How often do you hear people say, “I sure miss the good old days?”
I sometimes wonder if dogs feel the same way.
I refer you to an article in the Sunday New York Times by David Hochman, titled “You’ll Go Far, My Pet.” In
it, he talks about how much more complicated canine lives have become since the
“Alpo era.” (Page 1 and 12of the Sunday Styles section)
If you ask me, it’s because there are so many expectations placed
on doggies nowadays. Their play dates are organized. They go to dog parks to
meet their pals. They need to behave well in public and get their parents (nobody
says “owner” anymore, as the article points out) to pick up poop after them. They
have to stay on leash when they’re out on walks with their humans. Some of them
get their Canine Good Citizen certificates (Riley did.) A few go into beauty contests and
dream about winning “Best in Show.” Others guide persons with disabilities, rescue
lost souls or sniff out contraband salami at the airport. Some are elite
athletes participating in sports such as Fly Ball, Agility and Long Dive. You
often see well-groomed pups working as greeters in small shops.
So is it any wonder that Riley and I are feeling the
pressure to make him a better-rounded bow-wow? To that end we are currently
enrolled in an Animal Therapy Assistance training program. I figured he looked bored in spite of his
three walks a day and his two days a week at day care. The vet said he thinks
Riley suffers from low self-esteem and needs to do something meaningful that might boost
his confidence. He needs to make a contribution to society.
I’m not sure how he feels about it. He seems excited enough
when I show him his special bandanna that he wears only when he’s going to
class. It will become his signal later on that he is “going to work.” Riley is
breezing through his lessons. As for me, I’m a nervous wreck! This stuff is
hard!
And so I am wondering, is it really necessary for a dog to
be gainfully employed? They didn’t generally have jobs when I was a kid.
Our family had a Cocker Spaniel named Sandy who, like all
dogs in the 1950s, roamed free in our neighborhood, teaming up with his rag-tag
posse of pound pups. They led a simple life of leisure. They spent the day snuffling
around garbage cans and chasing squirrels and avoiding that bully Butchie that
lived up our street. He’d ambush us kids from out of the
shrubbery in front of his house and snap at our ankles as we peddled past his
house on our bikes as fast as we could. He was a mean mutt to be avoided by kids and dogs.
Mind you, there was a downside to being a free agent. Sandy
had two car accidents in his lifetime, one of which caused him to lose an eye. He was thereafter
our cock-eyed Cocker.
In the good old days, dogs pooped wherever they liked. Not a
day went by when some kid wouldn’t go home having “stepped in it.” Our moms used
sticks to scrape it off our shoes. Butchie used to come over to our house to
crap on our front lawn, and my mother would pound on the window and yell at
him, “You get out of here, you BRUTE, Butchie!” and run out to chase him away,
swearing that he was coming over to our house just because he knew it made her
boiling mad.
Sandy, for his part, was a casual customer, as my mom used
to say. He was pretty much untrained to do anything, except my dad had taught
him to wait with a biscuit on his nose before he was allowed to snap it up. And
he did shake a paw. But obedience commands were not in his repertoire and so he
could be spotted trotting happily along, sniffing the ground way up the street while my mother
called him and called him and called him to come home so she could get going to
her hair appointment or UCW meeting. She’d storm back into the house,
muttering, “That damn dog! He does this on purpose!” Her only swear word and
she reserved it for our guileless pooch.
Sandy slept in the basement on one of my dad’s old jackets.
They gave him his can of Dr. Ballard’s food splorted out onto a piece of wax
paper set down on the floor. I don’t remember him having any toys. He certainly didn’t get walkies. Maybe he visited
the vet once a year. He was just a dog
Sandy did have one heroic moment that I know about. He saved
me from a cat. My mother used to tell the story about leaving the infant me
outside in my carriage near the front steps, which in those days was considered
good parenting because a kid needed to get some fresh air. Sandy was asleep
nearby on the porch. His sudden and furious barking got my mom running to the front
door in time to shoo away a menacing cat. Folk lore of the day had it that cats
sat on unsuspecting babies in their cribs and carriages suffocating the life
out of them. My mother wasn’t going to take a chance that this was just an old
wives’ tale. In her view, Sandy had saved my life.
As for Riley, his moment of heroism is yet to come. Maybe he’ll bring
some joy to an Alzheimer’s patient or an autistic child; to a lonely senior
citizen or a kid having trouble reading. We’ll see. Our final exam is in four weeks.
I’m thinking I might get myself a special bandanna, just to signal that we are
going to class to help Riley realize his full potential…as a dog.
