In  unwritten promises made between canine and human, it is always the latter that falls short in their obligation. Since that fateful day soon after Liberty came to live with us, I have tried hard to not be yet another disappointment in her life.

I had been travelling a fair bit that spring, so my wife and I decided that it would be best should she have a dog about for companionship and protection. Though she leaned more toward the lap breeds, and though our inner-city living arrangements would indicate this to be the ideal, I prefer a utilitarian, outdoor aspect to my beasts. We agreed that it should be a pound dog, given a second chance to make something of its life and beyond its house training and hyperactive years. And thus we began our search.

Those who have had dogs in their life know that oft times one does not choose their canine associate but instead is chosen. Such was the case in the Ridgeback-Staffy mix with a few broken teeth and the telltale scars of a hard life. She wasn’t a large dog, but well built if not underfed and reminiscent of the scrounges one finds in cities of the lesser-developed world. We decided to take a chance, signed her out, and christened her Liberty as a reminder of things held dear to both species.

Over the following weeks we adjusted. She learned I prefer, as a motivator, food to beatings and ceased to cower were I angry. We learned establishing the kitchen as a no-paws zone is the best way to ensure your roast survives until dinnertime. She learned how to fetch. We learned that twice-daily walks are a necessity, not a luxury. She learned she could swim. We learned that Mark Twain was undoubtedly correct when he wrote, to paraphrase, that when you make a fallen dog prosperous its loyalties are forever yours.

It was soon a pleasant late-summer Saturday in Western Australia, with fine weather, in which we spent time hunting the perfect avocados that we might host two fellow Californians to enjoy homemade tacos. Dinner was a pleasant experience that ran a bit late and, as one often does when faced with the aftermath of a successful taco night, we left the mess for morning and retired to bed.

In the previous weeks that I had been traveling, Melissa had taken to allowing Libby a few habits of questionable nature. One of these was sleeping on the pullout futon couch in the main room adjacent to the 3^rd floor veranda. Libby very much enjoys wedging her 40 pound body into the crease between the seat and the back whilst presenting her belly for rubbing. When she’s had enough of this she turns over, buries her nose into the same and snuggles down for a snooze; making her all but undetectable to the casual observer. Because it makes my wife happy I turned a blind eye to this habit though I certainly would not give it my blessing under other circumstance.

So the night in question we had gone off to sleep and Libby performed her usual trick of sneaking from her bed to the couch (we noted the clicking of toenails on flooring just after lights out). It being a hot night we left our windows open so the sea breeze could blow through the house. Since we’re up on the 3^rd floor and there’s a 25-foot straight drop to the pavement below, felt secure leaving open the sliding glass door to the veranda. Little did we know that Spiderman would come to call.

There is something about our dog that most folks find surprising. She almost never barks, making her ideal for city living, but when she does it is not the noise one expects from a canine of her stature. It is an effect akin to the blast of a Mack truck horn coming from a Toyota 4x4. It is James Earl Jones’ voice in Mary Lou Retton’s body. It is, in short, a freakish sort of sound that gives one pause.

About 3:30 AM Mel and I were startled from sleep by a booming, much louder than usual "gggrrrRRR *WOOF!*" and then silence. I sat straight up in bed fully conscious of the whish-pump of my circulatory system on full adrenaline. My eyes quickly focussed the silhouette of a tall, skinny fellow down the end of the moonlit hall who must not have seen Libby jammed into the couch. He was frozen mid stride and could only have been meditating on the bad mistake he’d just made. Purely reacting, I jumped out of bed and ran down the hall barking, "YOU! OUT! NOW!" Few things motivate Libby faster than the sound of my voice when angry, so she leapt off the couch and scuttled across the floorboards. Faced with a hostile canine of unknown size and a charging 240-pound skinhead in his underwear, our intruder made the wise choice and jumped back over the balcony railing. Unfortunately, he proved very agile in his hasty descent and neglected spilling his brains all over the pavement. Mel turned on the lights and Libby came out on the balcony with me to make sure the danger had cleared (she spent several minutes thereafter sniffing and quietly growling at the spot on the railing where he had placed his hands).

While waiting for the cops to show up, we rewarded Libby with previously unknown pleasures of the refrigerator and unceasing praise. If she had not been there it would have been easy for that fellow, at the very least, to swipe a few items of value from the house. I feel it is more likely he was headed for the front door to let his mates in – a situation that would have been much more difficult to handle. If Libby had not been there and I had been traveling, well, I care not to think about that.