On Dogs.

We have, over the course of almost 35 years of marriage been the proud parents of pooches from purebreds to mutts, from strays to much wished for and fully researched breed-types which we believed, or one of us as least, would complete the family portrait. We have loved dogs singularly and in pairs, I prefer the pair as I think dogs need company and I am not always the best, I have enough of a pack to lead without the requirement to teach a certain fellow how and where to lift his leg. But I didn’t grow up with a dog, or a cat for that matter. We had Budgies. Small noisy sh*t producing things, native to Australia and the Canary Islands. They were all named after my dad’s brothers; so Fred, Billy and I have forgotten the last one. My brother taught them to say the odd word or two and the rest they learned from things my father yelled at regular intervals. Things like “Shut the door.” and “Damn and blast!”  My mother liked to let them out of the cage to fly about a bit and thus upon walking toward our house on occasion, you could clearly see one peeking between the lace curtains to peruse the great outdoors. They didn’t live very long and they stained the wallpaper in the living room. I was not a great fan. 

The idea of a family dog, so often a great deal better than the reality is that you will teach children responsibility. Feed it, clean up after it, teach it to do tricks or at a minimum to behave pleasantly. It would provide companionship, not a huge need for that in a family of seven, it would bind us with a common love. I don’t recall how we came to own the first of so many but his name was Snuffy. We were newly wed and expecting our first child. This puppy was smart, easily housebroken, and I think intuitive because he knew his days would be numbered should he  turn out to be any sort of nuisance. He was also a thief. Living as we did in a small rural town in Ohio, our neighbor was an avid hunter who chose often to clean his prey on his own back stoop. Quite right. The dog however saw this as an open invitation to avail himself of whatever game was hung to cure or await further processing. Never seen by the neighbor or known by us to be undertaking this pursuit, the great mystery remained, who was poaching the hunter’s kill? Finally one bright fall afternoon Snuffy got wind of a carcus and took off up the hill behind our house. Minutes later we heard a great cry and hew as the hunter finally foiled his furry foe.  “Hey, that dog stole my squirrel.” We heard and instinctively knew enough to remain behind closed doors. Of course the hunter knew the dog was ours, we tried valiantly, well the Captain (he was still a First Officer then) did, but to no avail, damn little dog would not give up his catch. Not many weeks later he was hit by a car. We never found out how that happened. 

Several kids and many moves later we found ourselves the proud dog parents of a yellow labrador retriever. The most unintelligent, stubborn, block head of a dog ever known to man. Buster came into the world a hefty untrained pup of about 100 pounds. We had three kids and one on the way, timing was never my forte in these matters. The Captain wore a black uniform in those days, some sort of worsted wool, lightweight but a strong magnet for every hair that Buster shed. Which was a lot, enough to make another fake dog which is what we should have done. He ate through a wall, he ate shoes, purses, toys and clothes. He was never housebroken but he broke our rented house. Literally. He pulled off the spouting from the front of the house and dragged it to the rear. He barked at everything including me and couldn’t walk on a leash unless you were at least 6’5” and weighed about 400 lbs. In the sixth month of our ownership I gave birth to a darling little girl and the Captain broke his ankle rendering him virtually useless in any physical capacity unless the task required hopping. He was very good at hopping. We moved again and this house had a fence, about four feet high. The limping Captain and I now felt some relief at being able to let Buster run about as dogs so love to do, only to watch him the very first day leap over said fence with grace and ease and take off at a jaunty gallop, straight to the main street. We heard the beeping of horns and yelling from drivers,
“Who let this dog off his leash?” Neither one of the responsible parents being physically able to chase the dog, it fell to Dan’s aging grandpa to roam the neighborhood looking for him. The dog cost $200.00, he destroyed another thousand dollars worth of property and I paid a guy $50.00 to take him to his farm and let him be a happy, outside dog. 

One of the best dogs we had was an English Bulldog, Spike. Known to the Captain to be a great breed with very low maintenance. Just getting up to eat required another six hour nap. A stroll from the garage to the house, some fifty feet, would tucker him out completely. The perfect lazy man’s dog. We adored him. He loved the kids, let them sleep on him and cuddle him and in return they allowed him to slobber and slime all over them. A match made in heaven it was. When we moved into the new house I began to notice a gritty, textured substance on the walls, upon closer inspection I saw that it contained microscopic bits of what appeared to be kibble. If you have ever observed a bulldog eat or perhaps seen the movie “Turner and Hooch” you’ll know what I mean. Suffice it to say the slobber and foodie bits came from him, after every meal the great head shaking would commence and all the leftovers from the most recent chow-down would be splattered in slow motion upon the new walls, of the new house. He was a bit of a humper, if you catch my drift, an amorous humper, and not too discerning. A pillow which he would bunch up to the right angle before beginning or even a small child if they sat still for it. Also the plumber’s leg, as the rest of the plumber was under the sink. All very amusing if a little distasteful. Fun to explain to the children what that was all about. He was faithful and affectionate, he left a greasy substance on your hands after you rubbed his head. It was also across the front of all the furniture. We got him a little brother in the form of a Pug, Ike. The first of only two that I have chosen, this little guy was as cute as you would expect him to be and Spike took to being a dad quickly and well. Teaching him to do just as he did, where he did it and how. They romped and barked, pretend growled and generally fell in love with each other. I ran Ike over with the family mini van. Not a great day for motherhood. The children were stoic, upon my greeting them at the school bus and telling them something awful had happened, in unison they cried “Did dad’s plane crash?” Who knew? So running over the dog by comparison was not quite so awful. There was a proper funeral and lessons learned, for me as well as the kids. Spike lived another couple of years but was never the same, he could often be seen lurking about the burial spot, then looking sad. I know, bulldogs always look sad, but he knew, he knew. 

A Jack Russell Terrorist came into our lives next. Let it be known the mutual hate between the two of us was instant, deep and ever lasting. Spike was still alive when Buddy came home and so the lessons began but he showed no respect and was often mean to the old feller. Spike was of course tolerant and eventually a tacit agreement was reached. Buddy ran the ridge, killing everything that was on his ten acre domain. New neighbors wondered where several of their cats had gone, we never said a word. No rodents, very few birds and never a stray cat crossed our territory (or actually Buddy’s) We lived a pest free but terrified existence. He only ever obeyed the Captain who was never home, and he barely tolerated number one son. The rest of us, we girls, lived in a state of constant fear. Eventually Spike went for the big walk and his master found him, having quietly passed away in the front field. He buried him and Buddy went strangely into a deep mourning. He was devastated. He cried and roamed and barked and cried, it was pathetic and of course it made him meaner. A mean dog is funny. So we kept him. One thing you need to know about Jack Russells; they live for EVER. He growled at my friends, our family members and every delivery man who braved the driveway, he chased away small children, bigger dogs and ground hogs which he would bring dead or dying to the front porch at odd hours of the night as a token of his esteem for us. Often the Captain would be forced to finish the kill with a shovel. It’s not that I wished him dead but I was over him long before he was over us or life in general. I spent a holiday weekend in Georgia and whilst gone Buddy decided as dogs will do, that he was not long for this world and it was indeed his time to go walkabout. He roamed down to the front five acres of our little bit of PA heaven and as he lay there waiting for nature to take its course my brother in law and his little girl came whizzing by on a four wheeler. Naturally they “rescued” him. As long as the emergency veterinarian was in possession of my credit card number, which she was via the magic of nation-wide cellular service, all care was duly taken to revive, resuscitate and restore this dog to life. This vet called me for permission to perform all kinds of expensive and invasive tests, all of which I declined saying simply that she should put him to sleep without further ado. Indignant and cross she barked down the phone, long distance shame seeping through the line, “We are nowhere near ready for those kinds of decisions.” My reply was that I had been ready for some time and that no heroic measures were to be taken. Upon my arrival home several days later the poor guy was sent to my own vet who informed us that Buddy had known it was his time, he was riddled with cancer and that we should put him out of his misery forthwith. Now I felt sad. Noble little bastard. My husband arrived home and fetched him from the surgery and when I got home form work that day he looked at the freezer section of my fridge in the kitchen and asked me what we should do with him next!

Mrs. Doubtfire’s Bonnie Wee Lass is snoozing peacefully in her day bed as we speak, a sweet natured playful and stubborn Scottish Terrier (we never learn) Bonnie is my dog but the Captain has stolen her affection with bacon and this chant, “Eggs for a glossy coat.” which he pipes as he lays his almost empty breakfast plate on the floor for her to clean. My grand daughter also shouts this now as she too finishes her breakfast. She’s a good dog, she will most likely be our last. I have not mentioned all of them, there were others, some met an untimely death by UPS and others took off for greener pastures. All were loved in their way and all gave us what they had to give; loyalty, trust, company and life lessons.