It was January in Buffalo, NY, 1971. As most winters go in Buffalo, it was brutally cold, bleak, and downright miserable. I was a college student living with my parents on the east side of Buffalo, NY. The neighborhood was blue collar, and turning tougher as time passed. My older sister also resided with us, with with her 9 year old son, my nephew. My sister, Barb, was courting a coworker, Bob; they both worked at a suit factory. The romance was budding, and her “man”, who would later become her husband, would often come over in the evenings for coffee and conversation.
Bob would bring his dog, Jacques, on some of his visits. Jacques was a middle age miniature poodle, with what appeared to be a semi-sour disposition. He would “mind” Bob only when he saw fit. He tended to ignore most of my family members even when given kind attention. I liked dogs, but this guy’s attitude was a problem.
As part of the courtship, Barb and Bob would go for a drive, allegedly for coffee, and on one occasion left Jacques in my care. Bob assured me that if Jacques needed to go out, he didn’t need a leash, and just needed supervision as he “did his business.” It sounded simple enough.
It was well dark when Jacques signaled me unmistakably that he needed to go outside. Standard procedure dictated that when the dog was let out, he’d do his “business”, and then come trotting back in. So, I let the dog go out, he found an appropriate bush, and lifted his leg. He gave me a quick glance and then tore down the driveway. I gave harried chase, but was clothed in just a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers and had no chance to catch him. By the time I got to the end of the driveway, Jacques was halfway down the side street. He headed for a busy thoroughfare where the Chevrolet plant was located, where auto parts were made and then shipped. I estimate that it was 20 degrees Fahrenheit, give or take a few degrees.
I dashed back to the house, grabbed a jacket and car keys, and made my way down the street. On the corner of the street lay the gigantic Chevrolet plant, local taverns, and a gas station. There was no sign of the dog. Asking gas station attendants or tavern customers if they saw a French Poodle run by will get you a few odd looks in Buffalo, and needless to say, no one could help me.
I gambled that Jacques would go where there was light, and eventually I made my way to a large freight yard where parts were loaded on freight trains. It was a secured area with a guard in a booth. I parked the car, tried to explain myself to the guard, when I spotted Jacques in the freight yard. The guard needed to alert those working in the yard that a guy would be chasing a poodle around. Having done that, I charged in and gave pursuit. It became remarkably comical when a half dozen or so Chevy workers came to join the chase. At one point, we had Jacques surrounded with the dog in the center of a collapsing circle. For Jacques, it was do or die. Well, Jacques chose “do”… He shot through a seam in the closing circle of men like a bullet with Chevy workers collapsing in his wake. He then streaked out of the freight yard, found the railroad tracks, and was making his way down the tracks towards downtown Buffalo.
I swear, I’m not making the next part of the story up. As I stood there in disbelief watching Jacques tear down the railroad tracks, a train engine (without cars) sort of magically appeared. The engineer yelled out the window: “Do you want to chase him?” Now, what 21 year old could pass up an invitation like that? I climbed the rather steep train track bed and boarded the train’s engine compartment. The engineer was friendly, and apparently ready for the poodle chase.
Jacques had little choice but to run along the tracks. The constant snow plowing of the tracks created steep snow banks on both sides of the rails. As Jacques picked up speed, the train engine sped up to match him. I was mounted on the front of the train, outside the cabin holding on to the railing. I imagined I looked like a 1950’s hood ornament from a Pontiac Star Chief.
So, now, Jacques was running for his life. There were times he would slow with fatigue, and I’d yell to the engineer “hit the breaks”. The response: “Breaks are iced!”
It was at this point that time slowed down for me. Jacques, running full speed, would turn his head to see the steel demon chasing him down. The train’s spotlight framed him beautifully, his tongue lolling, his ears flapping in the wind, and nothing but determination in his doggie face. But something had to give.
Jacques was tiring… I was freezing… There was a break in the snow bank ahead on the left and Jacques saw his opening. He dove off the tracks, tumbled down the embankment, and found himself in a lumber yard. I gave immediate chase knee deep in snow stumbling after him. In the lumber yard, I had now cornered him. It was a showdown.
I tried to close in on him. Both of us were tired and terribly cold. I did not have gloves. My hands felt frozen. And when I dove for him, I did not gain purchase in his poodle hair. Jacques squirted away, and darted out the open gate and was gone. I gave chase, but at this point I knew it was hopeless. Jacques was running down Walden Avenue heading west towards downtown Buffalo and Lake Erie.
The train engineer kindly waited for me and I again boarded the train. The engineer’s compartment/cab was mercifully warm, and we returned to the freight yard. The engineer and I shared a laugh and a handshake, and I stumbled down the embankment through the freight yard, and to the guard’s booth empty handed to find my car where I left it. I got behind the wheel and made my way home.
Barb and Bob had not returned yet. How long did all that take, anyway? An hour perhaps? Maybe more? I made a hot cup of coffee and waited for their return.
When Bob and Barb got back, I shared with them what happened. The story that I told was met with an understandable level of astonishment. As we sat there a bit dumbfounded we realized there was not much to do except jump in Bob’s car, and head towards the location where the dog was last seen. Unbelievably, the lumberyard was about two miles away.
The east side of Buffalo at night in the 1970’s in the dead of winter is as dismal as one can imagine. The homes were built in the 1930’s and were often in disrepair. Lighting was dim at best on most streets. I thought our chances of finding Jacques were worse than a hundred to one. We drove to the location of the lumberyard, and then drove down a desolate Walden Avenue in the direction of where Jacques was last seen. It seemed hopeless. Finally, Bob said perhaps someone will take him in… I thought, nah, given the dog’s irksome personality nobody could possibly do that. We gave up the search, and to turn the car around, we went down a side street to swing the car back in the direction that we came. And lo and behold, there sat Jacques in the driveway of a garage near the corner of the street.
Bob called: “Here Jacques!” and Jacques came running and bounded into Bob’s awaiting arms. The dog and owner reunited. What a grand and happy ending?
For me, it was more relief than happiness. And I do admit to having had murderous doggie thoughts in that moment, for which now I am not proud. Now, I look back in wonder. Although I have my doubts about any form of reunion after this life, I would be curious to see old Jacques again. As a sign of peace, perhaps I could bring a nice steak bone?
Nah… I’m guessing Jacques would turn up his nose, and lift his leg in my general direction. I mean, really; he would do that, right?
All stories have to end. And so there you have it. The Great Poodle Escapade; The Amazing Railroad Train Chase.
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