Puppy Love

I heard a story the other day that made me sad. My friend’s neighbor adopted a 9 month old Lab/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix. After having “Baby” for three weeks, he decided to surrender the dog. His major complaint? The dog followed him around the apartment and “cramped his style”. His solution to the following him around the apartment was to chain the dog to his bed. He also alternatively disciplined/showed affection by smacking the dog. On one hand, I’m glad the dog was given up. Mixed messages and a life confined to a limited space is no life at all. On the other, I’m sad. He was probably the world to this dog, and she doesn’t understand why she is now in a cage. I wanted to share my story with dogs...

Clancie was a part of the family before I was born. She was a mutt – her mother was the pet of a colleague of my dad, and her father, as my mother put it, was a “traveling man”. Clancie was the sweetest dog. When I was born, I had three mothers – my 2 ½ year old sister who believed she was my mom, my actual mother, and Clancie. My mother told me that when I cried, Clancie would pace between my crib and my mother as if to inform her something was amiss. Personally, I think the shrieking was driving the poor pup up the wall. When I became mobile, my cash strapped parents didn’t need to invest in a walker. My sweet natured mutt allowed me to grab a fistful of her hair and toddle along, glancing back when I let go to make sure I landed safely. Clancie died shortly before my sister took the test for her driver’s license. My parents didn’t tell her for fear she would be too upset, although we both knew from the state of our distraught father. Clancie’s death left a hole in the family that went unfilled for a few years.

Flash forward to 1990. My neighbor mentioned her ne’er do well brother had a friend with Lab/Irish Setter pups. The time was right, and my mother went over with our neighbor’s year old daughter, who picked out an adorable female. Murphy Brown starring Candice Bergen was on the air, and I suggested Murphy as her name, and it was accepted by the family. Murph was a sweet, dopey dog. On more than one occasion I came downstairs to a black Murphy-shaped mass on the dining room table, mid-chase after one of the cats. She also believed the sofa was her space during the day - leaving the cushions scattered on the living room floor. She and I truly bonded when she was hit by a skunk in the face one night. I’ll never forget her sitting in front of me, her body stinking and her eyes tearing, pleading, as of to say “You have opposable thumbs – DO SOMETHING”. She died in April, 2002 and I cried for a week. My grandmother’s death a month later was nothing compared to how I felt when Murphy left us. It was that bad. I still regret that I ran from the room when she was euthanized – I couldn’t take the pleading look in her eyes, not understanding why she was in pain and what was happening.

A month later, I went to the SPCA – "I miss Murphy" I told my mother, "the house isn’t the same without her." My mother was thrilled to have a dog-hair free house for once. Dad and I over-ruled her – she went along for crowd control. The three of us walked into the SPCA the Friday before Memorial Day. In one of the cages sat a beautiful, 6 month old black lab – male, a first for us who always had female dogs. My father likes to say Jazz (as he was known then) was the poster child for pet rescue. We walked up to the cage and “talked”’ to him – he approached us, licking our hands, tail wagging. I went out and informed the volunteer that we found a dog we liked – they took him out of the cage so we could meet. The little guy promptly jumped on us, giving us sloppy kisses. We were then told we might not be able to take him that day. My mother, who by then was in love, gave a look as if to say “no you didn’t”. Fortunately, we were able to bring him home that day and christened him Bogey. Upon entering our homne, he ran into the living room, peed on the rug, humped my father’s recliner and barked at my dad who by then had lit up a cigarette. "Hey, you have smoke coming out of your mouth" he seemed to be saying.

That weekend was a long one – one of Bogey’s favorite games was to stick his paw into the water dish, overturning it, and splashing around. He also liked pulling the table cloth off of the dining room table, and standing in front of you and barking for no apparent reason. But things got better – slowly. He was amazing with my then 1 year old niece. He sniffed around her – not quite sure what to make of her. When she started walking, he hovered around her like a nervous nanny. We were alarmed at first when he knocked her down, then we realized he was only knocking her down when she went hear a door or a stair. I was his human chew toy – he cracked one of my acrylic nails with his enthusiastic chewing and pulled me backwards off of stairs when he decided to greet a neighbor instead of going back inside. My quick maneuver to the rain soaked lawn saved me from serious injury. One night, after one such impulsive action, I sat at the kitchen table, sobbing after a long frustrating day made longer, dabbing at my wound. Bogey sat in front of me, licking my bleeding knee – all he knew was that I was sad and he wanted to make it better.

Bogey’s 7 ½ now and getting older – grey hair flecks his ebony fur. He’s still my baby – when I pat my knee to call my smaller beagle up, Bogey hops right up at the first sign of hesitation on the beagle's part. He eagerly enters my bedroom when I leave the door open and hops up to sleep next to his mommy. He doesn’t quite understand that a 90 lb dog isn’t a lapdog, and I believe truly thinks he is my baby.

Owning a dog can be trying – my beagle thinks that peeing inside is her right rather than something that should be avoided. Bogey stands in front of me barking each night, defiant if I don’t supply him with unlimited treats of his liking. I fostered an adorable dachshund this past summer who was child-averse and used his feces as a weapon. All things being equal, I’d still have the dachshund in my home, but he went back to his mommy, who he adores and protects as if he was 5 times his size.

Dogs aren’t a cake walk – they aren’t stuffed animals to be put in a closet to be trotted out at your convenience, they aren’t accessories to be stuffed in a purse. In a perfect world, the SPCA and the Humane Society would be obsolete – animals wouldn’t be abused, and the only dogs being born would be the ones who have homes and people who would commit to them like the babies they are. Until then, my heart aches for every Baby out there, who is sitting in a cell, not knowing what she did wrong, missing the owner she loved.

Stay strong Baby – I know that help is on the way.