They say — the pesky “they” who are always saying stuff — that the country has gone to the dogs. This is a terrible libel on the dogs. They are loyal, affectionate creatures and do not deserve to be smeared
They say — the pesky “they” who are always saying stuff — that the country has gone to the dogs. This is a terrible libel on the dogs. They are loyal, affectionate creatures and do not deserve to be smeared with harsh metaphors.
Today I am all about the dogs, which is why I have no intention of getting into the particulars of what some people say about the state of the country. That would involve presidential politics, which in turn would entail mentioning you-know-who and his rival, you-know-her.
By the way, it is committing column suicide not to mention you-know-them. In this troubled age, unless a writer constantly describes the political circus, readership falls off measurably. In my last column, one reader blessed me for not mentioning you-know-him. The blessing I received was to hear crickets rubbing their wings together amid the otherwise deafening silence.
I don’t care. My view is that there must be one safe place in the newspaper for a person to seek refuge from the wretched political storms. So if you are a troll looking to slake your rancid thirst, you are lurking under the wrong bridge here. Go away or I’ll set my dog on you.
Be warned: All dogs are descended from wolves — even the Chihuahuas, which admittedly makes no sense. You especially don’t want a Chihuahua at your throat or hunting you in a pack of fashion accessories. It may not hurt you but it looks bad.
Sigh. If only I had a dog. As it happens, I am currently between dogs.
In the past, there was Sandy, a lab mix who took the expression “let sleeping dogs lie” as an excuse to bring inertia to a high art, and later Sooner, who had springer spaniel in him and perhaps a touch of kangaroo, so bouncy were his movements. They were both rescue dogs but I ended up thinking they had really rescued me from a drab life.
A person can grow very fond of a dog. Yet a time always comes when good dogs must depart for dog heaven, where they eat steak, sniff the many fire hydrants blessedly provided and accompany angelic handlers on frequent walks through the Elysian Fields. As you know, this is a cat-free, off-leash area where it is permissible to bury complementary bones.
However, when Sandy and Sooner did go to a better place, each in his turn, I was overcome by terrible emotion — me, who usually only cries when handed a big check at a restaurant. I admit to such wailing and gnashing of teeth and rending of garments that neighbors must have mistaken the deluge of tears for the arrival of a monsoon.
So when I retired and moved away, my wife Priscilla and I agreed that we couldn’t put ourselves or the neighbors through all that sobbing again.
Besides, it is inconvenient to own a dog, especially so in the retirement years. Retirement should be a time for taking trips to exotic destinations and these are often not as welcoming as dog heaven. Leaving a pooch behind is not fair to a dog, we said, as we mostly sat around our new home missing the company of a dog.
Fortunately, we got lucky, no, make that Lucky with a capital L. He is a large golden retriever of excellent disposition. If we ever wanted to show movies in our backyard, Lucky could be persuaded to act as the screen with the promise of a few biscuits and a walk.
Yet this good dog Lucky is not ours. He belongs to our friends Tim and Alice and we only get him as part of the Loan-a-Fido Plan when they go away on trips. Lucky gets a temporary good home and enjoys himself; we get our passing canine fix and enjoy ourselves.
It is a marvelous arrangement. We also play foster owners to other dogs provided by Priscilla’s sister, Linda, who gives a home to rescue dogs while they are being placed somewhere else. We have all the advantages of dog ownership except the inevitable appointment with extreme emotional distress.
The problem with this reasoning is that if anything happened to Lucky and the rest, we would be inconsolable. We might as well just get a dog and have our friends and relatives look after him if we go away.
I’d love to have my own dog and say to him, “You know, old mate, the world has gone to the people — and eventually I’ll have to write about it again.”
Reg Henry is a Pittsburgh Post-Gazette columnist. Readers may email him at rhenry@post-gazette.com
