of his irritation.
Sam’s compulsion to one-up Patch in the battle for territorial marking got the better of him when one afternoon, long before leash laws and poop scooping, he slipped his leash, bolted across the street, and took the mother of all dumps on what he clearly believed to be our front lawn. I caught him in the act, all pleased with himself, scratching up stripes in the grass with his back paws before running back home.
Unfortunately his prank was flawed by one fundamental problem: the fresh turd sat in the middle of Mr. Peevish’s immaculately manicured front lawn and not ours. Worse still, I was not the only witness to the crime. Within seconds of Sam disappearing into his home, Mr. Peevish emerged with a garden shovel, scooped up the offending item, careful to keep it at arm’s length, walked it over to Martin’s front door, and rang his doorbell.
Martin appeared at the door, joined by Sam, who politely sat byhis side, attentive but chaste, affecting an inability to recognize his handiwork.
“I believe this belongs to you!” said Mr. Peevish.
Martin took one look at the steaming mound being shoved in his direction, saw his advantage and said, “Prove it!” before slamming the door in the poor man’s face.
I admit it, a part of me enjoyed Mr. Peevish’s moment of incredulity, his embarrassment as a car pulled into our cul-de-sac and the driver offered a friendly wave and an inquisitive “What you got there?” But when I stopped laughing, what remained was a man who would continue to condemn and seethe, and a need for me to understand that not everyone shared my point of view when it came to dogs. Putting all personal bias aside, Martin had been in the wrong. If Patch and Mr. Peevish were going to successfully remain in one another’s orbit for the foreseeable future, Dad and I would have to work hard to be both responsible and respectful pet owners.
For some people, when it comes to their dogs, there’s a fine line between devotion and raison d’être. Regardless of the label, all I knew was Dad kept his promise to Patch through a wholesome recreational alternative to a big backyard. Every morning without fail, they would be up at five, though I am led to believe the four-legged accomplice was the one who provided the alarm clock. Dad would don a waterproof coat and Wellington boots, regardless of season, and attach a leash to Patch’s collar, and together they would set out for the fields and an opportunity to run free on more open land than Patch had ever known or could ever want for.
Accompanying them was unworkable for a boy who consistentlystruggled to regain consciousness before seven, but I might tag along for their evening walk, perpetually amazed by Patch’s enthusiasm for the same routine, as though he had no idea where he was going and always thought that this time around would be a whole new adventure.
Of course we all saw through Dad’s choice of off-peak hours. It was as if my father had confirmed something we had suspected for some time. Dad had given up trying to curb Patch’s antisocial behavior. His solution was simple, some would argue lazy, but if nothing else, practical. If you can’t stop the dog from behaving badly at least you can reduce the risk that he will get into trouble. Dad had found a possible solution to a problem of his own making. He was trying to be responsible and, perhaps more importantly, he was trying to protect the dog he loved from being misunderstood.
The first time I joined them on their walk I discovered that Dad had also incorporated a backup security measure into their route. Within a few minutes of leaving the house we were lost in fields that consistently offered unencumbered vistas of the pathway ahead, providing plenty of lead time to grab a leash and call a name. There’s no debating the fact that my dad did a far better job of teaching Patch to come when called than he ever did with me.
By the time we returned from that first
Sam’s compulsion to one-up Patch in the battle for territorial marking got the better of him when one afternoon, long before leash laws and poop scooping, he slipped his leash, bolted across the street, and took the mother of all dumps on what he clearly believed to be our front lawn. I caught him in the act, all pleased with himself, scratching up stripes in the grass with his back paws before running back home.
Unfortunately his prank was flawed by one fundamental problem: the fresh turd sat in the middle of Mr. Peevish’s immaculately manicured front lawn and not ours. Worse still, I was not the only witness to the crime. Within seconds of Sam disappearing into his home, Mr. Peevish emerged with a garden shovel, scooped up the offending item, careful to keep it at arm’s length, walked it over to Martin’s front door, and rang his doorbell.
Martin appeared at the door, joined by Sam, who politely sat byhis side, attentive but chaste, affecting an inability to recognize his handiwork.
“I believe this belongs to you!” said Mr. Peevish.
Martin took one look at the steaming mound being shoved in his direction, saw his advantage and said, “Prove it!” before slamming the door in the poor man’s face.
I admit it, a part of me enjoyed Mr. Peevish’s moment of incredulity, his embarrassment as a car pulled into our cul-de-sac and the driver offered a friendly wave and an inquisitive “What you got there?” But when I stopped laughing, what remained was a man who would continue to condemn and seethe, and a need for me to understand that not everyone shared my point of view when it came to dogs. Putting all personal bias aside, Martin had been in the wrong. If Patch and Mr. Peevish were going to successfully remain in one another’s orbit for the foreseeable future, Dad and I would have to work hard to be both responsible and respectful pet owners.
For some people, when it comes to their dogs, there’s a fine line between devotion and raison d’être. Regardless of the label, all I knew was Dad kept his promise to Patch through a wholesome recreational alternative to a big backyard. Every morning without fail, they would be up at five, though I am led to believe the four-legged accomplice was the one who provided the alarm clock. Dad would don a waterproof coat and Wellington boots, regardless of season, and attach a leash to Patch’s collar, and together they would set out for the fields and an opportunity to run free on more open land than Patch had ever known or could ever want for.
Accompanying them was unworkable for a boy who consistentlystruggled to regain consciousness before seven, but I might tag along for their evening walk, perpetually amazed by Patch’s enthusiasm for the same routine, as though he had no idea where he was going and always thought that this time around would be a whole new adventure.
Of course we all saw through Dad’s choice of off-peak hours. It was as if my father had confirmed something we had suspected for some time. Dad had given up trying to curb Patch’s antisocial behavior. His solution was simple, some would argue lazy, but if nothing else, practical. If you can’t stop the dog from behaving badly at least you can reduce the risk that he will get into trouble. Dad had found a possible solution to a problem of his own making. He was trying to be responsible and, perhaps more importantly, he was trying to protect the dog he loved from being misunderstood.
The first time I joined them on their walk I discovered that Dad had also incorporated a backup security measure into their route. Within a few minutes of leaving the house we were lost in fields that consistently offered unencumbered vistas of the pathway ahead, providing plenty of lead time to grab a leash and call a name. There’s no debating the fact that my dad did a far better job of teaching Patch to come when called than he ever did with me.
By the time we returned from that first
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