Can You Really Love a Dog?

It was the summer of Waldo.  I was 15. 

My oldest brother was 25.  He had been to college and the Army and was about to start law school.  He came home for a few months and adopted a little brown Dachshund puppy, Waldo, who was friendly, frisky, and playful and seemed to enjoy every minute of every day.  He chased birds in the back yard and greeted every stranger with a face full of licks.  Waldo had joie de vivre!

But he did have one aggravating habit. His room was the enclosed porch at the end of the hall, where he had his water dish, his little wicker bed with a cushion, and easy access to the yard; but if he was on the porch and we were home, he scratched the door.  He didn’t whine or bark, just this annoying scritch-scratch on the door separating the porch from the rest of the house.  We tried yelling at him, but he didn’t stop; and we suspected that he knew that he wasn’t supposed to scratch the door, because we could never catch him doing it.

If you heard him scratching and walked down the hall and peered through the window, he was eight feet from the door, reclining in his little bed with his paws hanging over the edge, and an expression on his face that said, “Did you want something?”  If you ran down the hall and threw the door open, he’d be in his bed.  If you tried to sneak down the hall and peek through the window, he’d be in his bed.  You couldn’t get mad at him, because he was so darn cute; and you couldn’t punish him, because you couldn’t catch him.

What started out as an aggravation became a game.  Who could catch Waldo scratching the door?  Everyone tried.  Neighbors and friends came by to play.  We still don’t know how he did it.  What was his early warning system?  We had an older house with hardwood floors and a crawl space underneath; maybe he felt something in the floorboards, or sensed someone approaching with his super canine hearing, that sent him scrambling to his bed without our hearing him move.  It was a memorable competition, and Waldo never lost.

Our Waldo highlight film, however, was dinnertime.  If you did not know he was a wiener dog, you might have thought he was Snoopy the beagle, because he jumped for joy on his hind legs with his ears flying all over the place.  And if Waldo was on the porch when he heard the dinner bell, well…it was a show.  When you opened the door, Waldo headed north up the hall, hell-bent-for-leather, lickety-split, full steam ahead, until he hit the living room and had to make a turn toward the kitchen.

With his motor at the red line and his little legs clocking about 4,500 RPM’s, he tried to make the turn, but lost his footing.  He could not get any purchase on those wooden floors, so he would slip and slide, with his feet churning, drumming out a crazy rhythm with his toenails.  No sooner had he regained his balance and his direction than he had to make another left turn into the kitchen, so he scudded all over again, usually running into the door jamb.  One more time on his feet, and then he would barrel into his dog dish and spill half of his kibble on the linoleum.

No matter, he was a happy dog; and when he finished his dinner, he shook his head and played out a percussion riff, as his droopy ears went flippety-flippety-flap-flap-flap against the top of his head.  What a memory!  Scritch-scratch!  Open the door!  Barrel into the turns!  Wolf down dinner!  Flap the ears! 

No wonder my brother was crazy about that dog; and I realized just how much, on that day he took Waldo out for a walk and forgot the leash.  A while later the front door opened and I heard a very unfamiliar sound, my brother sobbing.  He was gasping for air, pleading, “Don’t die, Waldo, please don’t die.”

But it was too late.  His dog was in his arms, completely lifeless.  Waldo was distracted by a cat and bolted into the street.  He never saw the Buick. 

I had never heard my brother cry before.  He was bigger than life to me, always cool, always quick-witted, always under control.  He was the brother who called me “short strike,” drove me to the beach, took me to see “Shane” at the Fox Theater in Pomona, and sheltered me during days of family turmoil. I was the little brother who shined his shoes, typed his papers, and marveled at the beautiful women he dated, who were a lot older, like in their 20’s.

There would be times when he cried on my shoulder, and the shoulder of our other brother, when we huddled with him in times of personal upheaval and loss; but nothing in my memory compares with the loss of Waldo, and my brother’s inexpressible, gut-wrenching, face-contorting grief!

Years later my wife and I adopted a mutt from a box in front of the Ralph’s Market.  He was a doxy-poodle-terrier-something mix, and we named him Waldo # 2.  He was a great little dog, and we got a lot of enjoyment out of that $4.00 investment.  He loved life just like his namesake, but truth be told he just was not as sharp.  Instead of chasing birds, he chased their shadows.  Instead of scratching the door, he chewed up boxes of Kleenex, and we always caught him.  Plus, he tried to get frisky on my sister-in-law’s knee, which was not nearly as cute as sliding on the hardwood floors.

Our Waldo lived to a ripe old age for dogs, and when he got sick and too hurting for life, we mercifully put him down.  That was a huge loss for us; Waldo # 2 was great company.  We never had another dog that made me smile as much.  He would shake his head and flap out a rhythm with his ears, just like the original Waldo.

We missed him; but when someone asked me if I loved that dog, I said I was not sure if a person could really love a pet.  Then I read Patricia McConnell’s book, “For the Love of a Dog,” and I was sent back many years to a moment of heartbreaking sobs.  Yes, I know someone who once loved a little brown dog with all his heart.  Waldo # 1.

Can you really love a dog?   Oh my, yes.    

NOTE

Dr. Patricia McConnell is a highly respected animal behaviorist and a terrific writer.  Read the above-cited book as well as two others: “The Other End of the Leash” and “The Education of Will.” Go to patriciamcconnell.com to read her weekly blog and to learn more about this internationally renowned author, teacher, trainer and speaker; and to check out her self-published instructional manuals on dog training.  You’ll be glad you took the time.