Rocco is often mellow and rarely barks.

I wonder if it’s a common nightmare. A calloused hand slapping across your ear, fisting now to punch the side of your head and neck.

A cruel, heavy boot catching you from behind as you run away. A harsh voice yelling vulgarities as you slam into a wall or closed door. Then more kicks as you fall in a heap of submission. All this because you broke something that you weren’t supposed to touch, or you couldn’t comprehend what he was telling you, or you failed to control your bladder or bowels.

Then suddenly there is a crack in the door, a sliver of light, a ray of hope from the outside world. You break through, running with incredible speed, wild as the wind. No one can catch you out here in the open. You run and run, drunk on freedom, until you are so hungry and tired you can run no longer.

It is then that they appear – two men emerging from a large van. They wear heavy gloves and carry long poles with wire hoops attached to the ends. They throw bits of food toward you. You hesitate, then turn to run. But it’s too late. You feel the wire tighten around your neck as they reel you in like a flopping fish.

I’m trying to imagine what an abused or abandoned dog might experience.

Since I adopted Rocco – a 1-year old, small-ish Rottweiler – from the Lakeshore Humane Society, I have been trying to understand where he’s coming from and what he’s gone through in his short life. I have so many questions about him, most of which will never be answered.

Where was he born? Was he the runt of the litter? Who owned him? Were there other dogs at the home? Where was he kept – in a crate, a pen, tied up? Was he in a town or the country? Why was he on the loose out there somewhere near Portland?

Did someone from far away drop him off from a car and leave him on the side of the road just to get rid of him? Did he run from a violent situation? Or, is he just a runner – an incorrigible who has no homing sense, who hears the call of the wild louder than any human voice and will run away no matter what.

One thing I know for sure is that he has been unpredictable. Most times he is very mellow. He seems to enjoy being petted and talked to. He eats like a horse (and has a tendency to beg for food). Although somewhat hypersensitive to leash and collar, he walks very well with me. Overall, he is a healthy dog with a beautiful coat and excellent conformation – a handsome and athletic young fellow!

Yet sometimes he is very skittish, overly sensitive to certain stimuli. He cowers at the word “no.” A sudden loud noise, like some dropped object or a raised voice, might send him into a brief frenzy, his legs splaying across the wood floor; and he scrambles to get out of the way when I walk toward him. I’ve noticed that he seems to be more at ease around women and girls than men and boys. I’m concerned that he does not respond to the word “come” unless bribed with a treat. And perhaps the biggest mystery about Rocco is that he has never barked. He whined or whimpered occasionally when we first got him, and he is a bold snore-er, but nary a bark, woof or howl has he uttered.

If Rocco could speak, he might tell me about his past – about where and with whom he lived. It would be an interesting conversation to have during one of our long walks through the woods or in the park or by the lake.

But he can’t. And all we can do is accept him for who he is now and proceed extra carefully and patiently. It may take a long time, but with forgiveness, vigilance and love, I’m confident we will gain his trust. He will know that we are his special humans. And, given the nature of the rottweiler, there may come a day when he takes up the role of watchdog, even if he can’t bark!

Pete Howard, a musician, writer, teacher, and painter, lives in Dunkirk