He was black. Black and shiny, with a grin full of snowy white teeth that would melt anyone’s heart. He was strong and forceful, known to stop human beings, even automobiles, in their tracks. He was, in every sense of the word, a presence.

When he was around, everyone knew it and no one dared ignore him. He demanded recognition by his stature alone, and he generally received it. His name was Samson, but I called him friend.

Samson was our family dog for a number of years until the fateful day when we moved from our quiet neighborhood to a new town, where we would be living near a busy street. With his penchant for chasing cars, the sad decision was made to place him in a home where he would not be threatened by traffic.

I vividly recall the Volkswagen Beetle that rode comfortably along Rockmont Road until it reached our driveway. That’s when Samson, playing with me in the front yard, bolted to the road and began barking incessantly and nipping at the tires. The Beetle slowed to a complete halt.

Sensing victory, Samson continued his barrage of barking and shifted stealthily to the front of the Beetle. Beast against steel. Beast winning. Steel cowering before him.

Samson, remember, was a presence. The driver of the Beetle, confounded as he was, remained completely still, assaulted by the onslaught of growling and snarling, and uncertain as to what he should do in the face of such an ambush.

Only when my mother ordered Samson back to the yard and eventually helped him to make that journey did the Beetle continue its trip down Rockmont Road. I don’t remember ever seeing that Beetle in the neighborhood again.

Samson 1. Beetle 0.

Samson was his name, but I called him friend. He was my confidante, my protector, my companion, my buddy. He was as gentle with me as he was fierce to automobiles and their drivers. The barking in my presence was welcoming, an invitation to spend time together, adventuring in the woods next to the house or resting lazily in the backyard watching clouds change from fire-breathing dragons to bunnies playing hopscotch in the sky.

When I started kindergarten, I attended a church school far from my home. And since I came home earlier than my older brothers, who attended a school so close to home that they walked every day, I always arrived home alone. On the days that I rode in a carpool, my driver let me out at the end of our driveway, from whence I would begin the long walk home.

Actually the driveway was a straight, slightly inclined 30-yard asphalt trail that wound around to the back of our home. To me, it seemed like the hike to Mount Everest, the apex looming in the distance, my legs already fatigued by playground activity at kindergarten.

Fortunately, I did not have to make that journey alone. Waiting for me at the entrance of the driveway, faithfully and watchfully, was Samson. As I departed the vehicle and waved my friends goodbye, Samson ever so gently took my wrist in his mouth and made the journey with me to the back door.

The same mouth from which venomous wrath could stop a Beetle could also express a deep love and responsibility for his charge and follow through with his duty to make sure I entered the safety of home after school. Reaching the back door, Samson would let go of my wrist, bark once and wait for my mother to answer the door. Only until she arrived and said, “You can go now, Samson,” did he release me from his watch.

Samson never let me down. Good friends never do.

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