From the Editor

Mar y Best

Editor

mar y@ohenr ymag.com

A Homeward Tail

Guilford entered my world unexpectedly. Unassumingly. T he v ulnerable, scraggly puppy needed a home as much as I did.

Nine years ago, I lived in South Carolina, desperately wanting to return to Greensboro.

A Guilford Count y native, I knew I needed to walk familiar ground, complain about the diabolical traf fic on Battleground, rek indle f riendships. T he yearning consumed me. I vowed that if I ever moved back, I would never venture across the count y line with more than, give or take, a 12-ounce bottle of water, a gallon of gas and $7 in change — all of which I prob ably already had in the bowels of my Honda.

But a seemingly unsurmountable obstacle stood my way. No one wanted to buy my house, which had been on the market for months. Ants weren’t even interested.

To worsen my homesickness, my sweet dog had just passed away.

So, when someone ment ioned t hat a t r ag ic fate awa ited a lit ter of or phaned pups, I adopted a t iny, sick ly ba ll of f ur t hat barely cou ld open his eyes. His pedig ree was unde ter mined, but I’m pret t y sure his mom was a mut t and dad — MI A .

I named him Guilford af ter the Guilford College area where the Friends had settled in the 1750s. I grew up in that neck of the woods. I wrecked my bicycle on New Garden Road, ate ice cream sundaes at Quaker Village and waded in Horse Pen Creek.

I hoped naming him af ter the first Baron earl of Guilford would signal to the universe I needed to return home.

L ess than t wo weeks af ter Guilford ’s adop tion, I sold my house — and my new buddy and I headed nor th.

But Guilford didn’t mature into the prince of peace I had anticipated. W hat began as a quest for the salvation of an innocent 5 -weekold dog dissolved into an exercise in abnormal psych. As his personalit y emerged, he grew more petulant than a 3 -year-old determined to cross oncoming traf fic. He f rightened anyone within earshot with his bark. Acquaintances ranked him somewhere bet ween Joseph Stalin and A l Capone. Minus their charming smiles.

If Guilford were human, he would ref use to use turn signals as some act of civil disobedience and brandish a weapon. (T hankf ully, the rascal isn’t equipped with opposable thumbs. But he does have a healthy set of canines. See below.) T he innocent soul I once was able to cradle in my hand had matured into a delinquent, though one that people wanted to pet because of his dispropor tionally large, perk y ears and his seemingly sunny demeanor.

B e c ause of h is a nt iso c ia l d isp osit ion, fol k s de clare d h im a c a n ine non g r at a — a nd just ifiably.

Months ago, a f riend stopped by while I was pet-sitting my brother’s dog. Guilford wasn’t happy with either interloper so, he bit my f riend. On the thumb. Stitches. Infection. Repeat. In Guilford ’s defense . . . never mind.

Under mandator y count y quarantine and without a shred of remorse, Guilford was sentenced to doggie detention.

However contrar y this seems, though, that 18 -pound cauldron of sweetness and venom is my best f riend. His temperament has cooled as his redemptive qualities emerged, and his companionship has remained constant.

Guilford and my f riend brokered a peace, and the four-legged assailant now squeals with delight when he sees him.

Guilford loves exploring Greensboro, pulling at the end of his leash in search of mischief and his next victim. As for me, I have beg un my dream job as editor of O.Henry. Guilford sits contentedly in my lap as I’m t yping this column, and we are both happy to be home. OH