Category Archives: Fang & Claw

The True Dog Whisperers

 

Esme and I have been enjoying the Westminster Dog Show, and were thrilled that a Teddy-sized hound finally took Best in Show, though, as Esme points out, none proved they could fetch.

Much less train their humans to.

For years, despite scores of dogs attempting to teach me, I couldn’t master the throw-and-return maneuver. With Ted, for instance, he’d just bring the ball back to engage in a game of tug-of-war or, even better, Chase-the-Retriever-with-the-ball.

Esme, though, trained me in a day. Maybe less. She even taught me how to play from the jacuzzi: Throw it toward the south fence, and she’ll teeter it on the tub ledge. Really. Here she is, trying to teach my aunt Lessie to fetch. (Says Esme, Keep goin, champ! You’re almost there!)

Now she’s got me working with another fetchable: a foot-long stuffed squirrel that eerily resembles roadkill. Except this treasure squeaks, from squeezable head to its whoopee-cushion tail.

For the purposes of this story, we’ll call the toy Chew-Barka — for story purposes only. I mean, what 51-year-old adult man would name his dog’s stupid stuffed animal? That’s crazy. You’re crazy. So drop it, ok? Jerk.

Anyway, Esme loves Chewy. Carries it everywhere. When friends visit, she invariably brings them her slobbered precious.

She even uses it to nag me. All dogs have an inherent sense of time, particularly when it’s marked with food. And it was hard to miss my dogs’ hunger pangs; Teddy would begin to pace in front of the TV everyday at 5 p.m.

Now, I get a squeak tone when it’s dinner time.

But I can never get angry, so deft is her touch with it. Linus would be impressed with Esme’s fondness for a security blanket.

One chilly night, as we were turning in (Esme always brings Chewy to bed), she burrowed close to borrow my body heat. I put some spare blanket over her — it’s gotten so that I can’t fall asleep without her — and put a hand on Esme’s belly to warm her.

Then I felt her fur, which was matted and moist, the way Teddy’s coat would turn after an epileptic seizure.

Panicked, I sat bolt upright, reached for the light switch. And realized I was petting Chewy.

For a moment, I may have angered. I can’t remember, because it fades whenever Ezzie gives me that look: Hey dummy, you’re petting a stuffed animal. But don’t worry. We’ll play in the morning. Yes we will. Yes we will! Who’s a good human?? Who’s a good boy??

I am!

 

The Hallowed Halls

R.I.P. Gwen

The house still feels empty.

How could it not? Teddy was such a huge presence, in size and personality. His tail was constantly in motion, always whipping, always thumping, always celebrating your life. Up until the minute he lost his.

And he left such a wake, so powerful an undertow, that when he voyaged Esme was almost swept in the sorrowful currents.

But, slowly, we are both realizing that she now is the dog of the house.

It’s a new role for both of us. She had always been the foil to Teddy’s stand-up, the straight man to his punchlines. In many ways, part of Esme’s —and Teddy’s — appeal were their contrasting styles. So keen, Esme is, that she would leave the house when Teddy ate the wallet, or swiped the brownie, or decided a dress shoe is an awesome rawhide. She knew the horrific screams of discovery to come.

Now, though, she rarely leaves the house unless I do. She’s small enough to fit in the smart, so quick road trips are suddenly on the table. So are spontaneous dog park runs (Teddy required a stroller-full of prep work, including a bigger car and plastic bags big enough to hoist five-pound dumps.)

She fits on the bed with me with room to spare. So the bed is open. So are drawers.

So, too, I realized, was my heart. I still marvel as she becomes the hound of the home. She growls at unexpected sounds and rummages the toy drawer like a petulant six-year old. Which, I guess, in many ways she is.

We made a quick run to the drive-thru tonight. She knows to bolt to the door when I grab my wallet. She knows to wait by the smart when the garage door opens. She knows to wait for the ridiculous new baby-chair harness created to keep her from leaping out the window.

As we pulled up, we came upon a Toyota 4-Runner with its back window lifted. From it peered a beautiful Shepherd mix, perhaps 60-pounds.

I didn’t need to alert Esme. Her gaze was fixed before mine, I’m sure. Finally, the pooch either saw or sniffed Esme, sitting upright in the passenger seat, properly belted (I wonder if I could take her in the carpool lane?). Pooch began to whine a little.

Then we saw it. His tail, once resting beneath the tailgate, was now above it. A furry dorsal fin, wagging back and forth, sharing the common Nirvana for all dogs.

And dog drivers. The motorist waved before pulling off, aware of what we both witnessed.

I waved back. Then placed a large hand on a small back.

Amazing, how a small thing can fill a place.

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