Merle's Door

by Ted Kerasote

  Descended from homesteaders, they had kept the central feature of the village—its twenty-acre field—unfenced. Many of Kelly's habitations, including the silver trailer that they rented me, surrounded this grass-and-sage prairie, which, over the years, had evolved into a commons—one that people, dogs, and wildlife used to get from one side of the village to the other. In addition, there were quite a few national park holdings scattered throughout Kelly, and these, too, were unfenced or, at best, partially enclosed by buckrail fences that dogs would go under and people over. Taking a cue from these traditions, the rest of us didn't erect fences on our land, and this casualness over where one's property ended and the commons began was transmitted to the dogs, always keen observers of their own humans' reactions to strangers and boundaries.

  More often than not, as Merle and I walked down the road, we'd see a dog snoozing on the front step of its house. The dog would lift its head, but instead of running toward us and barking to defend its territory, it would amble across its lawn and sniff noses and butts with Merle, each taking in the scents of the other's anal gland secretions, indicating a dog's status, mood, and sexual condition. Then both would amicably wag their tails.

  A lack of fences wasn't the only reason that the village's dogs were quiet. Kelly's homes lacked doorbells. You announced your presence by a soft knock, and, if there was no reply, by opening the door (all kept unlocked) and calling, "Anyone home?" The response from the resident dog wasn't a cacophony of high-pitched barks, warning its humans, "Possible burglar, all systems alert!" Rather, the resident dog wagged its tail and grinned, often giving a delighted whine of welcome.

  Seeing as how rarely the dogs of Kelly barked, it seemed fitting that Merle wouldn't make a fuss when he wanted to come into the trailer or the house. The lisping cluck and the glottal stop worked perfectly well while the weather was warm, since my desk was only a dozen feet from the front screen door. But when it got cold, and the inner door was closed, he'd stand outside for an hour or more—unlike his dog friends, without a single scratch against the jamb or the tiniest yip of frustration—until I'd remember that I hadn't seen him in a while and go to the door.

  I'd find him wearing a look of relief mixed with reproach. "At last! And what were you doing all this time?" He'd bound in, and I'd rough the fur on his flanks and bury my nose in his ruff. The scent of his golden hairs was mild and nutlike, something between a chestnut and an acorn, with almost none of the oily tinge that is the hallmark of Labrador and Golden Retrievers.

  "What are you, anyway?" I'd ask him.

  Up went one brow, down went the other, crinkling his forehead and giving him the appearance of a yellow Lab trying to imitate a Bloodhound's furrowed and attentive regard. If, indeed, Merle had some Bloodhound genes in him, his unwillingness to bark wouldn't have been that surprising. It's in the nature of Bloodhounds not to express themselves by barking, though they can be great bayers when hot on a trail.

  Even if Merle had some hound in him, I would have thought that as October gave way to November, and the temperatures fell below zero, he might have been moved to utter more than a patient cluck while standing stoically by the door, waiting for me to let him in. But no, not once.

  We might have gone on like this for years, as so many dog and human couples do, their days punctuated by the repeated beseechings of the dog to be let in or out, and the compliance, sometimes willing, sometimes grudging, of the human. However, an event intervened. On one bitterly cold day, the thermometer hanging at 20 below zero, I had to spend the entire day in town—first at the library, then having a crown put on a tooth, and finally going to a meeting. Thinking that Merle would be more comfortable in the trailer than in the car, I had left him in the office and didn't return until eight hours later—something dog owners do all the time. When I came home, I found two big turds near the front door and Merle lying by my desk, as far from his deposit as possible, his head between his paws and a look of abject mortification on his face.

  "I am sorry," I said and went to him immediately. "Totally my fault."

  He rolled on his side, put a paw on my arm, and closed his eyes in shame.

  "Hey, hey, hey," I told him, rubbing my face in his neck. "Not to worry. And you left it right by the door. What more could you do?"

  He clicked his teeth—"tatta-tatta-tatta"—implying, "Oh, thank you. I thought you'd be so angry."

  "Look," I said. "Tomorrow we build you a doghouse."

  The Ritz, as I nicknamed it, took a week to finish. It was set off the ground on a cinder-block foundation and had four inches of insulation in its floor, walls, and roof. Painted a deep burgundy, it was carpeted with plush, open-cell foam over which I laid a wool afghan. The final touch was a radiant heat lamp. When it was 20 below zero outside, it was 50 above inside the doghouse.

  "Voilà, Monsieur," I said with a flourish, upon its completion, "ta maison est enfin prête. Et elle est magnifique, n'est-ce pas?"

  I had been working on Merle's French and Spanish, thinking that as long as I often expressed myself in several languages he might enjoy being multilingual as well.

  Leaning forward cautiously, he sniffed the entrance of the doghouse with the same suspicion he'd displayed when smelling my rifle for the first time. His nostrils dilated, and he took several steps backward, giving me a look that made my heart sink: "No, thanks."

  "Come on," I cajoled, "give it a try."

  It was late afternoon; I was going into town; it was a few degrees above zero and light snow was falling.

  "Look," I explained, "wouldn't you prefer to be in this wonderful, warm, dog lodge rather than sitting in the very cold car, the freezing car, while I have dinner and go to the movies?"

  He gave me a deadpan look in return. Putting my hands on his shoulders, I began to guide him into the Ritz. He didn't so much as get his head through its door before he leapt away.

  "Ha-ha-ha!" he cried. "Very nice, but that's enough."

  Since the doghouse had cost about $400 worth of material and time, I wasn't about to give up.

  "Watch me," I said, and crawled in. Turning around, I put my head on my folded palms. "Oh, my god! Is this ever comfortable and warm! You'll love it." I made room at the door and beckoned to him. "Come on in."

  He trotted away. I poked my head out and saw him sitting by the front door, his expression clear. "Doghouses are for dogs. I want to be in our house."

  "Be that way," I called to him.

  I fetched my things and, to make my point, left him at the front door as I drove away. If a dog's jaw could drop, Merle's did.

  Five hours later, the snow now falling heavily, I drove up the lane and there he was, running from the front door to cavort in front of my headlights. There wasn't a single golden hair on the afghan.

  For the next week, I continued my tough-love approach, going to town only to find him running to the car upon my return, his back covered with snow, his doghouse spurned, a melted-out nest at the front door where he had slept. Sometimes he wasn't home when I arrived, and in a few hours—if it was daylight—I'd see him come up the lane, tail held high, golden paws supple in their tireless trot. I'd hold the door open for him, and he'd greet me lavishly, making a soft whining sound in his throat: "Good to see you. You were gone a long time." Putting my nose to his head, I'd smell perfume, occasionally cigarette smoke, other times fried food. He'd been visiting neighbors.

  "You've been two-timing me, haven't you?"

  He'd laugh. "What's a dog to do if he gets left at home?"

  I gave up on the hard line. If he was willing to sleep wolflike in the snow at the front door at 20 below zero, could it be any worse for him to sleep in a cold car for a few hours? Coming out of a movie, I'd find my car windows thick with interior frost. Opening the door, I'd see Merle curled nose under tail. He'd blink his eyes under the globe light, stand up, do a languorous doggy bow, and hold it as he simultaneously gave a sleepy wag of his tail. "Oh, what a lovely nap! Are you back already?"

  But e
ven though Merle now accompanied me, there were days on which I had to work in the library or go to some wildlife conference. He was car-bound for eight to ten hours, his confinement relieved only by two or three short walks. By the end of the day, he looked utterly bored. I'd take him for an hour of ski-skating, but it seemed like a sop. I had been mentally engaged for the entire day. At best, he had gotten to watch traffic go by.

  I would never think of treating friends this way, making them prisoners of my schedule. Why should I treat Merle—who had become the best of friends—like an indentured servant, at my beck and call in return for food and lodging simply because he didn't have an opposable thumb with which to manipulate the knob on the front door?

  Feeling guilty, I drove to Valley Feed and Pet to buy him one of the liver-flavored dog biscuits he liked. As I paid for it, my eye caught a line of what appeared to be small, plastic-covered windows on the wall adjacent to the checkout counter. They were dog doors, and they came in a variety of sizes. Intrigued, I examined them. They had white, aluminum frames and sturdy, flexible flaps made of clear plastic that swung in or out, allowing ingress and egress. Suddenly, I had a flash of inspiration. Here was the solution to Merle's and my dilemma.

  To those who have installed such a door, my little eureka may seem feigned. It wasn't. At the time, I didn't know of a single other house in Kelly that had a dog door, nor, when I was growing up, did my dogs or any of my friends' dogs have their own door. I had no precedent for giving my dog command of his own life. Like millions of other dog owners, I was rooted in the assumption that it is the human who is in control and decides when the dog will come and go.

  The consequences of changing this relationship would be profound, I knew, but in some ways I had already committed myself to the experiment. I had learned to trust Merle. He wasn't a nuisance to people or a threat to livestock and wildlife. He had also become savvy enough to avoid cars and dangerous animals. Nonetheless, when it came to his most fundamental needs—to relieve himself, and when to be inside or out—it was I who decided.

  Considering our relationship from this light, I had to admit that my power over him soothed me on a subconscious level. Having him at my disposal transported me back to that normal but narcissistic state of childhood when we want our wishes to be everyone's wishes, our schedule to be everyone's schedule, our universe to be the only universe. Up until fairly recently, only monarchs had this enormous power over others—not merely decreeing what their subjects would do, but also when they would live or die. Some tyrants still have this power, and so does every one of us, at least over our dogs.

  But if Merle could come and go as he wished, he'd no longer be my subject or my pet. If he could make his own decisions, he might decide that he didn't need me. Then again, he might love me for reasons other than my providing food and the right to take a pee. The door would change everything. In the Great Chain of Being—with God and angels on the top and rocks and dirt on the bottom—I, the person, would go down; he, the dog, would come up. I found the justice of Merle's cause hard to deny.

  I bought the next-to-largest-size dog door, and the following day Merle watched a carpenter install it adjacent to the trailer's front door. When the man had left, I held open the flap and said, "Go ahead. Try it out."

  We were standing outside in the snow. Merle ducked his head, peered into the trailer through the opening, and backed up cautiously. "I think a dog could get stuck in that thing," his look said, "and hurt himself seriously."

  "Not a chance," I replied. "You're descended from wolves. They dig tunnels no wider than this for many feet to get to their dens. Go ahead." I gave him a little push, and he danced back. "Ha-ha-ha," he panted. "No way."

  "Okay, watch," I said. Going down on my hands and knees, I turned sideways, squeezed my shoulders through the narrow opening, and crawled into the trailer. Holding open the flap, I looked back at him. He stared at me, wide-eyed.

  "See, I'm in the house, and you're still out in the cold. Come on in."

  He danced his feet anxiously, teetering on the edge of making a bold move.

  But he wouldn't come. I stood and opened the front door. He bounded in.

  "Watch me again." I crawled outside through the dog door and held open the flap for him. "Now you do it," I said.

  He put his nose through the dog door, but he wasn't low enough and his head scraped the upper side of it. He jerked back reflexively, giving his head a sound knock. He yelped, more in surprise than in pain.

  "Not to worry," I told him. "Just bend down a little farther."

  Now he was spooked and hung back.

  Standing, I opened the trailer's door and let him out. "Watch again," I told him.

  I knelt and pushed open the flap with my head. Crawling into the trailer, I turned and held open the flap. "It's easy," I said. "Now you try."

  Gingerly, he put his head into the opening, and I let down the flap. He paused, gauging the intent of the strange thing on his neck. Then in a rush of scrabbling paws he was through, extending his rear legs like some long-limbed wading bird taking flight. He burst into the living room and did a complete circle through the air without touching ground. Dancing his paws up and down in a gleeful patter, he woofed: "I did it! I did it!"

  "Well done!" I shouted. "Once more."

  I crawled back out the dog door, but this time lifted the flap only two inches—just enough for him to see my eyes under its lower edge.

  "Come on," I enticed him. "Open it yourself."

  He came forward, and, as he did so, I lowered the flap to its fully closed position. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but I could see the blurry shape of his head on the other side of the flap and hear his breathing as he smelled me. Then I saw his black nose emerge from beneath the flap's lower edge, followed by his snout and his golden-brown eyes, hanging between doubt and glee.

  "Yes," I said, "You've got it. Come on through."

  Out he leapt and gave an exuberant twirl in the snow.

  Clapping my hands, I shouted, "Very good. Well done. In you go." I motioned to the door.

  Like a cannon shot, he was through and into the house.

  "Back out," I called and clapped.

  And there he was, leaping from the door like a trained circus animal going through a hoop. But this was no parlor trick. He was grinning hugely at me, and with good reason.

  Extending a hand toward his new entry, I said, "We did it. You have a door of your own."

  As the winter took hold, we skied often. When I'd written all day and light was short, we'd leave directly from the cabin for a tour through the woods on cross-country skis. If we had a couple of hours to spare, we'd drive to the roadhead on the Gros Ventre River and ski-skate on the snowmobile road where we'd often see bighorn sheep. When we had a whole day, we'd drive up to Teton Pass, between the towns of Jackson and Victor, Idaho, with alpine touring skis in the car, bound for powder skiing on the high peaks.

  As we began one of these excursions, I'd zip up my jacket and say, "Vámonos, Señor," and gesture to his dog door.

  Merle would give a faint wag of his tail and then wait until I opened the trailer's front door.

  "Ya sabes que tienes puerta propia," I'd tell him as I opened the door of the trailer. You know, you now have a door of your own.

  Another limp wag of his tail: "Es para cuándo estás ocupado." That's for when you're busy.

  Of course, he wagged his tail in neither Spanish nor English, but in Doggish. I got his point.

  Sighing, I'd motion for him to proceed.

  He'd look up at me. "After you, please."

  "Don't stand on ceremony, Sir," I'd proclaim. "After you, please." And I'd motion him through the door once again.

  "Oh, all right," he'd pant, "if you insist," and he'd walk out ahead of me.

  At first I thought that he was acting in accordance with the way that wolves and domestic dogs have structured their worlds since time immemorial: deferring to the individual they consider dominant. In Merle's cas
e, it appeared that he had compartmentalized his world into two domains: one in which he was dominant—the world of his friends Zula and Jack—and the domain of Ted and Merle, in which I was supposed to lead.

  However, it soon became apparent that his decision-making was subtler than this. On a groomed track, when I was ski-skating, he'd lope at my side, as if we were equals. On the downhills, where my speed would increase dramatically as I tucked and schussed, he'd fall behind. Then, on the uphills, where I'd have to herringbone, he'd be out in front again, laughing happily at my slowness.

  In the backcountry, if the snow was below the height of his elbows, and light, he often chose to be in front, breaking trail. If the snow was deep, he let me break. Then, when it was time to ski downhill, he'd bound ahead. He quickly grasped, though, that he couldn't ski in front of me on anything but the most moderately inclined downhills—that no matter how fast he swam downhill through deep powder, I was faster on skis than he was on his paws and therefore I might inadvertently hit him. I only had to clip his butt once with the edge of my ski, and from then on he tucked himself in behind me.

  Still, he wouldn't always follow in the deep furrow I left in powder snow. Rather, when the snow was light, he'd "ski" his own line, heading straight downhill and striking a vertical track through my S-shaped one, leaving what appeared to be a long string of dollar signs. At the bottom of the run, I'd turn and watch him, up to his neck and paddling languorously, a huge grin on his face as a billow of snow rolled in front of him. Riding this wave, he'd emerge slightly uphill of me, like a seal popping from the surf and onto the shore.

  However, when the snow was heavy and I'd get far ahead of him, he'd bay at me in frustrated anguish, "I can't keep up! Slow down!" If I went out of sight, his cries would rise in pitch and finally reach a panicked crescendo, "You're gone! You're gone! I can't see you!"