His other characteristic, we soon learned, was tenacity1（韧性，固执） . Bingo was not going to be put off by the mere2 fact of his home now being taken over by strangers - he would not leave. Though he never actually got into the house, his intentions clear enough if he should ever do so - with militant3 paws planted on the cold grey slabs4（平板） of the yard, and a baring of his teeth - he was for storming this citadel5（城堡，大本营） . There could be no returning to what was now his future - he would savage6 all comers in a do or die attempt to seek the familiar comfort he was convinced still lay inside.
My father tried to persuade Bingo to leave.
Dad was from the 'if they growl7, then you growl louder' school of canine8（犬齿） diplomacy9. He first tried yelling and growling10 loudly at Bingo. Gesticulating wildly and throwing imaginary objects (they appeared to be imaginary house bricks) at Bingo, my Dad was sure he could see him off. This only fuelled Bingo's confused rage, and it was seconds before my Dad was retreating to the
safe side of the kitchen door, Bingo's insistent11 clawing pinning us all inside like sniper fire.
Dad decided12 that it was time for an armoured assault. He sought the whereabouts of my brother's pushchair, and wheeled it in front of him, wielding13 a mop over the top, with which to prod14（刺，捅） the dog steadily15 back, and gradually away, and out of our yard.
Bingo was not intimidated16. The impersonal17（客观的） nature of the goliath（巨人） now emerging from his own home - attacking and repelling18 him - only added further fuel to the fury burning in his brain. He grabbed the mop head in his jaws19, and began a fiery20, frenzied21 show of temper and torment22 as he mauled and shook it.
My Father was forced eventually to concede that the armoured assault only gained a little ground in what was a war of attrition. The yard was narrow by the kitchen, and Bingo could not get past the steadily advancing pushchair, but as the end of the house was reached, the yard opened up, and Bingo could attack from the sides.
Then a grey haired head peered through our thin straggly rose bushes. It was Bill, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
