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At least in a game there was the possibility, however slight, that I might win. So I waited a bit longer. Then I made a move.
Instead of advancing farther on the dog, I turned and slowly walked away. I slipped around the corner and waited for a minute before checking on him. He'd come halfway down the hill.
"Como," I called out in my chirpiest voice. "You win. I give up. Let's go home. Bet I can find a treat for you."
I had to get my hands on him. At this point, my best—my only—weapon was to convince the dog I was harmless. And so I did. Right there on the spot, in the middle of Eleventh Avenue, I sank to my knees.
The desperate dance that followed—my begging and full-body collapse, Como's maddeningly close approach, our parallel scampers up the hill, a gardener's truck scaring off Como again—wasn't going to end well.
Then came a heaven-sent act of intervention. "Get in," someone said.
A car door stood open beside me. I did as I was told.
"I saw the whole thing," the driver said. "We'll drive up ahead and cut him off."
Where had he been, this gruff Good Samaritan? Where had he come from? It didn't matter. We sped through the intersection and on toward Pacheco Street. I didn't know where Como was at this point, but the Samaritan did.
"There!" he huffed, yanking the steering wheel around. He screeched to a halt in a driveway and leaped out of the car. Como was in the next driveway, penned in by the sunken rectangle. The driver handed me something when I got out. "Use this," he said.
It was a partly eaten PowerBar. He guarded one side of the driveway while I tore off a sticky hunk and waved it at Como. I didn't know if he was panicked, exhausted, or starving, but he came toward me like a well-trained circus animal responding to a command.
When the dog was almost close enough for me to grab, the Samaritan hopped down into the driveway behind him and stamped his feet. At that, Como rushed into my arms, and I shoved the PowerBar into his mouth.
Against my chest, I felt Como's heaving torso. "Thank you so much," I babbled to my rescuer. "This dog's insane. I never would have gotten him. Thank you."
He just shrugged and motioned for me to get back in the car.
I offered him a cash reward or a box of PowerBars. He waved me off and drove me to my house. I was halfway up the steps before I realized I had never even asked the man his name.
Later that afternoon, after I'd locked Como in our bedroom, Sally opened the door. The dog was on his belly by Sally's nightstand. His tail thumped. She went toward him and stopped.
"Oh," she said softly.
A swatch of carpet looked as if it had been burned down to the bare floor. Wood slivers and white paint chips littered the scene.
Como had tried hard to tunnel out of the room, apparently tearing at the carpet and door with his claws and maybe his teeth. It seemed that any enclosure, no matter how big, was a cage to him.
"Poor thing," Sally finally said. She crouched down to summon the suffering house wrecker.
As I witnessed their meeting, I was in a muddle. Como and I were in full-scale combat, and he was winning handily. It ought to have made it worse that Sally was consorting with the enemy, gently stroking his neck and cooing at him.
But as I watched Como roll onto his back to receive a stomach rub, his four white paws dangling in midair in surrender, I also saw what Sally saw. It was obvious to me, too, now that I'd stopped to think about it.
Como was terrified.
This scraggly little terrier had been living in a new place with new people, smells, rugs, and doors, some of which closed in around him and set off whatever survival mechanisms had been planted in him long ago. We'd probably gotten off on the wrong foot by locking him in a cramped plastic crate that first night. Now this.
No wonder he'd torn up the place.
Sally was rocking him and tickling him. "Look at you, you big nutcase. What are we gonna do with you?"
We did the only thing we could do. We booked sessions with a dog trainer.
When we met with her, the trainer said, "Terriers are hard. They're very willful. I know you're familiar with that. But when they come around, they're just about the sweetest, most loyal, most loving dogs on earth. Except for Labs, of course."
We were vigilant about carrying out new commands with Como each and every day.
Then, one morning, he pulled an unprecedented stunt. With no one else at home but the two of us, he strolled into my study without any apparent motivation.
Staring at my computer screen, my back to the door, I didn't see him come in and lie down. Only when I turned toward the printer to get a sheet of paper did I spot his tail, stretched out like a rare feathered treasure, on the floor beside my chair.
I was skeptical, chalking up Como's approach to some phantom food smell. But I was also astonished, pleased, and even flattered by his presence. This was an important moment.
I tried not to disturb the calm. Carefully, I put my hands back on the keyboard and tried to type. The dog didn't stir. I even managed to make some progress on my writing.
At last, I decided to risk everything by reaching down to pet Como. I stretched my right hand under the chair. Como's cool, damp nose lightly grazed my fingers. We held that pose for a while before I scratched him under the chin.
He didn't bolt. I curled my hand around to get his ears. Neither of us had made a sound. I went on scratching until my arm started to hurt.
His visit to my office came two days before the end of our 30-day agreement with the shelter. It was uncanny. Four weeks after he'd ripped through his crate and thwarted every scheme we'd had to confine him, our unstable, orphaned terrier had found a home.
When Sally returned from work, I met her in the kitchen. I'd given up and given in, I told her. "I guess we're going to keep him," I?said.
She looked at me quizzically. "Oh, Steven," she said, grinning and plucking the dog off the floor. "You're always the last to know. No way were we ever taking him back."
As I turned to go back to my desk, Como watched me peacefully from his safe and happy perch in her arms.
--Journalist Steven Winn was a staff writer at the San Franciso Chronicle for 28 years.
COME BACK, COMO: WINNING THE HEART OF A RELUCTANT DOG, COPYRIGHT © 2009 BY STEVEN WINN, IS PUBLISHED AT $23.99 BY HARPERCOLLINS PUBLISHERS, 10 E. 53RD STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10022
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