It was bound to happen eventually. Frankly, it’s amazing that I managed to last this long without someone putting the hard word on me. It’s not as though I’ve been avoiding the subject. More that circumstances have rendered the question if not wholly impractical then, at the very least, hardly worth considering. But now that we’re moving to a house that has a yard, it’s a question that demands an answer and can no longer be avoided. Put simply: what kind of dog would I like?
It was bound to happen eventually. Frankly, it’s amazing that I managed to last this long without someone putting the hard word on me. It’s not as though I’ve been avoiding the subject. More that circumstances have rendered the question if not wholly impractical then, at the very least, hardly worth considering. But now that we’re moving to a house that has a yard, it’s a question that demands an answer and can no longer be avoided. Put simply: what kind of dog would I like?
The answer is as simple as it is inevitable. For me, it’s not so much a matter of breed or pedigree. My priorities lie elsewhere. All I want is a dog that can say my name and help me solve mysteries as I travel around with my friends; Fred, Velma and Daphne in the Mystery Van. Surely, that’s not too much to ask? Sit, beg, fetch and rollover might be enough for some people. I want my dog to help me figure out that supposed supernatural phenomenon was, in fact, Professor Caruthers who, frankly, would have gotten away with it, were it not for us darn kids.
Or I want a dog that doesn’t sleep so much in its kennel as on top of it. Who also writes novels that begin, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ and spends afternoons attacking the Red Baron while I, Charlie Brown, mistakenly believe that my career as a footballer has been cut tragically short because Lucy pulled the ball away just as I was about to kick it rather than because of my, frankly, enormous head. If that’s too much to ask, I can be flexible. I want a dog that can lead me either to or from danger, can ward off strangers, isn’t bothered by fireworks and, preferably, can drive a manual. In short, I want a dog that can do pretty much anything and everything. But perhaps that’s unrealistic.
You might think that all this fussiness is the reason I’ve never had a mutt to call my own as an adult. In truth, my canine-less state has been the product of circumstance – nothing more. For years, I have lived in apartments. I haven’t had a yard so it’s never been an issue. Not that I’ve been drawn to indoor pets either. I’ve never owned a cat although, for a time, I lived near someone who filled her entire living room with what appeared to be a carpeted set of gym apparatus, to please her (many) feline flat-mates. It wasn’t for me.
I guess I could have had a fish, but then there’s the filtering and the cleaning, to say nothing of the risk that I might overfeed the thing and it might outgrow the tank, the bath and then the swimming pool before I have to call the pet shop owner, Mr. Carp, who dives in and miraculously emerges with the fish, Otto, who has reverted to his normal size. Truth is, I never regarded the book ‘A Fish Out of Water’ as a light-hearted jape. It saw it more as a cautionary tale. When it came to fish, it was always, ‘Tanks, but no tanks.’
I had dogs as a kid, though. It occurs to me now that my father always insisted on giving them outrageously noble names. There was Jock the Scottish terrier, who was a barrel with legs. He died while we were away on holidays and he was staying with our grandmother. Legend has it that she gave him steak rather than dog food. He probably passed away already believing he was in heaven.
There was Monte, a dog of uncertain genealogy that we collected from the pound. He won the coveted title of ‘Dog with the Wagliest Tail’ at the one and only Tyabb Primary School Pet Fair. The wag went out of him as he grew old, but for an animal that began life in such a downtrodden manner, he patrolled the yard as though he was king of the world. There’s a small monument that marks his grave that reads: Monte – born a dog, died a gentleman. Then there was Nelson. He arrived after I left Tyabb but, as I remember it, pretty much ran the place for a time. From exuberant puppy to wise and faithful hound, he was part of the family. Maybe I’m reluctant to get a dog of my own because it’s hard to imagine one that could be as great as Jock, Monte or Nelson. When it comes to canines, we’ve been lucky.
But that’s exactly the point. There’s little to be gained through being stuck in the past. Sometimes you’ve got to move on and seize the future. Of course we’ll get a dog. In fact, maybe we’ll get two so they can keep each other company. In fact, we’ll probably given them names that make it clear they’re a team. ‘Laverne’ and ‘Shirley’ if they’re both girls. Or ‘Salt n Pepa’ for something more contemporary. ‘The Captain’ and ‘Tennille’ if we get one of each. And if they’re both boys? It’s obvious. Should our dogs both be male, I shall name them ‘DJ Jazzy Jeff’ and ‘The Fresh Prince’. Granted, it’s hard to yell, ‘DJ Jazzy Jeff – stop sniffing that Pomeranian!’ with a mouthful of marbles, but you’ve got to try.
I’m ready. Although I’m still not completely sure what kind of dog to wish for, it’s almost beside the point. That’s one mystery that will, I suspect, solve itself. So long as it’s loyal and happy and makes our house feel more like a home, it doesn’t matter. Dogs are strange; they’re one of the few creatures that remind us what it truly is to be human. I can’t wait.