A Boy and His Dog

Tuesday April 27, 2010 | 2 comments (now closed)

Editor’s Note – This piece was originally published in September 2008. I’m republishing it today in honor of Abby’s 9th Birthday. Enjoy!!!

This marks the 289th full-sized post on this site since I started scribbling away in cyberspace a little less than three years ago. That means we’re 11 articles away from the big Three Hundred – the day I effectively pull the plug on this whole sorry operation.

289 Posts with an average length of 3-4 printed pages over three years means I could have been making some serious scratch as a novelist instead of spinning my folksy yarns for the benefit of friends, family and Internet predators – at the very least in some Bizarro universe. Of course, crafting The Great American Novel requires discipline, dedication and some command of the English language – all elements that elude me to this day.

In paging through the archives and taking this tally, I began to ponder a nagging notion. How did I ever find enough ideas to fill that many pages? Sure – the Movie, Game and Lost reviews are easy to account for. Then there are the gimmicks that I like to employ from time-to-time (i.e. Top Five Favorite Women in Prison Flicks posts). And the family stuff sort of writes itself.

But every once in awhile it’s a simple matter of a picture catching my eye to kick start the right neural synapse required to tell the tale proper. That’s what drove Off He Goes and that’s what feeds today’s piece, A Boy and His Dog.

See, that pic at the top really plucked this doting Dad’s heart-strings. I grew up without a dog to call my own. And when you’re a boy and you develop without a canine by your side, two things happen.

First you pine for one.

And then you begin to fear them. At least, that’s the path I followed.

It took our two pups, the labs Abby (yellow – 7 years old) and Chatham (black – 6 years old), to cure me of my slight trepidation around the pooches. Sure, I’ve run across many kind mutts in my day and never once ran screaming from the site of my Nana Pearl’s precious pug Mischa, but until you actually own one (or a pair), you never really know just how fully integrated a dog becomes within your tight family unit. You’d die for them. (OK – Maybe that’s a little too strong. Well, at the very least, you’d never eat them and that’s much more than I can say for a pet pig.)

This photo tells a thousand words. For most of Colin’s life, he hasn’t cared much for Abby or Chatham. That’s not to infer that he was wary of them. He’s never feared them at all. It’s just he sort of took them for granted as household fixtures. Coffee tables that sometimes bark.

And as I’ve witnessed his limited interactions with the dogs – with their wagging enthusiasm met with a dull stare or a roll of the eyes – I began to fear that my son would have the opposite effect than his Old Man. Where I grew up wanting a dog more than anything else, I feared he’d grow up taking them for granted.

And then something happened over the last few months. Colin stood up and took notice of Abby’s insistence on greeting us with a rubber bone in her mouth every time we enter a door – whether you’ve been gone all afternoon, simply stepped outside to grab the mail or took a little side trip to the “potty” (or “piss pot” for you coarser types. I’d like to give a shout out to my new readers – the fine gentlemen of Teamsters Local 815. Welcome aboard, you f#&ks!)

And then Colin started giving our pets his own pet names – giggling like mad when he would call over the “Banana Dog” or the “Oreo Dog”. He claims the Banana Dog is his and the Oreo Dog is Aria’s as the age ratio is about the same. I contend the dogs find themselves Alpha to every thing in the house with the notable exception of the one true King.

That would be… ME!!! (Now where is that wench with that hot apple pie? Ouch!!! Where’d that shoe come from?)

Colin began referring to Abby as his dog and insisting that he help feed her (Aria has since glommed onto the chores and assists in feeding Chatham). He makes sure to bring them outside to exercise and delights in tossing the ball with them all afternoon – until they both finally give up and resign themselves to an afternoon of backyard grazing.

His latest hobby finds him trying to concoct a sure-fire scheme to get Abby to sleep in his bed. It’s not as easy as getting a cat to bunk down for the night – not with 70 lbs of Abby tabby taking up 3/4s of his bed when she achieves her full stretch. She’s booted me from my warm cocoon on several occasions and I just know she’s eyeing his Sports-Themed pillow casing with fervent desire. Still, he continues to work at it. I shudder for the day when he laces that bedspread with Slim Jims.

SNAP INTO IT!!!

Watching him discover his dog and more importantly, eagerly soak up the roles and responsibilities that come with pet ownership, has been a real joy. He seems to delight in grabbing charge and taking care of something other than himself – just one more step on that long, winding road towards independence.

And Aria, as usual, will ape the moves her big brother makes – officially adopting Chatham as hers.

Now, if I could just get one of them – any of ‘em – to fetch me a beer. (Ouch!!! Where’d DSS come from?)