Majo

Born 25 September 1971 in Missouri, adopted in December 1971 – died 2 November 1981 in Tulsa, OK

In Peninsular Spanish "majo" means nice and attractive, also guy, dude, bud; it’s positive in all its acceptions. A name which captured only a facet of a canine personality that was what a brilliant cut is to a diamond. It is still spoken reverently by those who knew him long ago.

Airedale Terriers are not for anyone who is not an avid dog obedience acolyte and a marathoner on top of that. My first husband, Bob Monforte, and I were neither, but his childhood pet, George, was an Airedale – a buddy who died at his feet for joy of seeing him the day he returned from a 2-year tour of Vietnam. Can anyone blame him for wanting another Airedale?

The breed’s popularity waned after the 1940s because most owners don’t measure up to it. Albert Terhune wrote of the Airedale: “He is swift, formidable, big of brain and ideal chum and guard… To his master he is an adoring pal. To marauders he is a destructive lightning bolt.” Amen to that.

There were no Airedale pups in Kansas and so we responded to a Sunday newspaper ad that took us to a Depression Era farm in the sticks of Missouri – a three-hour drive from Topeka. A pack of wooly pups and their scraggly mother, Judy Lou, came bounding up the muddy driveway. Six females and only two males, one of which would stay with the breeder, poor fellow, the other, the largest of the litter, was over yonder, leaning against the side of the barn. An aloof pup is either sick or not properly socialized – in this case it was a symptom of fierce independence. He didn’t belong there, he thought, and although he didn’t know a tractor from a Sunbeam Tiger, he sighed with relief in our sports car, wrapped in a blanked on my lap. As we pulled out it started to rain again, and we felt pangs of remorse for leaving the others behind.

Bob had found George’s avatar. I had never seen an Airedale before, but all dogs are beautiful to me. And so, with his papers in hand (the sire’s name was Show Boat) and $75 poorer, on the way back to Topeka we grandiosely named him Majo Sayyd de Lemos. In our discharge for buying a pup, I will say that neither Bob nor I had ever heard of "breed-rescue" groups; knowing better now, I have no doubt we could have found more than one discarded adult Airedale in need of homes.

Four epic events would impact Majo’s adolescent psyche: 1) An abduction, 2) a tornado, 3) an intercontinental trip, and 4) a dog attack, all in short sequence. I wonder how he would have been without them.

1) While Bob and I were in class at Washburn U. one day, the manager of the apartment complex used his master key to snoop. On our return we realized in a panic that our 5-month old pup was gone. We scoured the neighborhood and beyond, visited the shelter every day, put an ad in the paper … four days later he was still at large. The nightmare ended when while on yet another search of the neighborhood I spotted him running full speed toward the apartments dragging a long purple nylon rope. Someone had tied him down and somehow he finally managed to escape (no fence could contain him, we later found out).

2) Outside our bedroom window stood a massive utility pole with a tornado alarm system to vie with the sirens of the London Blitz. It could be heard miles away. Inside the flimsy apartment the wailing of the four stationary sirens could tear one’s ear drums. On our last night in Topeka, we left Majo alone while we attended a farewell dinner. The weather turned quickly and not one but several tornadoes were headed toward the University area. Sirens blaring all over the city, Bob and I drove home against all advice and between oncoming tornadoes to rescue our dog from the mayhem. He was in shock; he wasn’t even relieved to see us.

3) Not a week later, barely returned to normal, we shoved him into an air kennel bound for Barcelona. As we retrieved him from customs, he turned away from us as he continued to do, ignoring treats, praise, toys, etc. for the next two weeks. His contempt for us was absolute and he knew how to hold a grudge longer than any other dog.

3) The coup de grace happened in Ezcaray, a charming mountain village near Berceo, Mama’s birth place in the province of Logroño. In a place with no car traffic, Majo was gaily trotting ahead of us taking in the aroma of horse manure and freedom. We walked by the butcher shop, where a giant white dog was dozing at the end of a chain that could lift HRM Queen Mary’s anchor. But break it did as a result of the white dog’s lunge when he saw Majo, pouncing on him to begin a savage attack. Risking serious injury Bob separated the snapping furies: The white giant limped home crying; Majo stood there bewildered (yet again) but with only minor lacerations. Having vanquished an enemy three times his size, a bully was born. He was 10 months old.

Majo traveled with us wherever we went in Spain – Barcelona, Madrid, La Rioja, Extremadura … We lived in Marbella. While in Spain we endeavored to get him a playmate. In Logroño we saw a gentle female Airedale pup who, callously but not without regret, we left behind because she was lame. Instead we bought Chuleta, a Foxterrier plucked from a street vendor’s basket in Ramblas. She emerged from among her littermates to bite my nose, which I took to be an omen. Chuleta, like her siblings, however, was doomed to die of diabetes a month later. She was much mourned by me. Never got a photo of that plucky girl who would steal Majo’s toys, generally much larger and heavier than her.

I met Xuska at the veterinary clinic in Estepona. She had been covered with mange and beaten within half an inch of her life. Left to die, she was rescued by a British Samaritan who paid the bills to nurse her back to health. She awaited adoption. Although very leery of approaching me, she realized I was her lifeboat. I walked out with her at the end of a rope while Bob and Majo waited in the parking lot. Both took an instant dislike to “my” dog, and Majo who did not discriminate between sexes, attacked her on the spot. She didn’t back off and, once separated, neither did I. We all learned to live together.

In 1972 we returned to the USA in two shifts, having run out of Bob’s savings, except for the price of an airplane ticket for him and Majo, and $35 cash. Xuska and I moved in with my parents in Barcelona awaiting Bob’s solvency.

Back in the USA, Majo never accepted the concept of a fenced yard as containment. Chaining him briefly on a couple of occasions resulted in trips to the vet for expensive dental work. His roaming was largely our fault because he was intact. We toyed with the idea of breeding him once, when a bejeweled woman in Madrid leaped out of her chauffeured Mercedes sedan, looked at him as if he were the Messiah and offered us any sum for his services as a stud for her adored Airedale female. Our depleted finances notwithstanding, money was not the incentive, having one of his descendants was – what were we thinking of! But we never bred him. He found his own dames – a Basset (!) and others we didn’t know. His final undeniable paternity was right across the street with a beautiful, albeit neglected German Shepherd. I had had enough – and so I rushed him to the vet clinic with Bob running behind my tiny Honda 500 howling “Nooooooooooo!” Majo was fixed that afternoon; would that it had been much sooner. Too late to cure his fighting and roaming habits, but he kept closer to home with no more puppies ensuing.

Majo would steal objects (toys, doormats, etc.) from neighbors’ yards and bring them to us.… He would hide under the bed or in a closet when we sang his song “He’s the guy” …. He learned (with great effort, for he was a mortal enemy of small animals) to tolerate the household cats and, most remarkably, Pinito, a pet flying squirrel whose death-defying stunt was to glide onto Majo’s curly head, then teasing up his curls into a cozy nest on which to sit. In such instances, Majo would look at us in disbelief that we would ask him to refrain from putting an end to such outrage. The potentially explosive events were rare and unexpected and we never had a camera at hand .… Despite Majo’s regrettable inclination to hurt other animals, he once brought in his mouth, unharmed, a newborn kitten who moments before had been dumped from a car by the curb. He was atypically kind to Pickapeppa while she lived with us until she was adopted.

Most memorable in retrospect is when Bob and I would ask each other: “Is Majo sicky?” This would initiate a series of progressively pathetic looks, moves, and groans as we kept saying how terribly “sicky” he was, culminating in Majo dropping to the floor looking moribund. One of us would then exclaim “He not sicky!!!” and Majo would raise like Lazarus, shacking off the sickyness and prancing around, happy to survive yet one more time.

More realistically, I may have not survived without Majo. Five times that I’m aware of he thwarted attempted break ins. No noise went unnoticed by Majo who would fly to the compromised door or window, assaulting the barrier between himself and the intruders with bloodcurdling yelps and teeth clashing. They fled. One such miscreant, however, didn’t have the benefit of a barrier. What happened is that I fell asleep while reading on a lawn chair, in plain view from the street. With the dogs out of sight under the bushes, a man decided to take advantage of the situation, opened the gate and was going to walk into the house to lay in waiting. Before that could happen, Majo rushed him with intent. The commotion jolted me of my seat and I ran to see Majo pinning a man by the patio door, teeth bared at face level. Instinctively, I pulled the dog by the collar, falling back with 80 lbs of canine fury on my chest. Majo rebounded toward the fleeing man, tearing his pants and going for more. Painfully winded, somehow I seized Majo’s collar who was in pursuit, thus dragging me several feet and wrenching my wrist. But I didn’t let go for fear that if Majo injured or killed the man outside our property, I may be legally bound to euthanize my dog or move out of state. Had I had a second to consider the situation, I would have allowed Majo to proceed with his first assault, inside my patio, while I called the police, leisurely.

What amazes is that Majo would live to be 9 years of age despite his escapades and gladiatorial encounters. He also managed to elude the dreaded Tulsa dog pound, where we were frequent visitors when he was at large. Instead, he died peacefully just outside the fence in the shade of a silver maple. My mother, who checked on him often, had just seen him there, waiting for the children to exit Barnard Elementary as he did every day. Barely 15 minutes later, she saw him again, this time surrounded by children, mothers, and teachers. Majo was dead.

My father called me at the office and I drove home so fast that I was stopped by police on 15th St. I may have forgotten the full name of Sargeant “W” but he lives forever in my personal pantheon of human legends. On hearing that my dog was dying – in those long-gone days of American chivalry – Sgt. W opened way at 60 mph, motorcycle sirens blaring. Actually, Majo was already dead of a massive heart attack. When I got there some neighbors were offering a ride to the veterinarian, hugging my sobbing mother, putting a rolled up jacket under the dead dog’s head. Sgt. W gave me a hug and condolences, and rode away.

Robert Payne dug a 6-ft hole in the SW corner of the garage, and we buried Majo there late that night, well after rigor mortis set in. The sorrow was searing. But there were no regrets. This was one of the rare beings on earth who had lived to the fullest, doing what he damn-well wanted while fully backed, protected, and loved.

Even after death, Majo had surprises. Next morning I took surviving canines Xuska and Ponsón, for a walk. Mary, a neighbor on 17th Place, was tending to her front yard and asked about Majo. Visibly moved by the news she told me that every morning he would go to her house to watch the soaps as they shared toast, eggs, and bacon on the living room couch. When he had his fill of breakfast and drama he would go to the door. Judging by his breath after his mysterious morning absences, we had assumed he was raiding a diner’s dumpster or snatching some kid’s lunch. As I left Mary’s front yard with knowledge of the truth, I shook my head in disbelief and smiled. I still do, every time I think of Majo.

Epilogue: Majo was my first pet, besides Pinito the box turtle I found dodging traffic in Barcelona. I always wanted a dog. In particular, beginning at age 6 or 7, I wanted Roqui. She was the hunting hound of a man who should have been one of those “hunting accidents” for the betterment of the world. But come September, Roqui got an annual one-month reprieve from her bleak life, when she was on loan to my father, Salvador, while we vacationed in Berceo, Mom’s heavenly village. Papa would take Roqui hunting but without pressure (and seldom a kill, although he was a champion shot). Mostly they walked up and down mountains enjoying nature, or rested under a tree, sharing bread and cheese. As our vacation came to an end, every year I pleaded for us to take Roqui to Barcelona. Papa would have, gladly, but Mama’s aseptic ways didn’t allow for a dog. There was no other solution: Roqui and I would have to go feral together. We hid under a haystack and nearly suffocated but we were ratted out by the farmer; we hid in the forest, we hid in a sheep shed high in the mountains, we hid in an abandoned monastery … my relentless parents would find us every time. Roqui was finally shot dead, so we were told, by another lowlife hunter like her owner. She lives in my mind as long as I have one.

Majo, "the high, the gummer, the bummer in the summer, the man, the guy, the one," didn’t teach me that dogs are better than people, I realized that the moment I gained reason. He taught me, however, that even difficult dogs like him will, at the critical time, do right by his person. He taught me that they think deep thoughts, e.g:

When Bob and I parted ways in 1977 we had Majo, Xuska, Ponson, La Precious, Paquita, Miniman, Barfly, and Achilles. I would keep them all until Bob found a house with fenced yard and he could take two cats and his beloved Majo. The day arrived, and as usual, Majo was apoplectic with joy when “Daddy” arrived. Departure time was always sad, but this time Bob opened the car door with an excited “Let’s go!” The dog ran overjoyed toward him, then stopped. Halfway between Bob and I, Majo looked back at me, then at Bob, and back-and-forth again, clearly stuck between duty and desire. Bob kept enticing him, I told him to go, I even tried to lead him to the car, but he stood firm. Eventually, Majo sadly turned toward the house where my elderly parents stood. He had reasoned – yes reasoned – that we needed him more. Fidelity, altruism, dutifulness, and –what are these if not the elements of – Honor … head hanging, Majo quietly walked into the house forfeiting his desire to go with Bob.