(Published in the April 24, 2009 Philadelphia Inquirer)
He wasn’t like the other dogs I had known. Peanuts, a lab-terrier mix with a lean yet powerful build, somehow seemed to sense the uneasiness and fear that I always had around dogs, so he treated me differently than the other kids. He would run up to the others, and put his paws on their thighs, looking for a back-scratch. With me, he would slowly stroll up and look up at me with his big brown eyes while gently bowing his head. He was the only dog I would scratch on the head.
One of the many wonderful things about John Grogan’s “Marley and Me” is that it brought back the memories I have of Peanuts Kerwood. My friends and I respected him so much, that we still refer to him with a surname. Technically, he was my friend Tom Kerwood’s dog, but we all thought of him as our own. In reality, Peanuts didn’t believe he had an owner because he was so fiercely independent. I had the impression that he thought the Kerwoods lived with him, but was content to have them believe otherwise.
The 7300 block of Hill Road in the Roxborough section of Philadelphia was a remarkable street for the Baby Boom generation. Despite the fact that it was only about 250 yards long, there were some 85 kids (18 and under) living on that street in the early 1970’s. We always include Peanuts in that total because we thought of him as one of the gang. He would play tag with us in the summer, jump in leave piles with us in autumn, and pull us on our sleds in the winter.
Peanuts was also very protective of his friends and I welcomed his companionship along my paper route, especially after dark. There was one mean dog on my route that constantly harassed me whenever Peanuts wasn’t around. Peanuts took him on one day, and I wasn’t bothered again after that. I looked down at him after that scrap, scratched his head, and said, “You’re the King of this street, Peanuts.”
As my adolescence gave way to young adulthood and college, Peanuts was still patrolling Hill Road. I remember after one particularly rowdy night of drinking beer “back the woods” I was struggling while taking a “zig-zag” path home, when Peanuts suddenly appeared ahead of me. He turned and gave me a look that said “Better follow me”. I closed one eye, focused the other on Peanuts and said, “Lead the way old buddy.”
Wild stories floated around about Peanuts. People claimed to have seen him all over town, at City Hall, or down at Veterans Stadium after a Phillies game. Others said they saw him driving a car, or leisurely drifting down the Schuylkill River in a canoe. It was rumored that he had a job in construction. His legend began to grow, especially among the female dogs, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had sired hundreds during his reign as King.
I eventually married and moved away, but I was always glad to see Peanuts during visits to my parent’s house. He limped a little and was getting a bit slower and rounder as the years went by, but he would still greet me the same way: head down with eyes looking up, waiting for a head scratch.
During a visit in the late 1980’s, my brother Pat and I heard a commotion outside the house. Someone was saying that Peanuts was hurt. We noticed that a small crowd had gathered on the Kerwood’s lawn. We hurried up the street, and there, laying on the lawn, was Peanuts. “We’ve put him here so that everyone can say good-bye”, Tom’s sister Kathy cried. “He has to be put to sleep. Some no-good bum shot him.” The vet couldn’t determine when he had been shot. The limp we had noticed over the last few years was probably the result of the .22 caliber bullet that slowly deteriorated the muscle in his hind leg. Peanuts just lived with the pain, until he couldn’t anymore. Kathy was right. Whoever shot him was a no-good bum.
I knelt down next to Peanuts. He looked at me with sad brown eyes and gently bowed his head. Tears filled my eyes as I scratched his head for the last time. I noticed that the crowd behind me was growing, and I wasn’t surprised. The loyal subjects were gathering, for they had come to pay their respects and bid a final farewell to the King of Hill Road.
AFTERWORD
Although I embellished just a bit about Peanuts driving a car, and having a job, he truly did seem like one of us. His death hit me much harder than I initially thought it would. Over the years, whenever I’d meet another dog, I would often look for those same characteristics that Peanuts possessed. I eventually realized how futile that was, and have since stopped, for I now know that there will never be another like Peanuts. In the words of William Shakespeare, “I shall not look upon his like again.”