“Why do we do this?” I rhetorically asked our vet, mired in the sadness of a sorrowful goodbye to the wonderful little canine that so commandeered our hearts.
Beyond that horizontal heartache, the countdown to which commences the minute these noble creatures arrive, there’s also the considerable commitment of time and expense, and, the burden of distraction, restriction, limitation, nuisance and many a fine mess.
Moreover, how possibly could another dog supplant that special place in our hearts reserved for the 12-to-15-year-old grand companion so many of us have lost?
This, a sentiment that’s proven an impediment to additional canine connections, I’ve so discovered in dozens of such discussions. Two years on, the simplicity and ease of our canine-free life provide zero solace for the loss of our little, charismatic beagle clown, Arthur.
I thus ventured tentatively to fill that void, though I was confined some to a breed from within the popular Paw Patrol crew, as I tactically deferred to the burgeoning grandchild lobby, having accurately gauged the assertiveness of my wife’s apprehension.
“Arthur was a lovable character, no doubt, but a more sensible breed. The Lab’s the top-selling breed for a reason,” the vet set said, and breeder buddies implored.
Of note, such selection comes with the fun of a choosing a colour – black, yellow, or chocolate – though, why not all three, seemed painfully obvious to me. Truth be told, I gave that option a dangerous degree of deliberation, mulling over evocative images of paintings and postcards of that tri-coloured trio in the back of my truck.
Then again, that pick-up’s a tad tiny, and, as a “2010,” it’s entrenched in that vast wasteland between vintage antique and new pristine sheen; basically scrap – no aspiring artist would dare ponder painting.
As such, I opted for a lone yellow lab, and my enthusiasm soon soared when I pronounced him “Hazel,” but, then, oh how it soured, so incensed was the Paw Patrol lobby that he was not “Chase.” Accordingly, I recited the 478-page Watership Down – a rousing tale centring on an adventurous band of clever rabbits, led heroically by Hazel, a male – in its entirety, with full theatrical flair, and only then did the crew kind of concede.
I’ve delivered that same such summary a few hundred times now, though my most recent rendition is notably briefer and blunter. I’m sure that English novelist, Richard Adams, who penned the book in 1972, is downright dumbfounded by the strange spike in the book’s sales, heretofore not read this side of the Atlantic, as he scours a Canadian map for Orillia, giving thought to a sequel.
Nonetheless, all who greeted The Haze as a young pup did so with gasps of glee, providing me plenty of new-pup pride and pomposity, a spell that seemed to elapse in six quick weeks, as Little Yeller doubled from 15 pounds to 30 in a wink, since surpassing 60 in a blink.
Now, when he’s dragging me through, over, and into, forest, garden and glen, I’m garnering nothing but pitying grins, grimaces, and groans.
Credit where credit is due, however, as he did arrive at eight-weeks of age, 95 per cent house-trained, and, to my astonishment, he rests quietly from nine at night till nine the next morning. In fact, he’s so calm, I’ve joked that he’s actually a bit boring in the echo of Arthur’s escapades and antics. He waits patiently each morning for his all-kibble breakfast; maybe he’s barked once or twice in his life.
Conversely, that beagler would scream bloody murder if one didn’t race down the stairs an hour before dawn to let him out before prepping his Highness’s breakfast. And, if you didn’t let him in quickly enough for it, he’d have a fit, sharply barking and stamping his front paws so, that his ears flipped up over his head. Then, when released from his fully taut line, he’d fling it off like it was a slingshot.
As of last night, The Haze and I are at 892 walks, though they’re more aptly termed wrestle-run-hikes, four per day, 20 to 50 strenuous minutes apiece. Seriously. In step-count culture, that’s 17 billion! I’m recording all such minutiae with a mind to a more comprehensive account some distant day. God knows, that lazy hound of ours crammed enough mayhem and mischief into the two hours a day he wasn’t sleeping for a cartoon series of his own.
Haze, on the other hand, is a total physical challenge, with leaps-and-bounds energy matched only by his growth. I can assure you as well, that the soft-tissue injuries “forearm tightness” and “strained obliques” are not exclusive to baseball pitchers, so afflicted as I am now. The exuberant mix of Haze’s short, but sudden, jarring jolts, combined with the drawn-out drags, always run counter to the position that I’ve otherwise engaged most of my muscles, and all of my critical cartilage.
Again, I wonder why do we do this, though I do so now with little kindness and less patience. There’s no time for leisure, it’s just walk, run, sleep, repeat, for me; walk, run, sleep, grow, repeat, for Haze. However, for a couple of months now, he’s not been unleashed, owing to some fortuitous caution as per his mating with coyotes. Such a marvellous mix of pups rather intrigues me, and absolutely enthralls him.
We’d both best remember that this may have been Old Yeller’s undoing, in the 1957 classic film.
Yes, we’ve been blessed once again with a troublesome teen dependent. If I didn’t have to accompany him everywhere, I’d encourage him to take up smoking, go hang out at the mall, anything for a breather.
Haze is only just now negotiating that cool leg-lift posture, though he’s far from mastering it. I asked the vet if it might be the name. His precarious lifts of his back, left leg result in him peeing on his front, left paw; then, with a lift of the back, right leg, he falls over, peeing on my left boot.
Interesting, has been the comparison of these two popular breeds.
The Lab, clearly has a preponderance of energy to expend, whereas the beagle, surrounded by fluffed pillows, topped with microwaved blankets, aims to conserve it.
Hazel marches straight forward, eyes up and looking straight ahead, stopping only for a stick, be it a twig or a tree. Arthur, on the other hand, with a hint of some fox-hunting pedigree, that no doubt annoyed him, would trot happily along, nose to the ground in search of any scent, with his white tail erect and wagging well when his bark-hoots confirmed that he found one, usually some food scrap from three winters back.
Where Arf might glance up indifferently at Canada geese honking overhead; whether honking geese, quacking ducks, or cawing crows, the birddog-bred Haze, comes calmly to a stop, methodically raising his eyes, tilting his head back, and arcing it along the full flight path, before taking another step.
I am greeted every morning by a happy, smiling Hazel, who appears to be on the verge of laughing. His tail wags so vigorously his whole back end shakes with delight, flattering my modest standing and stature. Heartwarming are his first flashes of that emphatic empathy in the longer, searching gazes, with the richness of pure devotion behind them, even if Haze’s comprehension of such, is still developing.
Perhaps mine is too, for I apologize to him twice weekly for my impatience, as our relationship bounces back-and-forth between battling and bonding.
Recently, I had the serenity of a Sunday morning’s calm disrupted by our grandson storming out of the garage with a particularly forward-leaning purpose, apparently to confront me. I couldn’t help but wince as he pointedly traced a red and raised scratch with his finger, that had to be five inches long. It ran all the way from his lower left eyelid down to his chin, courtesy of Hazel’s rambunctiousness and heavy, clawed paw. I thought for certain that it would scar.
Then, in an instant, his feigned-firm and furrowed brow faded softly into a “Hazelnut,” puffed with a sigh and quick grin.
As the two of them ran off to play, I heard my wife gently admonishing, “Hazelie, Hazelie,” and I envisioned the lab and I accompanied by the Paw Patrol and Beagle Brigade, summer swan dives off of docks with spectacular splashes and laughter that’s louder, when it suddenly struck me, that that’s why we do this, and, with that charismatic little clown’s blessing, the Haze and I are gonna be OK.
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column will appear monthly in OrilliaMatters. He can be reached at [email protected].
