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  I ran toward the old man, but was immediately halted by Maneater’s growl.

  “Nice dog,” I tried. “Make nice, nice dog.”

  I took a step forward and so did he. I took a step backward and so did he.

  “For God’s sake, Conroy,” I shouted in desperation. “Call Maneater off!”

  Conroy pointed to his throat.

  “You’re choking!” I said.

  Conroy gave a vigorous nod.

  His right cheek was empty.

  “The tobacco! He’s chokin on his tobacco,” I yelled out. “Give Maneater a hand signal.”

  Conroy flailed his hands in the air. Maneater sat, acting as though the signals meant something. Yet when I tried to approach Conroy, the dog lunged at me.

  We were hamstrung. The dog wouldn’t let us near Conroy, and Conroy couldn’t call Maneater off.

  “Hit your chest, old man.” Dr. Haberson said. “Try to do a Heimlich maneuver on yourself. Hit your sternum hard! Right here!” Dr. Haberson demonstrated the procedure.

  Conroy tried and tried again. Meanwhile, he was turning bluer and bluer.

  “Give it another try, Conroy!” I said. “Or just hold the dog off physically.”

  By then, Conroy was the colour of the sky. He fell onto the sand and blacked out, his body shaking as if he were having a seizure. It was awful. Maneater circled his master, licking his quivering arms and legs, nudging his face. But he snarled at anyone who attempted to come within helping range.

  Mrs. Bermuda said, “First time I’ve ever seen a dog protect his master to death.”

  We tried to tempt Maneater away with meat. We tried to poke him away. We even tried a decoy method, using me as bait. Nothing would lure him away from his master. By the time Animal Control came with the tranquilizing gun, it was too late.

  The dog was well trained.