Of dogs and men

Life’s complications cause canine confusion

by Max Alexander

When the Big National Magazine flew me down to New York to write about a dog show, I had to laugh. I have been indifferent to dogs since a strange one bit me on the face as a boy. At some point I got over my childhood fear of dogs — except of course for really big ones, black ones of any size, barking or growling ones, medium-sized unleashed ones, little ratty ones, nervous ones, three-legged ones, one-eyed ones, jumping ones, and sleeping ones. I guess I just have a hard time accepting dogs on their own terms.

Zoologically speaking, I know dogs are supposed to barf on the rug, roll in dead animals, and eat their own excrement. I do not question God’s plan for these lowly beasts. But, on some elemental level, when I see dogs doing the dog-ly arts, I can only imagine how disgusting it would be if a human did that, and then the whole dog thing is a washout for me.

Nonetheless, it is apparently part of God’s plan for me that I spend large portions of my life in the company of dogs, and not just on assignment in Madison Square Garden. For reasons beyond my personal control I have owned or co-habitated with a collection of whippets, setters, and retrievers, and my strolls through the dog show brought back a flood of memories and foul odors. I’m happy to report that competitors from Maine had some of the most interesting species — big, noble sheep dogs and other farm workers — while overly tan folks from icky places like Houston favored pointless, decorative breeds like poodles that eat from smelly little cans and lick your face.

Unfortunately, I was with a slightly neurotic New York photographer who liked that kind of dog, and I stood off to the side with my notebook and shuddered while she burned through entire silver mines of film on yapping pooches lick-lick-licking their leather-faced masters. I was embarrassed. I wanted to be home in Maine with my family. I even missed our family dog, a seven-year-old golden retriever named Rosie who has barked four times in her life and whom I have never allowed to lick me.

Rosie became an issue in our family this summer, when we decided to rent a house in Camden for part of the year. The owner of the house might have done the sensible, normal thing that landlords generally do — ban dogs. But no, she had to make life complicated by allowing dogs, provided the tenant forks over a large deposit and agrees to make good on any canine-induced damage. The house in question was relatively new and featured beautiful wide-pine floors throughout. As it had taken Rosie approximately three hours to lay tapestries of scratch marks across the new pine floors in our own restored farmhouse, we decided reluctantly to give her away.

As it happened, another family at our kids’ school was looking for a golden retriever; their own had recently died, apparently before totally destroying their own floors, and they were seeking to get the job finished as quickly as possible. But, when it came time to make a decision, they seemed to lose interest, so Sarah contacted a golden retriever rescue group in New Hampshire. They promised to find Rosie a good home — easy enough for a purebred with a sweet, gentle personality — and one day last month we loaded sad Rosie, her papers, and her food into the car for the three-hour drive.

Five miles from home, Sarah turned to me in tears and said “I don’t think I can do this.” The kids started bawling and I pulled off the road. “We can try those glue-on nail protectors,” she said.

“What happens when she pukes on their rugs?” I countered, pulling the car back onto the road.

“I don’t think the rugs in there are so nice,” said Sarah, and I pulled over again. We sat there as grapple trucks thundered by on Route 17, trying to remember the floors and the rugs in a house we had only walked through once. “Rosie needs lots of love and attention, and I don’t think we have the time to give her that,” said Sarah. I put the car into drive.

“We’ll take better care of her, Dad,” said my son Harper.

“Will you walk her every morning?” asked Sarah.

“I promise,” said Harper. I pulled over again, made a U-turn and brought Rosie home. Sarah told the rental agent to draw up the deposit papers, and the kids took Rosie for a run.

The following week, our school friends called. “We’ve decided we’ll take Rosie.”

We cried when she jumped into the back of their minivan. “You can come and visit her anytime,” they said, and we cried some more. When we moved into the new house and Sarah saw the dog scratches across all the pine floors, she cried a lot.

I was surprised at how much I cared, and still care, about that kind, quiet, smelly old dog. I suppose I don’t let myself get close to dogs because dog ownership so often ends badly, or sadly. Now I have no dog. If I ever go to another dog show, I’ll go see the golden retrievers, and I’ll remember Rosie.

Max Alexander can be reached at malex@midcoast.com.