My wife and I were out pet shopping for my youngest child the other day. And I am using the word “I” very loosely here, as in “I” don’t want another mutt to dig up my flower beds and, my presence was much more perfunctory than participatory. And I say for my youngest, because hopefully with a little luck the only other child still at home, our seventeen-year-old, is on his way out the door. Not that I am pushing him or anything like that but, I always figured an appropriate high-school graduation present would be a boss American Tourister suitcase ensemble. Not so coincidentally, I just happen to have a set sitting in the back of my closet.
At least I hope it is still there. But to be perfectly honest with you, I have not been all the way to the back of my closet in ages and, as they used to say in that old television series a few years back “Only the shadow knows” what evil lurks in the back of men’s wardrobes…and chest of drawers? Whoaaaa, or something along that line. But that is another story.
Why you might ask would a person with an obvious case of canine aversion syndrome be looking for another animal? Well, you see the dog that has faithfully ushered my three older children through childhood, puberty, and into full-blown moron-hood, is getting a little long in the tooth, as they say, fourteen years old to be exact. Which I am told, is like Moses old in dog years and we still have an eight-year-old at home. Or even more precisely, an eight-year-three-hundred-fifty five day, twelve-hour-forty-seven minute, 31-32-33 second, year-old. (please do not ask how I know my youngest daughter’s age with such precision). Suffice to say that this year, she found the time born portion of her birth certificate to be especially engrossing.
Nevertheless reasoning that “Moses” may not be far from a trip to that magical retirement farm, (where we also took wink, wink) his forerunner. And in spite of the fact that I have personally sworn off any real attachments towards pets in general, I do believe that there might be something lacking in a childhood lived without the unconditional love of a pet. Because of that, I have learned to put up with occasional mistakes, as my wife likes to call them. Shedding, potty training, and table manners mean squat to an eight-year-old. In fact, many of them are just starting to master some of these very skills themselves. It does not matter to dirt eaters if say Fido’s snout has just returned from parts better not pondered. The delight of having a companion over which you will always be the smarter is an encouragement all its own.
Before we get too far I would qualify this writing with the fact that I have not always held the opinion that cats, and most dogs basically, are useless flea-infested, bags of what-ever-chow, in different states of decomposition. And I would also have to concede that maybe in the days of yore when they were hunting or keeping the camp safe from intruders and disease-infested vermin and such, that pets had intrinsic value. However try as I may, I am hard-pressed to understand what if any advantages our family’s domestic animals have played in the security or physical well-being of our brood.
And do not get me started on the whole safety thing. Because the first thing our current crop of watch-critters is inclined to do, if and when any strangers actually do show up, is to rush to the open car door and place a big ferocious lick on the first body part that emerges. Then, while constantly checking over their shoulder so as to not miss any foods that may be inadvertently dropped, diligently try and lead said intruder to the treat drawer, which apparently contains the only things of value in our home.
Anyways, long story short. We end up with this pup. Oh, we were assured. “Labrador Retrievers, and any retrievers really, now they are smart dogs!” And sure enough at first glance, she passed the eye test. Sleek coat, stocky stature, webbed feet (very cool), constantly sniffing. Nevertheless, where the rubber meets the road the only thing this cross-eyed pooch shows any sustained interest in retrieving so far is Snausages and baseballs. Baseballs often involved in nice soothing games of catch, before she gets her slimy teeth marks all over them? And we are instead reduced to chasing her around the yard on all four ourselves.
But in the eyes of a child, this is all par for the course. In their world, small deficiencies such as these can be gleefully overlooked as long as you have the energy of a small nuclear reactor. And even I would admit to the sometimes amusing aspects of pets. Way, way back…when I was a very young man. My Grandfather had this Chihuahua that besides trying to eat everyone, and everything, that dared pass within three feet of him, including flies, had a practice of burying anything she perceived as having value.
So imagine my delight when eight-year-old me figured out that I could goad her into hiding ice cubes. And then ten minutes later, watch gleefully as she would attempt to retrieve her booty only to discover that someone had beaten her to it. As she would circle the area angrily barking at thin air, I would be rolling nearby. Because even though she was sure that I had something to do with it, she couldn’t quite figure it out?
It might even seem that our family has a little history of lightning-rods for the atypical of the animal kingdom. No matter how vigilant we try to be in the selection process. It seems inescapable that we are “blessed” with the seventy-five pound, Irish setter that believes it is a wiener dog and routinely tries to crawl under instead of round tables.
We once owned a small Pitbull mix, in fact, that was so adverse to foreign objects around its doghouse that it would literally tear apart everything you put within its reach into pieces roughly the size of a postage stamp, and then disgustedly fling the pieces from his presence. Forty degrees below zero! Who needs straw? Who needs pillows? And who could blame me if after he literally ate my several-hundred-dollar car cover off of my prized 1978 Pontiac Trans AM? If I finally said “OK you want to be crazy? Be crazy...crazy and cold!”(a diktat my loving wife soon rescinded…)
I am reasonably sure after all, that most pets have these small glitches. My sister for example once owned this beautiful Siamese cat that would without provocation suddenly race across the room and up your leg at a hundred miles an hour as if it were in some compulsory feline Olympics. Then upon reaching the summit (i.e. the top of your head) back-flip down to the floor and then sit there and stare as if to assure that you understood that it had just owned you!” Something that became only mildly less harrowing if his front talons had been freshly trimmed!
Likewise, we once owned another brute that seemed to have a particular problem with compressed air. Whether he was feeling it’s “pain” of being restrained, or perhaps he enjoyed the taste? No ball was safe. Beach ball, soccer ball, basketballs, he was an indiscriminate deflator who always seemed particularly proud of his work? As evidenced by his tendency to upon killing whatever defenseless sports item he happened upon, he would promptly deposit it on our front stoop as if to emphasize that there would be no happy-go-lucky, balling, on his watch!
And frankly, it would not even surprise me if my family’s encounters with pets have tended towards the lower end of the pet gene pool spectrum. Because conversely my uncle’s dog which also happens to be a retriever. Seems very intelligent and, I grew up watching Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin…So here's to hoping that maybe after this lot we will have finally paid our “dues”. And Good Lord willing, the next go-round, maybe he can help us to find a pet that is some dumb instead of plum.
I mean how long can dogs live anyway/ So until then, every time your pet does something really really stupid or gross, just remember. More than likely there is someone out there worse off than you. Someone who just might be crawling around on all four trying desperately to preserve his and America's Pastimes integrity...(No really ump my dog put that spit on the ball!?! Now, if we can just figure out how she got that cork into Sammy’s bat?) But then again what do I know I’m just a Smuck.