A Dog Year

by Jon Katz

  I returned to a two-dog household once more. Devon looked around for Julius sometimes, but to be frank, he always appreciated less competition for my attention. Homer seemed lost. I saw him trotting through the house, searching for his companion. It comforted him, I think, to climb into my lap; certainly it comforted me. It was the first real bond we shared; mourning brought us closer. And he began padding around after Devon, who, I noticed, would bestow on him the occasional morning lick. The Three Amigos had, somewhat sadly, re-formed.

  Eleven

  Poultrygeist

  * * *

  Like other friends and loved ones, dogs can mark periods in one’s life, boundaries between one time and another.

  Julius and Stanley were my dogs during the years when I left behind media companies and big commercial institutions and became a solitary writer. They were by my side when I wrote nearly all my books, articles, and columns. They were around for much of my daughter’s childhood. Almost all my ideas germinated or developed while I was walking them. For a socially uneasy man, they provided real companionship; not a replacement for human beings, but a steadfast and loving presence. They offered gifts I could never repay.

  When a dog like Devon enters your life, your days become so full that it’s easy to let the memory of those warm, undemanding creatures fade away. Devon took up space; he made everyone around him take notice. It was a blessing and a curse.

  Life with him is a curious mix of love and fun and an intellectual combat that never entirely ends. His is just not a pliant personality.

  For instance: a couple of months after Homer arrived, Paula and I came home from a movie to find the refrigerator door standing ajar. Conspicuously missing: the roast chicken I’d bought at the supermarket, encased in a domed plastic tray that was hard to pry open. Hmmm . . . someone had goofed and neglected to close the door properly, and someone else had taken full advantage of the goof. I had a fair idea who.

  I looked around the kitchen and saw no chicken. I did see Devon scurrying up the stairs so silently I would have missed it if I hadn’t glimpsed his disappearing tail. Homer, always stricken at the prospect of trouble, had the panicky look that came on him whenever Devon and I tangled. And by now, I believed Devon was capable of almost any kind of mischief.

  Something was definitely afoot. I gave the dining room and family room careful scrutiny. Nothing. But something was sticking out from beneath a black leather chair in the living room. It was the bottom half of the plastic container, but there wasn’t a shred of chicken in it.

  Crawling around the room, I located the other half underneath the sofa. Neither part of the container had been chewed or torn, simply opened with the dexterity that usually requires an opposable thumb.

  I yelled to Paula in her office. “Is Devon up there with you?”

  “Yes,” she said, pleased. “He came up to visit me, which he hardly ever does when you’re around. He looks nervous.”

  It took me a few days to piece it together, and even then I wasn’t sure what had happened. The chicken had weighed several pounds. How could a dog, even finding the refrigerator providentially open, pull the chicken out, carry it twenty-five feet without dropping it or making a stain, pry open a plastic container, eat every scrap without leaving a trace, then stash the evidence under two different pieces of furniture? It didn’t add up, even for legendarily crafty border collies.

  Too many steps, too much calculation. Still, whatever had happened had happened; I could hardly yell at him after the fact. Besides, I still didn’t quite believe it.

  The chicken’s fate, however accomplished, was clear when we took our walk that night. Devon had gorged himself; the weakness in his plan was that with a dog, what goes in soon comes out. From the evidence, Homer probably hadn’t gotten a morsel. Knowing that eating poultry bones could be dangerous, I called Dr. King, who told me to watch for any bleeding. And to be sure to close the fridge when I left the house.

  Two days later, I bought some meatballs in a similar container for lunch and put them in the refrigerator. And, yes, I made sure the door was closed and slid a kitchen chair in front of it for good measure. When I came up from my office an hour later, the chair was askew, the refrigerator open, the meatballs gone. I found the container underneath the black leather chair. Devon was edging toward the stairs.

  This time, I roared, picking up the container and yelling “No!” Charging after Devon, I tripped over the carpet, sprawling to the floor. Homer shrieked. Devon was nowhere to be found.

  I e-mailed Deanne. Had she ever known a border collie to open a refrigerator? “Only one,” she replied. “Devon’s mom.”

  This was a whole new level of trouble, something that would drive me mad. I hated the idea of guarding food from a sneaky dog.

  What particularly bothered me was that Devon didn’t really care much about food.

  He picked and nibbled at his own, hardly ever finishing it at one sitting, sometimes forgetting about it altogether. We’d known for months that he could open the kitchen cabinet that held the big sacks of dog food. But he never actually ate it when we were away. Dog food? Where was the challenge in that?

  This stunt, similarly, had little to do with hunger. It was either pique at being left—my bet—or one of those games border collies come up with to occupy themselves when they’re bored. Opening a sealed refrigerator with your nose (I guess) and then opening a snapped-together plastic container (How? I couldn’t imagine)—now that was fun.

  I was upset. Devon had been doing so well. There was a malevolent quality to this, I thought.

  Paula, on the other hand, was rather impressed. She started talking about hiding the car keys, the credit cards, and computer passwords.

  Another fight. I was a veteran by now, with many scars, battle ribbons, and stories to tell of my campaigns.

  I bought some turkey burgers at the market, tucked them into the fridge, put my coat on, and went out into the backyard.

  Wishing I had a video camera—a collie-cam—that would record and reveal exactly how the hell this theft was going down, I stood perfectly still, my ear to the door. A couple of minutes later, I heard what I thought was a very light thud, and charged inside.

  There, sitting on the floor of the family room, was the popped-open container, the turkey burgers still inside. The refrigerator door stood open. Homer was paralyzed with fear and Devon had beat a tactical retreat.

  How dare he? I girded for battle, until a lightbulb went off in my head and I reminded myself of certain verities. Paula was right. It was both amusing and impressive. And he’s a border collie. He’s Devon, the Professor Moriarty of dogs. If you love him, accept him. This is part of life with him.

  I laughed and sat down on the floor. “Hey, boy,” I said to Homer, who rushed over, immensely relieved and full of kisses. “C’mon down, Devon, you creep,” I yelled upstairs. “It’s okay.” Devon came roaring down a second later, knocking Homer out of the way and landing in my lap. We hugged for a while, the bewildered but overjoyed Homer trying to get into the act.

  What can you do but laugh and sigh and accept the new nature of things? It wasn’t easy, because of all the impatience and anger and frustration in my life, and because I so missed Julius and Stanley and their peaceful reliability. But it was necessary, because I was so crazy about this deranged dog.

  “You know what?” I said. “For all that ingenuity, you deserve the burger.” I took it out of the leakproof plastic, put one turkey patty in Homer’s bowl and one in Devon’s. Homer scarfed it up gleefully, but Devon didn’t touch his, glancing at it with disdain. The thrill was purely in the hunt.

  This was another turning point in my tempestuous relationship with the Helldog, and it was a healthy one for me. Devon was going to be Devon; I could take it hard and make us all nuts, or I could take it easy.

  Still, I wasn’t about to let him chow down on our dinner, nor was I going to roll over. I went to my computer, logged on to a search engine, and ordered a set of chi
ldproofing locks for appliances, to be shipped overnight.

  I also posted this latest adventure on a border collie Web site, where it inspired a general round of can-you-top-this comments. Stealing a chicken was nothing, apparently. One woman from Ohio wrote that her border collie opened cabinets and feasted on maple syrup.

  “All this time,” one of my fellow border collie owners e-mailed me, “he’s been watching to see where the food comes from. He’s been paying attention. It’s a gotcha.”

  Yeah, maybe, but his owner was no fool, either. Next day, I secured the fridge with the child lock and went out, giving Devon the finger.

  When I came home, the refrigerator’s bottom grill had been knocked off. Having failed to open the door, Devon had tried to dig in through the bottom.

  And he hung in there for a while. We put the bottom grill back on; it was off when we came home. We took it off and left it off. I know it’s beneath me, but once in a while, when Paula isn’t around, I point to the refrigerator lock and jeer at him. “Gotcha back,” I yell.

  I also got two dog crates, covered the tops with quilts, and built a cozy, calming cave for Homer and Devon, stocked with water, rawhide, and marrow bones. Let Devon be Devon, but let him learn to love and use the crate every now and then, too. They both quickly came to love short stays inside their little dens—rushing inside happily—and Paula and I could venture out in peace. With Devon, I’d learned, it was always smart to deny him the opportunity to make mischief. He’d rather come along, but failing that, he seemed relieved to have a haven.

  When Julius and Stanley passed beyond puppyhood, they reached a Zen-like state of grace marked by evenness, gentleness, an almost obsessive regularity. Life stopped changing for them. Their reliability was one of their great qualities.

  For Devon, every day is a new experience, as it now is for me. His love and loyalty are beyond question; it sometimes appears that he has submitted.

  But to conclude that he’s lost interest—in the refrigerator, in figuring out how things work, in sticking it to me now and then—would be a big mistake. He is always waiting, watching.

  Twelve

  Dog Days

  * * *

  A day with Devon and Homer begins at about six-thirty a.m., which is when I open my eyes. Devon is always—always—sitting on the floor a few feet from the bed, watching, awaiting my signal.

  I wave my hand, and he hops quietly—so as not to wake Paula—onto the bed next to me. He puts his head on my right shoulder, licks my hand or face. Then he sighs deeply, and goes to sleep.

  It is our time together, inviolate, just him and me, contented. Perhaps he’s recollecting our early struggles, and sharing the same sense of relief I feel.

  Sometime before Paula’s alarm goes off, at seven-thirty, Homer stirs, yawns, gets up, and approaches the bed from the opposite corner. Keeping a wary eye on Devon, who still tracks his every move, he wriggles quietly up onto the bed between Paula and me. He is a serious cuddler, nestling into any available spot.

  For months, Devon enforced a no-fly zone around me. But he never kept Homer away from Paula; consequently, the two have fallen in love. Sometimes I look over to see him wrapped around her head like a fluffy turban.

  Though they’re first cousins, Homer and Devon occupy opposite ends of the border collie spectrum. Homer has no defiance or dominance in him; unless a chipmunk or squirrel appears on the horizon, he’s all sweetness and frolic.

  He learns commands quickly. Within a week of his arrival, he was housebroken, able to walk off-leash and sit, heel, lie down (always the toughest), and stay. Yelling at him was counterproductive and unnecessary; the kinds of battles I had fought with Devon would have crushed Homer. Once you show him what you want, he does it cheerfully.

  He’s a perfectly wonderful dog—obedient, bright, and good-tempered. Deanne was quite right: these two have evolved into a great pair.

  As she promised, Homer is pleased to be the underdog, which is fortunate, since Devon insists upon it. Devon gets to decide who chews what; he always walks up front; he has dibs on me. That’s all fine with Homer. He’s managed to love us, and be much loved by us, without ever putting Devon out of joint, threatening, or supplanting him. He’s slipped easily into our lives. He and I are still working out the nature of our relationship, but I can’t recall a single problem he’s caused, apart from an understandable fetish for Paula’s sheepskin slippers.

  Devon understands me well, and connects with my darker side; Homer doesn’t seem to have one.

  We all go downstairs for breakfast—each dog, I am proud to report, eating from his own bowl, no minor or quickly won accomplishment. Devon gets fed first, his dominance respected. Once in a while if Devon’s feeling malignant, he’ll knock Homer away and grab a chunk or two of his food before I back him off, but he seems to do that largely to annoy me, and to protect his reputation.

  They then go lie in the hallway, waiting for their walk, while Paula and I talk, read the paper, drink coffee. The dogs, intuitive creatures, understand that this is our time.

  But the scraping of my chair as I back away from the table is their signal to jump up, nose open the door to the rear hallway, and sit by the back door. The sound of my zipping up a jacket can send Devon into expectant barks as he eagerly looks toward the door.

  Border collies don’t merely exit—they explode. They fly out the door as if shot from cannons, looking for backyard rodents or passing commuters, circling the yard until they are satisfied that things are in order.

  Then I simply announce the direction in which we’re walking. I’ve gotten used to chatting with these dogs now; it seems only natural to explain where we’re headed.

  With my encouragement, Devon has retired from vehicle-chasing. Too risky. Too hard to control. Too easy for him to misinterpret a hand signal and get flattened. So Devon, with his usual ingenuity, has perfected the car-less chase.

  Each morning, we walk to a half-mile strip of grass alongside the high school athletic field, where Devon drops into the crouch. On my command—“Go get ’em”—he stampedes down the fenced strip, then pivots and runs back. He’s not chasing anything in particular; it’s herding without the herd. I don’t know if Devon envisions sheep or trucks, or if he fixates on some sound or sight invisible to me, but he has a blast, running himself ragged, and taking the whole matter with complete seriousness. By the time we reach the end of the strip, his tongue is hanging from one side of his mouth and he is a tired and happy border collie. His atavistic Hemp-ish instincts satisfied, he’s quite calm.

  Every now and then I renew my promise that one day I’ll take him to a sheep farm, let him experience the real thing.

  Our neighborhood walks have grown almost ceremonial in their complexity now. People pull over in cars to remark on Devon and Homer, though not quite as often as they did for Julius and Stanley.

  Devon would be just as content to ignore his public; Homer, however, does enough schmoozing for both of them. He has a gaggle of human and canine admirers who greet him, carry biscuits in case they encounter him, want to play with him. If I’m not disciplined, it can take quite a while to traverse the block.

  In the process, he’s coaxed Devon and me, who both have antisocial streaks, to be more gregarious, to spend time with people, to make friends. As good-hearted as the Labs were, Homer is markedly more outgoing: he’ll spot a total stranger sitting on a porch and bound over, tail going, ready to offer slurps. He now knows where every one of his dog pals lives and pauses at their driveways to whoof a greeting. Often, the dog comes shooting out, followed by its owner and their children. The dogs then wrestle around in a blurry ball, so spirited that Homer often limps home with sprains. We keep buffered aspirin on hand.

  At first reluctantly, Devon and I have begun to join in this spirit of happy trekking. We will never be as friendly or as open as Homer, but he’s softened us up, pulled us out of ourselves. We’ve met neighbors whose names I didn’t know; I’ve had long, intimate chats wit
h people I’d never spoken with. After six months with Homer, I feel more connected to my block, know more people, can discuss kids, the schools, all the staples of suburban conversation.

  I’ve been touched, too, by the interest in and concern for Devon. My neighbors, some of whom had been witnesses to our brawling past, rooted for Devon from the first. They still make it a point to greet and pet him, to ask after him and comment on his relaxed demeanor. They’re his support group; mine, too.

  Our neighborhood has some of the nicest, best-behaved dogs you could wish for. A few are boisterous after spending their days alone and confined. But in general I think of our street as a model of the happy place dogs can still occupy, even in our challenging contemporary world.

  Everybody carries bags and scoopers and cleans up. Everyone’s made sure to socialize their dogs early on, with other dogs and with kids and adults. The dogs know how to play, but they also know how to pay attention. I’ve come to see that this isn’t a matter of individual wizardry; it comes from time, and from tedious and responsible training.

  I like to credit the spirit of Julius and Stanley for some of this. They were so well loved that their exemplary behavior and good natures convinced most of my neighbors to hire Ralph Fabbo as their dogs’ trainer. It pays off.

  Homer has a social life that I’ll never come close to attaining. Dog owners all over the block call for playdates.

  He’s tight with Zeus, a German shepherd three times his size; and Seamus, a tiny, energetic Westie; and Daisy, a curly-haired retriever. He’s become very close to Minnie, the deaf pit bull he meets at a nearby park.