A group of teenagers near the fence saw him.
“Buster!”
One girl reached down.
He ran past her without even turning his head.
That alone frightened me.
Buster always reacted to his name.
He raced across wet concrete.
Slipped once.
Recovered.
Then reached the far ladder at the deep end.
The stainless-steel ladder closest to the pump-room side.
He stopped one foot away.
Sniffed toward it.
Then jumped backward so violently his hind legs nearly slid out from under him.
I saw it.
At the time, I did not understand what I had seen.
Later, it became the most important detail.
Buster had moved his nose toward the lower rail.
His whiskers or wet nose had apparently made contact with the metal.
His entire body jerked.
Then he backed away.
One second later, he began barking.
Not normal barking.
Deep.
Explosive.
Furious.
The sound cut through the pool noise so suddenly that conversations stopped around him.
Children turned.
Buster planted himself directly between the water and the ladder.
He bared his teeth.
Growled.
Then snapped toward the stainless-steel rail.
My hand went automatically to my whistle.
Three short blasts.
Emergency signal.
Every lifeguard looked toward me.
“Clear the pool!”
I shouted.
“Everybody out!”
The other guards immediately repeated the command.
“Walk!”
“Do not run!”
“Shallow stairs!”
“Everybody out!”
Most swimmers responded quickly.
Children near the shallow end climbed the broad steps.
Parents grabbed toddlers.
Teenagers hauled themselves over the pool edge away from Buster.
But the deep-end group had a problem.
Eighteen children were still in twelve feet of water.
Their nearest exit was the ladder Buster was guarding.
When I climbed from the stand, Buster lunged toward the rails again.
He barked so hard saliva flew from his mouth.
A mother screamed:
“Get that dog away from them!”
Another man shouted:
“What the hell is wrong with him?”
Someone yelled:
“Rabies!”
The word moved through the crowd instantly.
Rabies.
People hear snarling dog and stop reasoning.
Parents pulled children backward.
A woman began crying.
One man near the concession stand shouted:
“Somebody call animal control!”
Our assistant manager, Lisa Monroe, was already on the phone.
I ran toward the deep end.
“Buster!”
He looked at me.
But not like himself.
His eyes were wide.
Pupils large.
Chest heaving.
He paced laterally in front of the ladder.
Every time one of the swimmers moved toward it, he barked harder.
“Everybody stay in the center!”
I called to the children.
“Do not use that ladder!”
At the time, I said it because I was afraid the dog would bite.
I had no idea that command might have prevented an electrical injury.
Tommy Miller was closest.
He had been treading water for several minutes and was getting scared.
His mother, Andrea, stood twenty feet away screaming his name.
“Tommy!”
“Stay where you are!”
Tommy looked toward the ladder.
He was crying.
“Mr. Cole!”
“I’m tired!”
“I know!”
I shouted.
“Float on your back!”
“Everybody stay together!”
“Lifeguards are coming!”
Tommy ignored the instruction.
Panic makes children choose the nearest visible exit.
He swam toward the ladder.
Buster saw him.
The dog exploded forward.
Tommy lifted one hand toward the stainless-steel rail.
Buster lunged.
His teeth snapped inches from Tommy’s fingers.
Then his snout slammed Tommy’s hand sideways.