License to Kill

A Handful w/Killer Looks—Seamus the Dog

This is the short history of a four year old South Carolina hunting hound, trying to adjust to suburban life in Northern Michigan. This dog never morphed into that fellow human addition to the family. Despite his charming ways under the roof, once outside he resumes his role as a seek-and-destroy killer with no conscience. He's great with humans, but lives to track down any other mammal, and snap its neck.

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Centerfold from Dog's Life

As an empty nester, it was high time I had a dog. My sister-in-law Ann runs a sophisticated rescue operation down in Aiken, SC, and had an interesting candidate, one she had vowed to find a home for. His name was Seamus. His owner Bob died after a prolonged illness, but had treated the Seamus regally after rescuing the hound from the shelter. Bob took Seamus to his summer home in Maine, outfitted him with his own life vest, and the two took long canoe rides across fresh water lakes. Bob was so enamored with this 60-pound athlete that he donated $65K to Ann's shelter. Ann also loved Seamus, but had two dogs of her own which kept occupied her family. Bob's dying wish was for Ann to find a home for Seamus, so she pitched Seamus to her sister Amy and me.

Another emigre from the planet Krypton?

I was captivated by the photos Ann sent from down south, Seamus catching tennis balls full extended, every muscle rippling in concert, or the serious hunting poses, complete with pointing paw and erect tail. Seamus was in his prime, just shy of his fourth birthday. My childhood was blessed by relationships with family dogs, and I was ready. Amy and I agreed to meet halfway, at their uncle's house in central Ohio, where we collected Seamus on my 60th birthday, February 4.

Seamus relocated the next day to Traverse City, Michigan. He had never seen snow before, and nervously bounded through it, bouncing up through drifts with all four paws airborne, completely flummoxed by this frozen white fluff. Neighbors stopped in their tracks watching the show. Indoors, Seamus lived up to all expectations, a southern gentleman who was a real charmer around the house. He never begged, but he spent most of his time staring out our windows at attention, focusing on everything that moved outdoors. He loved to go on walks, and we soon put him in a chest harness to reduce his pulling during. At the first thaw, we took him to the city's enclosed dog park, to let him stretch his legs.

He was a bit of a loner, choosing to play catch and fetch exclusively with us, his owners, and ignoring his fellow canines. But there was a persistent albino pitbull that wanted to challenge Seamus for his ball. Seamus barked muffled warnings, with the ball clenched in his teeth. Unaware of his impending peril, Albino ignored the warnings. Amy's sister Ann had mentioned that Seamus was "unpredictable" around unfixed male dogs, and to be aware. Ol' Whitey still had his two pink testicles, his whole being oozing testosterone, which Seamus clearly sensed.

If you were a fight promoter, you would probably rate the Albino Terrier a distinct favorite, with his bionic jaw and condensed muscularity. That is, unless the promoter had ever seen Seamus and his prowess at tearing flesh. About a minute after the first warning, Whitey persisted in his attempt at the tennis ball in Seamus' clenched teeth. Seamus dropped the ball and pounced, snapping violently about Whitey's short cropped head. Little specks of blood appeared. Amy and I used out boots to separate them, and we headed for the exit. Whitey foolishly followed.

I struggled with the leash as we headed the fifty feet to the fence gate, just as Whitey came back for more. My fumbling created just the opening Seamus needed to continue his jaw-snapping destruction of poor ol Whitey. While Amy and I kicked with all our force into Seamus' ribs, we saw how our hound used the leverage of his long and muscled neck to gain access to all parts of Whitey's head with his pterodactyl jaws. The fact that Amy and I wore boots instead of sneakers probably saved Whitey's life. We finally restored order, leashed up Seamus and scrambled back to the family Prius. I returned to the scene of the crime.

Apologizing profusely to Whitey's owner, we exchanged cell phone numbers. He was taking his gored guy, whose head now resembled a strawberry sundae, to the vet. We heard back within the hour, receiving several gory photos of Whitey's ravaged pate via text. The owner said the cuts were too jagged to be stitched, but needed to know if Seamus had a current rabies vaccination. Fortunately Ann had given us Seamus' papers, all in order.

Jagged Edge...TKO, Stopped on Cuts

We escaped without having to write any massive checks or deal with authorities, but a crucial lesson learned. Our casual life had just changed. Around other dogs, unfixed males in particular, Seamus is a freaking time bomb. This "southern gentleman," the absolute charmer around the house with all our human guests, should be wearing a tux and place a 00 in front of his name—License to Kill.