Man's Best Hero. Ace Collins

      It had been just over a year since John F. Kennedy had been gunned down in Dallas, Texas, and the country was still immersed in a cloud of confusion. The great social upheaval that was sweeping America was being covered by television. Millions were bombarded daily by events that seemed to shake traditional thinking to the core. A young, suddenly politically active generation was protesting against the war in Vietnam. African Americans, inspired by Martin Luther King, Jr., were marching in the streets demanding equal rights. The Beatles and other British acts controlled the music industry pushing Elvis, Sinatra, and other U.S. artists to the back burner. TV and movies were beginning to take on an edge that left many people uncomfortable. America’s sense of greatness and opportunity that had defined the 1950s had given way to a period of 1960s pessimism. This dark cloud of insecurity and apprehension had invaded every corner of the country including Tacoma, Washington. It seemed what America needed was a born-and-bred hero but what the country had was a crop of anti-heroes. In many ways this was a sad and depressing time.

      With Christmas just days away, Marvin Scott, a gray-haired man in his sixties, was trying to ignore the national malaise and praying his furniture business would pick up. Scott’s dark-rimmed glasses, black, conservative suit, white shirt, and muted tie made the Tacoma store owner appear almost as gloomy as the national mood. Yet far from being a somber, withdrawn person, Scott was actually outgoing and charming. He had a zest for life that few men nearing retirement age possessed. Though usually hidden by his dark coats, he possessed broad, rugged shoulders and a flat stomach that also proved his vibrant and inexhaustible energy. Because of having to move the heavy furniture he sold, he was also a strong man who retained his optimism when it seemed the whole country had chosen to embrace a cynical spirit. Though he didn’t know it, he would need each of those traits and a remarkable dog to just survive until the holidays.

      Scott lived in one of the most beautiful places in the country. Spanaway, Washington, sprang to life in the 1890s as a tourist resort. Back then people from all over the world took the train to the small community to visit Mt. Rainer. As the visitors got off at the train station, the picturesque, snow-covered mountain loomed in the background leaving them in awe. Most snapped photos and bought postcards and took the story of the area back to places like Kansas City, Chicago, Dallas, and New York. A few decided the area was so breathtaking they wanted to see it each morning when they awoke. Hence, over time, the small town was transformed into a quaint community filled with people who loved outdoor life.

      Over the decades Marvin Scott watched the town grow and prosper while also keeping an eye on the unchanging Mt. Rainer. He often spent hours on the dock just three hundred yards before his lakefront home relishing the incredible vistas nature presented to him. What he saw while enjoying Lake Spanaway never grew old. And usually when he was on the dock or walking around the lake, Scott was accompanied by a mutt named Patches.

      Patches was anything but a purebred dog. The white-and-brown fifty-pound mass of fur defined the term “medium-sized mongrel.” Scott freely acknowledged his canine was a mix of collie and malamute with likely a few other things tossed in, but the man believed that gave the dog character. In an age where everyone wanted a certain breed and was paying big bucks for that privilege, the furniture store owner took special pride in having an animal no one would pay money to own. In Scott’s way of thinking, Patches defined America and its individual spirit.

      From the collie side of his family, Patches had developed a real instinct for herding. The problem was Scott didn’t own any sheep, goats, or cows. So the dog constantly tried to unsuccessfully corral the ducks and geese that lived around the lake. He also leaned into Scott when they walked together.

      From the malamute side, Patches received a stubborn nature that caused Scott even more grief than having the dog try to herd him on their walks. Malamutes simply have a mind of their own. Much like a cat, they decide which of their master’s orders were important and which could be ignored. Added to this independent streak was brute strength. Malamutes had been bred for generations for to pull heavy freight across Alaska’s deep snow, so the dog was as strong as he was stubborn.

      Tough but not large, Patches was also tenacious. Once he set his mind to something he stuck with it. That meant if he decided to drag a large piece of driftwood up the steep, rock-covered bank to Scott’s home he would not rest until the task was completed. It mattered not to the dog that his human companion returned the wood to the lake almost as soon as it had appeared at the backdoor. Added to these malamute traits was the collie’s ability to problem solve. That meant the dog could figure out how to open latches thus getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be.

      Winter was Patches’s least favorite season. He didn’t mind the cold weather; in fact, with his dual coats he thrived in it. What he hated were the short days. Having so little daylight meant that he and Scott couldn’t spend as much time down by the lake, and the dog sorely missed those bonding moments with his master.

      On this December night it was just past ten and the temperature had already fallen to single digits when Patches noted the sound of Scott’s approaching car. Shaking the sleep from his head, the dog got up and ambled to the front door. After patting Patches’s head and then visiting with his wife, Scott moved to the kitchen window to glance down at the lake. He could make out the form of a patrol boat, almost hidden in the darkness, tied up at their dock. The almost gale-force winds appeared to be knocking it against the side of the pier. He wondered out loud if he needed to go down to the lake and do a better job securing the craft. His wife quickly assured him that it was a night not fit for man or beast and he should stay inside and let the local officers worry about their boat. She added that if it was no concern