A Dog’s Life

By Charles E. Valier

Harry Truman is reputed to have said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog!” I spent four years as counsel to Missouri Governor, Christopher S. “Kit” Bond, four more years advising him daily on his quest for re-election after his narrow defeat in 1976, an additional four years as a police commissioner in St. Louis City, an appointment by Bond in 1981, and finally, served as a political consultant to Bond during his election campaign for the United States Senate in 1986, the first of four terms in Washington. I chose not go to Washington, but I did marry a dog, or, rather I married a woman with a dog in 1986. Her name (the dog’s) was Katy and she was a beautiful, one-year-old Golden Retriever with an assertive, alpha personality.

Before then, I had rescued a “mutt,” appropriately named “Mutsy.” Katy and Mutsy became partners in crime roaming our residential neighborhood in St. Louis. Of course, Mutsy, whose previous life was never revealed to me, but must have involved some abuse, became the instigator in each of their escapades that seemed to always end in disaster.

Just prior to my marriage I sold my house at the west end of the private and historic, gated street in the “central west end” of the City of St. Louis, and purchased a house two doors east on the same street, a leafy two-block stretch adjacent to St. Louis’ large, central park, Forest Park, 1,370 acres assembled for the 1904 World’s Fair. The 42 houses face an oval road encompassing a 16-acre landscaped median, gated at both ends by imposing structures – one constructed of limestone at the west end in a faintly Art Deco style and the other of sandstone in a squat two-story Romanesque style with Richardsonian arches that have been ravaged by the vortex of wind that occasionally barrels down Kings highway, a wide, urban canyon running North/South through the heart of St. Louis’ residential neighborhoods. The houses are large three-story, masonry residences constructed by St. Louis’ gentry at the turn of the 20th century. The gates were closed and locked half a century ago in response to urban decay. An unobtrusive side entrance serves both my street and the one adjacent to it. Lot widths are predominately 100 feet wide, but often stretch to 300 feet. This is the tableau in which Mutsy and Katy wandered in dereliction of the city’s leash laws. While my backyard was enclosed and the driveway gated, Mutsy had mastered the art of escaping under the gate.

The house I had left prior to my marriage featured a swimming pool which I had built a decade earlier for my four children. Every morning after their breakfast Mutsy, employing her earlier vagabond experience, would lead Katy back to my former home, push open the neighbor’s gate and the two of them would go for a morning dip in what was no longer my pool. The whole scheme came unraveled when the owner decided he would take a morning swim only to find his pool already occupied. A padlock and an admonition to me put an end to that caper.

Next, the pair decided to visit the adjoining neighborhood demarked by similar gated enclaves, with Mutsy showing the innocent Katy how to cross a busy street into a neighboring gated street. While roaming in this new territory the “dog catcher,” AKA Animal Control, came cruising down the street, apparently after a call that “wild dogs” had invaded the bucolic neighborhood. Mutsy, the wily miscreant scrammed. Katy, the innocent youngster in typical, amicable Golden behavior went up to the driver to make friends and found herself locked up in the back of the truck and hauled off to jail, i.e., the “pound.” When Mutsy returned home alone, a frantic search ferreted out the details, but by then the City Pound had closed for the night and I could not rescue her until the next morning. What was delivered to me that morning was a flea-infested and dejected Golden with “kennel cough,” a reflection of the company she had kept that night.

My family has spent our summers in Charlevoix, Michigan since 1918, over 100 years, and when not in exile, Mutsy and Katy spent their summers with us. The glacier that carved out Lake Charlevoix and the Great Lakes over the millennium receded three times, so my summer home sits on a hillside which had been pushed up by a giant bulldozer, the glacier. As it receded, it established a new level. What remains is the current lake level and two terraces above it, each about 75-100 feet higher than the one below. We are perched on the highest level, with only sand and rocks underneath us, the moraine. One night walking Katy and Mutsy on the lower, first terrace they ran behind one of the clapboard cottages that are aligned from north to south in a long, straight row as if on parade. Barking and whining ensued. Suddenly, they burst out of the side yard of the house. Mutsy was barking and Katy seemed to have a beard. Upon close inspection it was a thistle of quills. Apparently Katy, who liked to show her dominance, had placed her mouth on the neck of a porcupine. There were quills everywhere – in the roof of her mouth, on her tongue, on her nose, her lips – everywhere! I borrowed a pair of pliers and started pulling them out, but the barbs drew blood and my wife’s panic. An all-night veterinary clinic north of town took her in. When we picked her up the next morning one would have thought she was chastened, but a few weeks later she encountered a skunk with similar result.

The reader might deduce from these tales that dog ownership is daily trauma, but these adventures are a mere sidelight of my relationship with the six Goldens I have owned. Having grown up with an Irish Setter, Randy, in the family, it was natural for me to accept a dog in each of my new homes. Two Rovers preceded Mutsy and Katy. Pumpkin, Tigger and Taffy followed. With each, the end was always tragic, and heart-wrenching. We mourned, often for several years, the loss of our dog child, but moved forward and adopted another Golden. Their friendly spirit and happiness revealed by a wagging tail and faithful devotion are too alluring.

After Tigger’s early death from cancer, I found myself distraught. Her premature demise left too many unresolved issues. At 81, I was at a crossroads. My wife and I relished the daily presence of a dog. Raising a puppy has its challenges – potty training, chewing a myriad of unintended objects, jumping on people, and running away. Puppies have boundless energy. At 81, I had slowed to a walk. So we launched an ambitious plan to raise a puppy despite our octogenarian status. A former dog trainer advised that we should let the breeder pick the replacement and gave me a three word instruction – “biddable, sociable and calm.” Two years ago, in April, we brought home Taffy, a ten-pound, 8-week-old bundle of squirmy fur. Experienced dog owners by now, we set up portable gates in the kitchen and adjoining sun room where there were no rugs, bought a small crate placed next to our bed and spent the next several weeks immersed in raising a new baby. Fortunately, we had warm weather so she could go out in our walled garden. We cleaned up puddles on the floor and transported her downstairs in the middle of the night to go “potty.” Carrying her upstairs at 2:00 in the morning she always licked my face and stayed still. We took her to puppy school weekly, where we learned how to raise a puppy and she began socializing with other dogs.

After several months we packed her into a crate in the back of our car and drove 625 miles north to Charlevoix in northern Michigan as part of our annual summer migration. We retained a trainer there to continue her schooling. Fortunately, she was by then housebroken. Our summer home association has an ancient rule banning dogs in July and August on the 125-acre compound that we reside on with 89 other century-old, wood-framed, clapboard cottages. Our homeowners association is a social outlier in this regard. I left Taffy with a friend at a farm just 8 minutes outside of town with a large crate and fenced backyard for her exile. By then I was thoroughly enchanted with her, and went out to play fetch and walk her twice a day. I gave up my golf club membership (or rather, I transferred it to my wife) to immerse my self in a “dog’s life.” Last summer it became clear that our friend on the farm had early symptoms of dementia, as she forgot to feed Taffy in the morning, so I altered my schedule to feed Taffy twice a day. This year I had Taffy trained and certified as an emotional support dog and received trustee approval to have her permanently in our home, with no exile imposed ever again.

So what have we gained or lost in this endeavor? We had to give up virtually all foreign or domestic pleasure travel. We are awakened at 6:00 every morning with a cold nose poking us in bed. I have become attuned to the sophisticated communication skills that she has developed. Her language is composed of various guttural sounds – ranging from whining to an indignant harrumph. Mine is English. They do not translate easily. Taffy is more adept at understanding English than I am with dog talk. What do you do when she comes over, sits in front of you, stares in your face and whimpers? You take her outside immediately!

What I have gained is the most loyal companion you can envision. She does not leave my side. We travel everywhere in town together. Fortunately, Charlevoix is a dog-friendly town. By now, the money and time spent in training, really showing her how we want her to behave, has paid off. At our daily visits to the Post Office, she sits next to me in line waiting our turn without yielding to distractions. She is rewarded by the clerk, Shelly, calling her up to the counter by name and extending a dog biscuit. She rides somnolent in the back seat of my car. I plan play dates for her and take her to a deserted beach to swim. I stand on the beach out of the cold water that I have not entered in a decade. She rolls on her back in the grass in sheer abandonment. When I am writing, as I am now, she lies at my feet patiently. When we go out in the public she is my greeter. I invariably meet a stranger who wants to pet her or talk to me about dogs. Whatever tension or distancing one finds in public settings with strangers is immediately dissipated. While in Charlevoix, we attend the farmers’ market Thursday mornings. Before departing we sit on a bench overlooking the harbor. She scrunches under me and we watch the tourists and boats pass by. Half the world stops to pet her and visit with me before we depart for “That French Place” for my bacon, egg and cheese crepe seated at an outdoor table with Taffy underneath.

Her most endearing quality is that she can read my moods. When I suffered sciatica (a pinched nerve) last winter, I spent days in severe pain trying to figure out what had happened, then waited a week to see the doctor who gave me a scrip for a physical therapist, which took another five days. Every morning when I could hardly walk I would sit at the top of the back stairs before attempting the descent. Taffy saw me and came back upstairs, turned around behind me, sat down and leaned on me, licked my face and then laid down and put her head on my lap. In the evening, she tells us when it is time to go to bed.

Each day Taffy starts by waking us early – 6:00 a.m. The routine is the same – outside to “potty,” inside for her morning meal and back upstairs to nap. Dogs love a regimen. It orders her day; establishes structure. I am firmly entrapped in Taffy’s habits. My days are circumscribed by her schedule. I know my role. What neither of us knows is the future; for now, we are oblivious to it. We are living in the moment. “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.” [John 3:8]

Charles E. Valier
Summer, 2024

 
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