We soon learned Bingo's other characteristic was tenacity. He refused to leave his home, now occupied by strangers. Though he never entered the house, his intentions were clear: paws planted on the cold grey slabs of the yard, teeth bared, he was ready to storm this citadel. He would savage all comers in a desperate attempt to reclaim the familiar comfort inside.
My father tried to persuade him to leave. Dad subscribed to the 'if they growl, you growl louder' school of canine diplomacy. He yelled, growled, and gesticulated wildly, even throwing imaginary bricks. This only fueled Bingo's rage. Within seconds, Dad retreated behind the kitchen door, pinned inside by Bingo's insistent clawing.
Dad then decided on an armored assault. He wheeled my brother's pushchair in front of him, wielding a mop to prod the dog steadily back and out of the yard.
Bingo was not intimidated. The impersonal goliath emerging from his home, attacking and repelling him, only enraged him further. He grabbed the mop head in his jaws, mauling and shaking it in a fiery, frenzied show of temper and torment.
My father was forced to concede the armored assault gained little ground in this war of attrition. The narrow yard by the kitchen kept Bingo at bay, but as the yard opened up near the end of the house, Bingo could attack from the sides.
Then, a grey-haired head peered through our thin, straggly rose bushes. It was Bill, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.