Walking the dog can be a walking meditation. Dogs, after all, are ever-alert to things we humans don’t generally perceive.
Case in point: You’re treading the levee at sundown with your trusty Bull Terrier by your side. The wind has stilled and billions of warm-hued photons are sweeping across the fallow fields and pear orchards toward you from the soft orange glow on the horizon. Far from trembling in awe at these miracles, however, you are lost in worlds less profound, thinking “I’m such an idiot! Why didn’t I say blah, blah when he said blah,blah blah.”
Then a slight tug on the leash releases you from your daydreams and completes the circuit between your brain and Whitley’s nose. Suddenly, a whole new world opens up for you, rife with traces of organic presences, evidence of events hitherto unknown. You’ve become like a fabulous beast from Greek mythology, half-man and half-canine, prowling the moors at dusk.
Yes, dogs broaden our sensibilities and humble us with their graceful navigation of invisible worlds. Dogs are our guides, they’re our teachers.
And now that spring is upon us, they seem to be everywhere I look. Here – a jowly, pug-nosed English Bulldog with a toy in his mouth that resembles a cigar, waddling down the lane with his owner (who missed a bet if he didn’t name the dog Churchill). There – Wiley, a blonde Husky-Collie who has the best doghouse in town, namely his owner’s Integra hatchback (hatch open, of course). He has his blanky and water dish in there so he can sleep all day if he wants to (he’s 14) and still be available for petting by his many fans who live nearby. When it comes to this dog’s life, Wiley’s in the driver’s seat (when he’s not asleep at the wheel).
Then there’s V., our vivacious French neighborhood dog walker, who seems ubiquitous these days. One of her regular charges is the Basset Hound named Oliver who lives next door (charmingly, she pronounces his name “Oh-leave-air”). I recently noticed that V. sports the same wild hair-do as the cock-a-poo I often see sticking his head out her van window. Think kink.
Surely you’ve heard by now. The latest Westminster Kennel Club dog show will go down in history as a dog lover’s “Rocky.” For the first time ever, a Beagle, the Everyman of dogs, was named “best in show.” This particular Beagle, Uno, was one of the few dogs in the contest who hadn’t been coifed for hours. (For the record, I would rather see Groucho glasses on a Schnauzer than a bubble butt sculpted from a Poodle’s haunch hair.)
I have never been a big fan of the put-together look. For example, I prefer a woman (and yes, I’m speaking of one in particular) without makeup and with hair somewhat tousled. I prefer a dog like Uno who isn’t too reserved to get on his hind legs and bay with delight when his victory is announced, despite the rather staid attitude of the Westminster Kennel Club.
Now, having won the highest honor in doggie-dom, Uno is being retired. Retired is a euphemism, of course, for the strenuous duties awaiting all animals of such distinguished breeding after they’ve left the field of contest. Remember those old movies where the king leers and says to his consort, “Shall we retire to chambers, m’dear?”
Uno’s new life won’t exactly be a can of beer in the Bark-a-lounger, but it’s not a bad pension plan, I suppose. I hope he can get used to Skippy’s latest flavors for aging champions, Oyster and Rhino Horn.
If Uno suffers from ED in future years, it will mean “exhausted doggie,” not that other thing.
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