The bite of Durango

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Durango!” the large grimacing man yelled my way. “Get over here, boy. Come on, Durango. Now!”

The shout of my hometown was the last thing I expected while riding my mountain bike on remote singletrack in the Sangre de Christo Mountains. But there it was, loud, forceful and issuing from a man wearing an all-American ball cap, salt-and-pepper crew cut, aviator shades and pearly white sneakers.

“Listen up, Durango!” he shouted (I’d started taking things personally by now). “Come ’ere. I’m serious!”

At first, I assumed some twisted connection and that he was angrily yelling at me, and my initial thought was to cowardly pull the rip cord, dodge the weirdness and abandon ship and singletrack. But just then, the mystery was revealed. Ripping through the juniper and sage, a small brown and white animal came whizzing by like an escaped Los Alamos experiment. Ah, I told myself, “Durango” is a dog.

Reunited, the owner and his best friend enjoyed a few moments of impassioned doggie love (you know, scratches, pets and rubs all over, lapping of the neck and face, all topped off by optional saliva exchange). Apparently satisfied, the large man then broke into, “Goood boy. Goood boy, Durango. Now, heel. Staaaay . . . Staaaay. Good boy, Durango!”

For the record, I’ve known dogs named Lima, Denver (after the long-lost folk singer, not the thriving metropolis) and even a poor, luckless canine with the unfortunate tag of Cleveland. And I’ve met pets with identities like Alta, Havana and Bishop. But before that moment in the Sangres, I figured I’d have to go a lot further than Taos to meet a dog named Durango. Actually, I never expected our beloved burg to be memorialized as a doggie handle. It was an honor usually reserved for places like Dallas and Tulsa. But apparently the jewel of La Plata County had finally arrived, I thought. There he was, cute, little Durango, joyfully being scratched and rubbed into a state of canine climax.

Now I’m no breeder (dog breeder, that is), but I’m guessing Durango was what’s affectionately called a “poi dog” throughout greater Polynesia. You could see a little bit of blue heeler, a handful of rat dog, a tablespoon of Labrador, a couple shakes of blue tick hound and some obvious pit bull all commingled in that little canine creation – a good old-fashioned and well-loved mutt.

“Don’t worry about Durango,” his owner comforted me in a now smiling tone. “He’s super friendly.” Just as those words were uttered, that fraction of pit bull spoke up from deep down inside, and suddenly sweet, little Durango was growling at a low hum.

In soft but stern tones, I gave Durango a couple “mellow outs” and a reassuring “take it easy” before cautiously pedaling by. The dog’s switch then rapidly clicked over to blue heeler. Seeing bike and rider, the herding instinct took hold, and the medium-small dog approached my lower calf and opened his jaws. In a split second, my Achilles, my tibia and fibia and a big chunk of my calf were inside his mouth.

The animal didn’t bite, however, and instead simply mouthed the leg to let me know that he was there. The owner was overjoyed. “Oh Durango, that’s just adorable,” he said before confiding, “don’t worry. He just likes doing that. Durango’s never actually broken skin.”

I wasn’t so sure, and for the first time in my life, I called out, “Go on. Get lost, Durango.”

The little pooch was good-natured about it all and immediately dropped the flesh, bone and tendon and returned to stalking the alpine desert, another subsidized predator out on the loose. I waved goodbye to the pair, wended my way through the remainder of the trail and eventually drove back toward my new canine friend’s namesake, scratching my head the entire time.

The fact that “Durango” had landed on a dog collar certainly meant something, I just wasn’t sure what. At first blush, the whole experience seemed more than a little disturbing, a big taste of the magic of mainstream marketing. Had the SUV-narrow gauge-Colorado-Mexico combination finally grown deep roots in the American psyche? Was Durango the new Moab, the future Pacifica, a soon-to-be Santa Cruz? I couldn’t tell.

But after a few days, I managed to come down a little, and it all settled in. The dog was named Durango, I realized, because it was Durango, a nearly perfect fit.

The mutt had been smallish but well-kept, just like home. Like Durango, the animal was a virtual melting pot of origins and means, none too extravagant but making for a good, workable blend. The pooch was generally obedient but still had an independent spirit and was scrappy enough to take care of itself. Lastly, little Durango was not afraid to show his teeth, but unlikely to bite unless provoked.

And though I won’t say I enjoyed that tense moment when Durango took my lower leg out for a taste-test, I did prefer it to the alternatives. After all, few things are as deadly as being nipped by a terrier named Aspen or bitten by a lap dog named Vail. And I secretly hope I’m never taken out by a Rottweiler named Pueblo or jumped by a mastiff named Albuquerque.

– Will Sands