Sammy's bravery goes only so far

I’d say Sammy’s bark is worse than his bite, but it’s hard to tell. He rarely barks.
In the three-plus years I’ve had Sammy, my 95-pound golden retriever, I’ve only heard him bark a few times. (Once he barked at a neighbor’s giant Halloween decoration that he apparently found disconcerting.)
So it’s not really a surprise that he didn’t give me an audible warning when we had our Friday adventure.
Sammy had made the 200-mile drive to my parent’s home in Avon, Ohio, a day earlier, and we had a fairly calm and relaxing Thanksgiving Day. Sammy spent much of the day outside, enjoying the 60-degree temperatures.
But the next day was much colder, and Sammy spent most of it inside. So at 8:45 p.m., I put on my shoes to take him outside for a “potty break.”
As we stepped out my parents’ back door and onto the deck in the Black Friday darkness, Sammy immediately started sniffing. It was unusual for him, because he generally sprints for the steps. As I closed the door and turned around, I saw the reason.
Sammy was face-to-face with a hissing raccoon, the two animals just about a foot apart.
I quickly yanked on Sammy’s leash — my mom claims she heard one of us yelp, but I think she’s making that up — pulling him away from the raccoon and toward the stairs. Thankfully, he didn’t resist too much. (Or perhaps the slick surface of the deck helped me out.)
Once safely in the back yard, I used my cell phone to call my dad both to warn the rest of the family about the raccoon and to ask that he unlock the front door. My sister had endured a similar confrontation a few weeks ago with the animal, which was apparently huddling over the dryer vent in the corner of the house for warmth.
Meanwhile, Sammy was tugging on the leash and letting me know in no uncertain terms that he wanted to return to that deck.
He didn’t get his way.
I tried to divert his attention and walked him around the yard, eventually taking him back in the front door after he calmed down enough to relieve himself.
Meanwhile, my dad had stuck his head out the front door and yelled at the raccoon to try to scare it off. His next move was to throw his tennis shoes at the animal. Neither tactic worked.
(My dad was very disappointed that he didn’t have his paint ball gun with him, but I’m guessing my mom would not have appreciated him firing away at her house and deck.)
Once we were inside, Sammy made quite a production, trotting from one side of the house to the other while whining and crying. “Let me at ’em,” he was saying, and getting plenty of congratulations from my 4-and-a-half-year-old niece Tatiyana for his bravery in the process.
We kept an eye out, and eventually the raccoon slunk away, keeping an eye on my dad’s shoes as if they somehow might hurl themselves through the air again.
A while later, knowing the raccoon was safely gone, I again put Sammy on his leash to take him outside. I opened the door, expecting him to bolt out in hopes of another go-round with the raccoon.
Instead, he stopped, carefully peering his head ever-so-slightly around the corner to see if the raccoon was still there.
Brave?
Perhaps not so much.[[In-content Ad]]