We have a new dog. I’m teaching him the finer points of fitting into polite society. It might be easier to teach him to walk on water. I’m over my head either way.
His name is Bogey. He’s a hound, thinks he’s human. He rebelled at some other names. Humphrey didn’t suit him, and he howled at Bildad. Claims that a fellow can’t get on in this world without a catchy name. Smart dog.
He’s not an average dog, but who is? I’m not, are you? He’s a ‘rescue dog’ from the Humane Society. What we salvaged him from he won’t say, just that he’s a liberated dog, a rebel with one cause: chaos.
He came with no papers, no pedigree and apparently no pretense. He just showed up one day, like all of us. Advents are like lotteries…there are winners and losers. You never know which until you scratch the surface.
Being liberated is a pretty good philosophy. Gives a fellow license to roam and dig in whatever dirt he wants. Free-thinkers cut a wide swath. It might be easier to grease a camel through the eye of a needle than to shove a free-spirit dog, or person, into a box.
His first lesson involved the harness. It’s supposed to control him better on walks. I tell him everyone wears some sort of harness. It keeps us in line. He doesn’t buy it. On first try he taught my arm the real meaning clawing and gnashing. How’s your harness working out?
I explain to him that conformity is essential in order to maintain cordial relationships. He debates the issue, but let’s me bribe him with red meat treats. I might have had a better go of conformity in my youth if the diet had been more than parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
After a few weeks he wants to have a consult. Says trying to be human isn’t working and that he’s hearing voices inside. Says they argue. I ask him what they’re saying.
“One voice says, Keep trying, fit in, imitate, under the radar.” He says the other one disputes, “Be yourself, be original, live big.”
He doesn’t know which to believe. Says he feels like a yoyo in the middle of a civil war where nobody ever wins. I tell him this is decidedly a human trait. And that he’s right: nobody ever gets total victory. He rolls over and snores.
He wants to know about burying bones. I tell him nobody likes dogs that dig up someone else’s dirty bones. I tell him to remember, “What’s buried stay’s buried.” Most bones have enough dirt on them to ruin any appetite.
He needs to know that in our neighborhood it’s best if we ‘know our place.’ That’s not a dog concept he tells me. I explain to him the theory of someone being ‘too big for their breeches.’ He’s young but will soon learn labels are easy to get, hard to get rid of.
Looks matter, I say, and dogs are often recognized by their hair coloring as they are their collars. I ask him his preference. He says he’s good with the groomer’s bandanas, although they’re a small consolation for the suffering inflicted by nail trimming.
I tell him that some highbrow dogs, like people, are more discerning about their collars and prefer the latest fashions designed by Gucci or Barkbox. But I remind him that collars don’t define a dog any more than clothes define people. Some folks haven’t learned that yet. He ‘amen’s’ this and lets go an aloof howl.
Bogey has a short attention span, so he has a bag of toys. Costs a fortune to keep him focused. He’s not too hung up on size, type or cost. A wad of newspapers works just fine. Otherwise monotony will feed on itself and my arm along with it.
Toys are good, I tell him. Humans have lots of them. They tend to keep boredom at bay. He slings me a zinger, asking what’s in my bag of toys. I ask, “What’s in yours?” Cost is a relative term.
And on it goes. I guess it’s a little too much to expect a dog’s total compliance in this ‘look-alike, fit-in’ world. Humans have the same problem. We should remember, ‘Oh, the prison of perfection, the freedom of just good enough.’
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Bogey is a dog and he’s gonna fit in. Says to tell you, “Here’s looking at you kid.”
Bud Hearn
August 22, 2018