What the Dogs Have Taught Me: And Other Amazing Things I've Learned

by Merrill Markoe

  “The reason I want to be an actor is that it seems like an interesting field,” he says. “Okay, now do a little scene,” the receptionist tells him. “Act something out.” The big guy pauses, turns his profile to us, and addresses two imaginary people. “I think you’ve both had enough to drink,” he says, “and now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Turning back to us, he explains, “I used to be a bouncer.” “Very good!” says the receptionist, spearheading the applause. It’s been two hours and I still have no idea where this is leading, so I mention that I have another appointment. “Well, please talk to the director on your way out,” the receptionist instructs me, turning all her attention to the big guy.

  The “director” is sitting alone in his office, hidden behind piles of paper on his desk. “I didn’t realize you were such a dynamic actress,” he says to me. “You could sell anything. Phone sales. You ever do that?” “No,” I say, frankly crushed that I have been demoted from leading lady to telephone salesperson in no time at all. “Well, I’m going to get you some work,” he promises me. “You’d be perfect for a show like L.A. Law. And I think I have a picture for you.” “What kind of picture?” I ask him. “Super 8,” he says. “Can you be reached evenings after seven?” I tell him I can. “I was also interested in that big boy out there,” he says to me. “How’s he doing?” “Well,” I say, “he’s fine. Except he doesn’t have any idea of how to read lines.” “L.A. Law,” the guy says to me. “I’m gonna get him on L.A. Law.” And I never heard from any of them again.

  Top Dog

  Recently I received an odd letter in the mail. It was printed on stationery headed “Who’s Who in Canine America, LTD.” I couldn’t tell if it was a standard form letter or one from someone familiar with my legendary (some say “magical and transcendent,” others “neurotic and repulsive”) rapport with dogs.

  “Dear Merrill Markoe,” it said. “Our dogs make paw prints on our hearts. They are more lovable and charming than any other creatures on earth.”

  Certainly fighting words to new mothers, fans of *NSYNC, and anyone who watches more than an hour a week of Pokémon. But I digress.

  “This is what Who’s Who in Canine America is all about,” the letter went on. “Yes, we want your dog to be included in this first and only volume. This is an honor offered to less than one percent of all dogs and their owners in America.”

  Hmmm. My interest was building. The idea of joining this elite cadre was now helping me step past the bitterness I felt at the fact that my dogs had accrued “Who’s Who” credibility and honors while I, as a human, went unacknowledged.

  “There is no cost or obligation to be selected for this wonderful treasury,” the letter explained. “Please make sure your dog is included by completing and returning the enclosed Acceptance and Reservation form today.”

  This was followed by a place to enter your seven-digit credit card number so you could be billed for the $49.95 plus $4.95 shipping and handling per volume. No cost or obligation at all. Just the slightly suspicious price per volume of fifty-five bucks.

  But there was another more troubling set of issues with which to deal. I have four dogs, each spectacular in his own way. Repeated readings of the aforementioned solicitation revealed no way that more than one dog per household could possibly be nominated.

  Why? Because it would make this incredible tome too long? Surely it couldn’t be because “Who’s Who in Canine America” couldn’t figure out a way to sell a separate fifty-five-dollar volume for each additional dog?

  Whatever the reason, now I was facing my own version of Sophie’s choice. Which of my four dogs was going to be immortalized? The “anything you would like to add about this very special family member” section of the application would have to provide the criteria.

  Typically animals are singled out for acclaim because of their abilities to rescue humans. Newspapers regularly sing the praises of dogs who pull owners from turbulent waters, or wake them so they can escape from a fire.

  But in my opinion, standard-issue heroic animal gestures are predictable, unrealistic, and irrelevant. Each of my dogs’ distinguishing abilities were more subtle, more specific and sophisticated than those lifeguarding, drug-sniffing, Seeing Eye showboats who always hog all the praise.

  Take, for example, my dog Winky, an abandoned Shih Tzu whom I found six years ago when he was enough of a cool-headed adventurer to be taking a hike along the soft shoulder of a busy highway. Right from the beginning I could see he exhibited what can only be considered an inspirational degree of enthusiasm for the consumption of food. So exuberant are his feelings, so hot and keen his passion, so rapt his attention that every single day during meal preparation he dances backward, like an outfielder trying to catch a fly ball, into the same water dish in order to maintain a fixed and steady gaze when his bowl begins to make the journey from the kitchen countertop to the floor. Then, once the inhaling of breakfast is over, some three to five seconds later, Winky continues to exhibit vigilance beyond the call of duty by proceeding, without instruction or encouragement, to help rid the cooking area of debris and microorganisms by licking the entire surface of the kitchen floor. This impressive effort is a testament not just to his tenacity and his spirit but to his creativity, ingenuity, and limitless heart as well.

  Then there is Tex, a medium-size brown-and-black dog of indeterminate origin whose deceptively simpleminded facial expressions mask the important life lessons he has to teach regarding the nature of problem solving. For example, when left behind in the house with the front door locked and all the windows closed, Tex does not see limitations, only possibilities. Could he make an exit through the bookshelf, once the books are removed, by chewing through the living room wall? How about expanding the definition of “door” by removing the superfluous wooden frame? Sure, these are tasks that a lesser dog might find daunting. But not Tex.

  Yet, once he successfully breaks through to the other side of whatever it is he has conquered, does he run around gloating in his triumph? No. He stands, perturbed, ill at ease, unsure of what to do now, seemingly preoccupied with finding a route back into the house. A wasted effort? No. He is simply trying to impart a valuable lesson: The accomplishment of a goal is not a destination so much as it is another starting place. Like any good Zen master, he has given me something to contemplate to facilitate my growth as a sentient being.

  Finally, there is Lewis, my hundred-pound black dog, sent to teach the power of unconditional love. And what better continuous example than the way he conducts his long-term relationship with my sofa. Each day, when the house is cleaned and the throw pillows are nicely arranged along the top, Lewis is seduced anew as though the sofa were adorned in provocative lingerie. And yet, once the slipcovers are filthy, the throw pillows scattered, and the sofa looking old and broken, worn and infirm, Lewis looks past the superficial and remains as full of desire as ever. Who among us does not aspire to a love so deep and abiding?

  And so we see that each dog is such an exemplary specimen it is all but impossible to choose. Should it be Winky, Tex, or Lewis in the “Who’s Who”? Maybe it should be the one who’s willing to kick in his share of the fifty-five bucks.

  A Full-Disclosure Candidacy

  As we draw ever closer to another national election, we find ourselves in the rare position of being able to observe the birth of a new political tradition. I am referring to the soon to be mandatory use of what is sometimes called inoculation—going public with the confession of some private foible before your political opponent or the press can use it to drag your name through the mud.

  Recent examples of this are everywhere: George W. Bush bothering to admit that he enjoyed a wild extended youth as pundits continue to encourage him to come clean about his use of cocaine; Senator John McCain of Arizona feeling the need to mention that he strayed in his first marriage; Clint Reilly, a Democrat running for mayor of San Francisco, making a thirty-second television commercial in which he looked into the camera and
confessed, “Twenty years ago I had a drinking problem.”

  Even across the Atlantic in jolly old England, a guy named Michael Portillo, vying for leadership of Britain’s Conservative party, shocked the local political establishment not too long ago by announcing that he had had homosexual experiences in college.

  Clearly, full personal disclosure is the wave of the future. Whether this turns out to be good or bad remains to be seen. But I believe that one day soon, all new statements of candidacy will sound approximately like this.

  Fellow citizens and respected members of my party: Although I have not been much of a hat wearer in recent years, I would like at this time to throw my hat into the ring. I have the vision, the dedication, the energy, and the innovative ideas needed to lead our country in the twenty-first century.

  But before I share some of the exciting programs I am planning, there are a few things about me I feel you should know.

  In the seventh grade I was caught looking at the answers to a history test, which I had written on the bottom of my shoe. This was a very rebellious time in my life, during which I received numerous hours of after-school detention for talking without raising my hand and making fart noises using my armpit. I regret this behavior and have continued to compensate for it by doing a great deal of supplementary reading about the War of 1812.

  Everyone knows that the teen years can be a behavioral mine field, which is the only explanation I can offer as to why I attended several parties with a group of underage friends who consumed large quantities of a certain brand of cough syrup that contained a lot of alcohol. In a misguided attempt to form an educated opinion, I tried but ultimately rejected marijuana, cocaine, and diet pills, settling finally on a light diet of what the kids called magic mushrooms even though I was aware that they were neither magic nor even in the mushroom family. These experiences were regrettable and I have not consumed any drugs at all since my junior year in college.

  However, my senior year, adrift in the overwhelming stress of upcoming law school entrance exams, I experienced an uncharacteristic period of moral confusion during which I was persuaded, against my better judgment, by a girl with whom I was having a very turbulent, short-lived relationship, to participate in what was then called a three-way. Connected to this was an unfortunate incident involving the transmission of a type of body louse (with which I was temporarily infested) to a rather large number of my immediate peers.

  In this same period, I regret to admit, I was not entirely frank with quite a number of girls, to whom I professed false feelings of love to gain sexual favors. On several occasions I invited them to dine with me in expensive restaurants and then when the check arrived pretended to have forgotten my wallet, thus causing them to have to pay for my dinner. At the end of the evening I would always assure them that I would call them soon, knowing full well that I never would.

  I can’t change my past. But I do continue to strive each day to be the best person I can be. I am pleased to announce that this past year I totally eliminated my tendency to speed through yellow lights at the very last second, an unfortunate habit that was at the root of my many moving-violation citations. I have also given my word to the people with whom I work that I will correct what they call my pattern of giving inappropriately cheap seasonal gifts, and will stop claiming that I am going to the gym when I am actually just heading home early to nap. In coming months, I plan to openly admit that the reason I did not lose weight after three months on the Zone was not a glandular disorder but the fact that I keep a stash of Snickers and Hershey’s Kisses behind the corporate checkbook in the bottom drawer of my desk.

  Yes, I regret the things I did. But I also embrace them for helping to make me the honorable, law-abiding, churchgoing citizen and monogamous family man that I am today. As most of you know, I have been happily married to my lovely wife, Lana, for eleven of the fourteen years we have been together, and faithful to her for almost three.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Bruce Tracy, Melanie Jackson, and Marty Tenney, for getting this republished; Polly Draper, Michael Wolff, Robin McCarthy, and Susan Jaffee, for going along on stuff; Dawn Mazzella and Hallie, Dean Graulich, and the staff of the Pacific Coast Animal Hospital.

  Also, thanks to Bob, Stan, Lewis, Bo, Tex, Winky, Puppyboy, and Dink, for providing me with content, and Andy Prieboy for everything else.

  About the Author

  Five-time Emmy Award–winning writer MERRILL MARKOE has published three books of humorous essays and the novels The Psycho Ex Game (with Andy Prieboy) and It’s My F—ing Birthday. She has worked as a radio host and a TV correspondent and written for television, movies, and a delightful assortment of publications. She lives in Los Angeles, if you can call that living.