The Other Dog

Animal

May 29

Ann Patty

He appeared, out of the blue, on a perfectly balmy, cloudless, late summer day. I returned from yoga class to find him, standing on the porch, tail awag, greeting me as though we were old friends. He was a small dog, white, with brown markings, and seemed sweet and friendly.

My husband George emerged from the barn: “That dog showed up a few hours ago at the kitchen door,” he told me. “I let Augie out to chase him away but they played instead and he’s just been hanging around. I’ve never seen him before, have you?”

I hadn’t. We live in the middle of the woods, 500 yards off the road. Augie is a twelve year old, twelve pound silver poodle, still lively, at least sometimes, and bound into an acre by an electronic fence. There are a couple neighbor dogs—a deer-like Doberman and a blowsy golden retriever, who appear from time to time. Both are gentle females, and Augie enjoys playing with them, but they always leave, or I chase them off, usually when I find them sampling the compost heap.

I am, by habit and necessity, standoffish with dogs. I’m allergic to many, and too often petting will lead to my touching my eyes and igniting burning itches or extended sneezing fits. Dogs aren’t as bad as cats and horses, which I rigorously avoid: hence, my hypoallergenic poodle. Augie is my first dog, the only animal I have ever truly known and loved. He has been my companion through a bad marriage, a sad love affair, and several very lonely winters in the country. After twelve years, he seems to have inoculated me somewhat to my severe animal allergies. Still, I keep my distance.

This new fellow sat expectantly before me, tail insistently wagging, big round black eyes fixed on mine. His wiry coat was sparse, pink skin was visible on his legs and stomach, his ribs showed, and a red cut near his shoulder looked like a bite. Besides the light brown patches on ears and temples, and a brown circle at the base of his tail, his coat (what little of it remained), seemed unaccountably clean and snowy white. He wore only a dirty white flea collar. He was clearly not a young dog and he was unneutered. I don’t know when I’d last seen an unneutered male. And my, what a big package he had!

“What do you think he is?” I asked George, “some kind of mutt?” George thought he was a Jack Russell.

“Hello doggie,” I finally reached down to give him a brief pat on the head. Truth be told, I was a bit afraid of him. He had a trampy look. And I had never been particularly attracted to terriers.

The dog followed me onto the porch. I set out a bowl of water for him and retreated inside.

From time to time I looked out to see if the dog was still about: he had settled on my reading chair on the porch, which gave him a good view into the house: and whenever I looked, there he was, staring at me. After a while he began whining, a high, sad keening, his eyes bleating at me. When I could bear it no longer, I went out and lifted him from the chair. He let out a screech as I picked him up, my hands at the base of his forelegs. I tried again, he screeched again. Was the soreness the result of long, arduous travel? Cautiously, I sat down with him on my lap. A shivery trembling ran through his body. A stab of dread: maybe there was something terribly wrong with him, and some cruel owner had dropped him off to meet whatever fate found him on our rural road. He was very thin; I could feel his ribs and his thigh muscles.

I held him and stared at the sun. The tremor subsided. I’d never been so intimate with any dog but Augie. This one very different. Augie always had a puppy cut, afluff like a muff when new, curly like a lamb when grown out. This dog had a soft, sleek coat. He was tensile. I stroked him and I didn’t sneeze. Perhaps I was not allergic to him. After ten minutes of stoking, he fell asleep, and I slid myself out from under him and replaced myself with an old blanket.

As he slept, I made phone calls: to neighbors and a few experienced dog lovers. What should I do? Did they know of a lost Jack Russell? I posted him on internet lost dog sites. I called the animal control officers of the three nearby townships: no report of a missing Jack Russell. Would I like them to come get him and impound him? Absolutely not.

After his nap, the dog became vigilant: if I was in the living room, he stood on the porch chair, watching me through the window; if I went into the parlor, he was soon at the French doors, staring at me longingly with his big black eyes. If I was in the kitchen, he appeared at the screen door. Augie seemed to have lost all interest in him. He was his usual independent self, napping on the bed, napping in the sun, napping on the couch.

At sunset, when George and I brought cocktails out to the back patio, Other Dog, as I’d come to call him, was there at our feet. Augie and he romped a bit, then Other Dog tried to hump Augie. Augie became ferocious, he snapped and growled. Other Dog backed off, walked over to my chair, leapt up, planted himself on my lap, and stared into my eyes.

His eyes seemed to hold the terrain he’d travelled to get to us: long and rough. I patted the chair: “Augie, aren’t you jealous? Don’t you want to get on my lap too?” Augie didn’t, and didn’t seem to mind the way Other Dog was colonizing me, though I thought he should.

When darkness descended I made a chair-cushion bed in the barn for Other Dog and set out a bowl of kibble. He ate voraciously. I brought him seconds, then thirds, then fourths. Finally, I closed the barn door. If he was to return from whence he came, better he do so in daylight.

The next morning I had to hunt for him, he was not on the first floor of the barn where I’d left him, but upstairs in the guest room, sprawled on the Chintz sofa. He had somehow managed to open the sliding door between the barn and the guest room stairs. He’d upgraded immediately. He greeted me with a wildly wagging tail, and, though I was worried about fleas, I was happy to see him, and amused. This character certainly knew how to make himself at home. I fed him again, three times Augie portions, then I took the two dogs for a walk. What an adorable pair they made, the silver grey and the brown and white, one fluffy, one sleek. How different was Other Dog’s tensile strength from Augie’s sprightliness. Though they were the same size, they were not equal in power. I have long corrected people who claim poodles are wimpy, coddled, not “real dogs.” On that walk, however, I understood that some breeds were indeed “a lot more dog than Augie.”

I called the nearby Jack Russell Refuge I’d found on the internet. No one had reported him, but, the director, Dale Mountain, told me “If someone around here’s looking for him, they’ll get to me.” I described Other Dog at length, and Augie, and she answered lots of questions I had about the breed and how he might get along with Augie. “He sounds like a great dog,” she said. “Maybe you’re hoping his owners won’t show up.”

Maybe I was. I’d been considering getting another poodle for the past several months, both as an enlivening pal for Augie and as a hedge against the inevitable. That this dog -- of the perfect size, and age, and disposition-- had found us seemed too good to be true. I sent phone photos of him to various friends, and as their messages of “Cute!” and “Lucky you” came in, he was seeming less a problem to be solved and more a gift to be accepted. Perhaps he and Augie had made some sort of arrangement. But I held back my pleasure. Surely his owners were looking for him.

That night Other Dog slept again on the couch in the barn, why not? The next morning I took him to the vet, First he scanned him to see if he was micro chipped; he was not. “This is a great little dog, he’s just roughed up.” He stepped back a bit. “And riddled with fleas. I’ll give you a pill that will take care of that in a jiffy. ” Other Dog sat patiently as the vet inspected him, ears, eyes, mouth, anus. “He’s very well trained, and he’s been well taken care of. ” Displaying his teeth, he said “he’s probably eight or nine but look at those teeth! He’s had dental work. Someone took very good care of this dog. I’d say he’s a home run!” he concluded, “My only advice is to hope the owners don’t show up and never let him look in a mirror so he doesn’t know he’s a Jack Russell. ”

I stopped at the pet store to buy Other Dog a red halter, his own doggie place mat, food and water bowls – light blue and festive with whirligig-patterned paw prints. This time, I let him accompany me into the house. He went straight to Augie’s food dish, which was empty, then drank up Augie’s water, then moved on to Augie’s toy box. He spent an hour sampling every toy in the box, destroying one rubber cone with a few exuberant bites. How had he known that was the toy box? Perhaps he just knew his way around any new place, as an itinerant might.

I set up an eating station for Other Dog opposite Augie’s. At dinnertime the two had their first and last ferocious fight: Other Dog wolfed down his food in a flash, then horned in on Augie’s bowl. Augie growled and snapped and uproar of lunging and barking and growling ensued. I grabbed Other Dog, and, with due deference, he accompanied me into the parlor while Augie finished his meal. George tied a leash to the kitchen table, and from then on, Other Dog ate leashed; he could reach his own food but not Augie’s. He persisted, however, in favoring Augie’s water bowl over his own. Augie didn’t seem to mind.

Over the next two days, Other Dog tried out every chair in the house, not only those Augie liked but some Augie had never been attracted to: the swiveling desk chair, the rocking chair, the ladder back antique whose finials provided hanging space for scarves and bags. I decided to hold the bedroom sacrosanct for Augie; no Other Dog allowed on the bed. I was worried that Augie might feel invaded. And truth be told, I was infatuated with Other Dog. While Augie slept, or went about his own independent business outside, Other Dog tailed me from room to room. The minute I sat down, he leapt up to my lap. “I know what’s going to happen,” my friend Judy told me. “This dog will let Augie act like he’s the main guy, but he’s secretly going to become your favorite. He’s going to make you love him more, but he won’t let Augie know, you’ll see. ”

I host a meditation group on Tuesday evenings, just four of us, sitting for half an hour. As usual, Augie retired to the bedroom. Other Dog placed himself first before one of us, then another, then another, staring, wagging, whining. We each ignored him in turn, until finally he sat quietly beside me. When our period was finished, Wally, a dog breeder asked “Do you have some treats?” He quickly took Other Dog through a series of commands. The dog sat, rose up, danced on his hind legs, and finally lay down and rolled over on command. Rolled over! I’d never seen a dog in everyday life who could roll over! I thought that was the stuff of circuses and movies: “This is an amazing dog,” Wally said. “Who knows what else he can do? I’ll bet he knows tricks we can’t even think of. ”

On that evidence I developed the theory that Other Dog had been lost when the annual county fair was forced by the approach of Hurricane Irene to strike camp early and leave town. He certainly looked thin and beat-up enough to have been surviving in the woods for the two weeks between the hurricane and his appearance at our house, six miles and a several county roads away. After the hasty retreat of the fair, maybe his owner was already in Pennsylvania or Tennessee by the time he discovered Other Dog missing. Maybe that’s why no one was looking for him.

After one last internet search turned up no one looking for him, I decided to adopt him. I already loved him, I felt safe claiming him as my dog. I named him Otis. The name came to me suddenly, as if he’d willed it, much as he’d willed himself into our household. There was, of course, Otis Redding, but I felt even more kinship with Otis Spofford, a character from the Beverly Clearly novels I’d read as a child. I’d written a play so I could act out his part. He was a lively, aggressive, often obnoxious lad, but he was the most fun character in the novels, and he made things happen. I liked him. Like him, this Otis took liberties.

The next morning, the dogs ran out together, as they did every morning. Augie, stopped by the electronic fence, would go to his post on the rock outcropping or settle onto one of his napping stations. Otis always continued on into the woods. He’d return within the hour, in time for breakfast. I tried putting Augie’s electronic fence collar on Otis, but again and again he ran right through the jolts with a quick yelp and proceeded on his way.

Soon Otis found himself a job, to which he reported after breakfast every morning. Large woodpiles line the our paths leading into the forest. Otis would station himself at one or another of them for hours, barking and whining and trying to wedge himself in between the logs to reach whatever varmint he smelled in there. Once he disappeared into a large wood pile for six hours. We’d hear him bark from time to time, but he was too far into the many-rowed pile to be visible. Just when my anxiety was about to reach the breaking point, and George and I began to plan dismantelling the enormous wood pile to rescue him, he showed up, happily wagging, scratching at the kitchen door.

Two weeks after he’d appeared I made another appointment with the vet. My more knowledgeable dog friends, as well as the vet, had told me I should get him fixed: without the hormonal drive, he would likely stay close to home; he would be unmoved by enticing female smells. And it would obviate the threat of prostate cancer, to which Russells fall prey. And, my dog-obsessed friend told me, I was an irresponsible owner if I let an unneutered dog roam. Was it cruel to neuter him at this age? Would I be taking away a part of his essential character? He was so very male; he humped every person who got into his range; his manliness seemed to define him. Fencing him seemed equally cruel. He was a working man, like George – slim, wiry, sweet and attentive. They both liked to be outside, wandering the woods and hills.

The vet picked a tick off Otis, and the test was positive for Lyme, so the decision was postponed. The course of antibiotics was to last a month; after that, I’d revisit the decision to have him fixed. To be on the safe side, however, I had him micro-chipped. Otis spent the next two days sleeping, not eating. He’d appropriated a laundry-filled basket as his bed. Augie didn’t seem to even notice him being out of action, though he himself had developed an alarming new tic: once or twice a day, for no discernible reason, he’d let out a high, blood curdling screech, and then go on about his business.

After two days, Otis was back, raring to go. Day by day he was gaining weight, his coat was getting fuller. The pink patches were gone from his legs and belly. He had become beautiful. He had a few annoying habits: scratching up the seat on his favorite chair, and furiously scratching at the door and whining when he wanted to come in. All my doors now bore his scratch marks, and he’d gone so far as to remove the first three feet of weather stripping from the kitchen door. George began training Otis in Augie’s superior method of declaring his desire for ingress or egress: one short sharp bark. George let out such a bark whenever he let Otis in or out, and within a week, Otis had adopted the language.

I surrendered to Otis completely, as one does to new love. Now, wherever I was, there was Otis. He fit effortlessly and courteously into our lives. At the end of October, we took him to Cape May, George’s favorite hawk-watching destination. I was curious to see what travelling with two dogs would be like. I could already feel the delight and balance of being a two dog family. Our lives were less anthropocentric with two of each genus: dog and human. George didn’t relish the idea of travelling with two dogs, “It’ll be an important bonding experience,” I insisted, “and you can go off bird watching and I’ll watch the dogs.” George wanted to leave both dogs with my friend Kathy. Augie had been a regular visitor at Kathy’s over the past seven years. Both she and her little girl love him and fawn over him. But it was too soon to introduce Otis to another cast of characters. In the end, Otis came with us, Augie stayed at Kathy’s

Otis was calm in the car, decorous in our rickety Victorian room, and happily courted the ladies who frequented the porch of our B&B. Soon they were taking turns petting him and cooing at him and slipping him treats. While George joined the other birders at the viewing platform, Otis and I took a long walk on the beach. He rested by my side as I sat and watched the dolphins, cruising fifty feet out from shore. Then George and I walked the marsh trail where no dogs were allowed. We left Otis in the car. When we returned we found Otis sitting atop a hill of yellow batting like the king of the mountain. He hadn’t liked being left, and had chewed away the back half of the passenger seat.

I dropped Otis and George back home before I picked up Augie: I didn’t want Augie to know that he had been left out of an excursion, but I imagine his nose told him the tale. For the next few days, Augie spent most of his time on our bed. When I played with Otis, he refused to join in, not even tempted by extra special treats. And three mornings in a row, I found large wet spots on the kitchen rug. When George had moved in three years before, Augie had begun leaving similar comments.

November came; time for the final autumn mowing of the lawn. My friends tell me I seem happiest when mowing my lawn. I use a gas-powered push mower. I love the aerobic, meditative task: you know where you’ve been, you know where you’re going, and results are immediate. Unlike Augie, who hates the sound of the mower, and seeks quieter pastures whenever he hears it starting up, Otis followed me back and forth, back and forth, up and down the acre of lawn for an hour, an hour of joy with my boon companion.

The next morning, for the first time, Otis jumped up on the bed, before Augie had even awakened. “You’re not allowed up here, Otis,” I chided, though I cuddled him anyway. He was a member of the family now – how could I deny him the family bed? Besides, this was his last day of antibiotic; tomorrow I would have to revisit the decision to neuter him. Augie took one look at Otis on the bed, gave out his sharp bark and I got up to open the front door. Off they went, side by side, each stopping to pee, then proceeding in unison across the lawn. Augie stopped at his sunny morning post atop the rock outcropping. Otis continued into the woods.

Otis didn’t return for breakfast, or for dinner. He didn’t show up at dark, or during the night or the next day or the next. He disappeared, as he had arrived, into the blue.

I repeated all the calls I’d made when he arrived in reverse. The microchip company supplied ready-made posters, to which I attached his photo, and hung wherever posters could be hung. And though when I checked the posters, several tags with my phone number had been torn off, I received no calls.

I console myself that he knows his way around the woods: after all, he found us didn’t he? I hope he went back from whence he came, but why haven’t the people called me? He wears a tag around his harness that has my phone number as well as that of the chip company, and a harness is much more resilient than a collar and likely to stay on during long forest travel. Why did he work so hard to make us love him, only to leave? Why did he fit so gracefully and determinedly into our lives? Did he, perhaps, have a few other homes on his list, like Dion’s The Wanderer, with a smitten woman in every county? Or did he know what I was about to subject him to and take off before he was unmanned, as it were? Did Augie send him away?

I went into mourning, the sort of baffled grief I’ve felt when left by a lover. I felt closer to him when I sat. The object of meditation is to practice watching the impermanence of the thoughts and feelings that come and go, come and go, to be able to truly grasp that nothing is solid, separate and permanent. We truly own nothing in this life, but the present moment and when we sit, we try to experience that moment to the fullest, letting go of the attachments which inevitably lead to more suffering. But isn’t love, no matter how brief, always worth it? Wise men say a broken heart is an open heart.

Ann Patty

The Other Dog

Ann Patty

Bird