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“Everyone thinks they have the best dog,” wrote W. R. Pursche, “and none of them are wrong.” Those who’ve never had a dog don’t get it, and you can’t blame them. People who’ve never had a Toll House cookie likewise have every right to be ambivalent on the subject.
On the other hand, my family and I have had five Golden Retrievers over the past 30 years, and if you’re ambivalent about a Golden Retriever, you’ve got problems. I’ve been besotted with each of them, to the point that my then teenage children were ready to stage an intervention. “Did you actually just ask if the dog had had a good day?” one asked with that contemptuous edge. “What was it about ‘Did the dog have a good day?’ that you didn’t understand?” I replied.
After we lost Charlie, our fourth Golden, my wife said that she couldn’t go through the agony of losing another dog. “I know,” I said, “but I still want one.” “I still want one?” she said. “What are you, six years old?”
Bless my wife, two Julys ago we picked up an 8-week-old Golden, whom we/I named Teddy. As anyone who’s ever had a puppy knows, there are pros and cons.
You do spend an inordinate amount of time discussing urination, for one thing, which entails having the same “conversation” for a couple of months on a loop.
“Do you think he has to pee?”
“He can’t possibly have to pee; he peed 10 minutes ago.”
“That may very well be, but I’m fairly confident he has to pee.”
“I’m just as confident he doesn’t, but I’ll take him out.”
(Pause in the action)
“He had to pee.”
On the flip side, having a Golden Retriever of any age is not a bad way to get a kind of faux celebrity rush. We’d had Teddy for a week when my wife took him with her to a farmers’ market. Within moments, she was surrounded by what she swears was 60 people asking if they could pet Teddy, take a picture of Teddy, take a picture with Teddy, have Teddy. At about the same time, we took him to a dog-friendly restaurant. A previously preoccupied waitress saw the dog, put down her tray with the food on it, came over, looked into Teddy’s face and exclaimed: “Are. You. Kidding. Me?”
Much has been written about dogs’ innate desire to comfort those in need of it, but not nearly enough. I once had a student suffering from severe anxiety and depression. I took my dog to class, whereupon she made a beeline for that student, and lay next to him for two hours, rousing herself only to lick his hands. When that same dog was tiny, we took her to visit a friend in the final stage of a fatal disease. The dog entered the room, wagged her tail, went over to his wheelchair and lay down on his feet.
These are not coincidences.
Teddy’s now approaching 17 months, and the time has flown too quickly. Everything you hear is true: All they want is to be with you. They care nothing about what’s happening to the rule of law, and if they had their way, you’d forget about it for a few minutes too.
With time passing, passing time with Teddy seems a pretty good thing to do. The exuberant leap into the back of the car. The thumping of the tail when he catches your eye catching his.
Recently I brought Teddy to a local park for a reunion with a Black Russian Terrier pup named Millie. It had been a while since the two friends had seen one another. Last time Millie was twice Teddy’s size. Now she is four times Teddy’s size.
For about 45 minutes Teddy and Millie chased each other, wrestled with each other, lay panting next to one another and then chased and wrestled some more. I’ve never seen such joy. I’ve also never seen such filth.
Walking back to the car when it came to an end, Teddy shot me a look which I’m pretty sure said, “Thanks for that, pal.”
I shot him a look right back, which I hoped conveyed: “No problem at all. The pleasure was mine.”