. I can still see the women roasting chickens, pheasant, rabbits and steaks as the men boldly argued about their personal views.
Of the twenty-seven dogs, only two were permitted to roam free. One was Queenie, a German short haired pointer, and the other was Rusty, an exquisite Irish Setter. We were sitting at the table eating when the two dogs were fed very near to where I was sitting. I got up to feed Rusty a snack but the dog thought I was coming to take away his food. He turned, snapped at me and caught me on the ear, drawing blood. Naturally there was great excitement with the women screaming and the men threatening the dog with canes and sticks. My grandfather, however, simply gave a command and his personal bodyguard brought him a shotgun and was going to lead Rusty away to be executed. Because I held my grandfather's name, Rosolene, I was an honored person in my grandfather's life.
When I say what was about to occur, I grabbed Rusty by the neck and held on. My grandfather approached me with the gun and commanded me to get away. One did not defy my grandfather because of his position and his temperament. I clung to the dog's neck. My friend wasn't going to die.
"No, Grandpa, please. Don'r hurt Rusty. Look! He's licking my face and saying he's sorry. He didn't know it was me. Please, Grandpa. Please do not hurt him."
My grandfather commanded me again and told one of his men to lead the dog away. I fastened my grip on Rusty and refused to let go. "If you shoot him, you have to shoot me, Grandpa," I said.
The gun slowly lowered and my grandfather handed it to his associate. I sat down with Rusty hovering very near me. My grandfather did not look at me the entire time. I did manage to whisper in his ear: "Give me your Sicilian oath you will not harm the dog." He did not reply.
As the day wore on, mobster after mobster left the farm until it was just my father and my grandfather sitting at one of the picnic tables. My grandfather summoned me to sit on his lap which as five years old I was still able to do.
"Rosolene," he said, "You are my namesake and my grandson, but never defy me again." He stroked my hair with such tenderness and love I didn't know what he was feeling. "I am proud you would give your life for a friend." He summoned Rusty to his side. The dog came reluctantly but obediently. Instead of punishing the animal, he stroked its head and scratched its ear. The dog relaxed and moved closer. My grandfather's eyes had softened to an amiable look. "On my honor, no harm will come to you as long as I live. I appoint you my grandson's protector and guardian."
Rusty became my grandfather's favorite hunting dog, and the dog was with him constantly except when I was vacationing at the farm. We bonded as if the dog understood he owed his life to me. When I took my pinto pony out for a ride, Rusty loped alongside and even guided me home again when I became lost.
On the day my grandfather died, I was ten years old. I saw him fall in death saving my grandmother's life when he had been overcome by a gas leak in the house. It is yesterday's memory, today.
Years later a farm hand told me that on the day my grandfather died, Rusty would not eat or drink and simply whined and howled the entire day. At sunset he arose slowly from his pad and walked into the woods. Rusty stopped once at the edge of the woods, looked back toward the farm and then slipped in between the trees. He never returned.
