The Weekly Fare . . . March 13, 2003

Every Dog Has His Day

Our dog is "Goose" and the other day she sure had hers. Goose is an "American" - a veritable melting pot of dogdom. When handed over the veterinarian's counter for the first time we hesitatingly asked if perhaps they could venture a guess as to what exactly she was "made of."

"No problem" came the reply from the girl in the light-blue lab coat. "The Doctors in the back can always narrow it down to two or three breeds." She disappeared behind the big double doors. We waited. And then waited some more. Finally the doors flung open and the attendant reappeared with Goose happily in tow.

"In the twenty years I've been here I can honestly say that that has NEVER happened before. We all gave her a pretty good look, and some solid guesstimates were made but we decided to give up after the twelfth breed was mentioned . . . That's some dog you have there . . ."

We could hear the laughter still coming from the back.

"She really is beautiful though . . ."

And believe it or not she is. Really, I mean it. The dog has a sort of eclectic style about her. From her caramel-spotted legs to her black and white saddled back to the long sprigs of hair at the ends of her ears that give her the appearance of a Bobcat. Did I mention she has a cross-striped tail that looks like it came off a big raccoon? Well she does, and she even . . . Oh, never mind . . . Maybe she's not beauty in the eye of every beholder but she is "extra-ordinary" - no doubt about that.

Goose is a decidedly outdoor dog. We do our best to keep her in the house, but with four children running in and out it's impossible to keep her battened down. Living on a fairly busy block we worry that her ongoing game of car-roulette is going to end in tragedy but somehow she manages to avoid them. I always remind myself that her freedom to run and live more like the creature she was made to be, is better than selfishly locking her in the backyard for "our" enjoyment. But if we ever lose her I know I'll view it differently. For now she remains one happy and mostly free-ranging dog.

But if her neighborhood sorties make her happy, her pilgrimages to our land in West Virginia are indeed "almost heaven." The Lodge we travel to regularly is located on the banks of the Shavers Fork River in the middle of a million acres of Monongahela National Forest, and if you're an outdoor kind of dog it' is very, very good place to be. Goose spends her days there chasing everything from field mice to deer and has even been known to track her distant Bobcat relatives.

She hasn't met her first bear yet, which shouldn't be a problem for Goose as she also possesses a great deal of speed. My only worry, however, is that one day I'll see her blast by and then moments later be face to face with her antagonist. The old adage that "you don't have to outrun the bear - just the people you're hiking with," comes to mind. But there's no outrunning Goose.

It pays to take along a little pepper spray when hiking with your dog.

Goose's lucky day started with a family hike up the "blue" and "yellow" trails, named interestingly enough, for the colors that mark them. It was about a two-mile outing that resulted in some fabulous "bellywhopping" by the whole family at the midway point. The mountain was steep and frozen. We couldn't resist. George set the speed record. Dad took distance. Mom and Gussie tied for style points. While Jane and Rob practiced a bizarre spinning and tumbling sort of approach that looked extremely painful. Goose just looked away in embarrassment . . .

Sheesh, the things a dog has to endure.

On the hike back, Goose emerged from the woods with a large "something" in her mouth. "Uh, Oh," is always the first response. Things that come from the woods in dogs' mouths are not generally objects one wishes to encounter - at least not in the state they are usually found in . . .

The wife spotted it first. "Uh, . . . Stuart, Goose seems to have something in her mouth . . ."

She might as well have said, "Dear, there is something in YOUR dog's mouth which I can assure you I wouldn't be caught dead reaching for, much less prying from her slobbery jaws for a closer inspection. Would you please come over here and perform your manly duty and see just what sort of gnarled remains she has decided to present us with . . ."

I, being the dutiful husband and fresh from taking the 2003 Monongahela Bellywhopping Distance Award, happily obliged.

"HEY, GOOSE - come here girl . . . whatchya got there . . . (visions of past presentations not suitable for public printing danced in my head) . . . but this appeared to be a packet or something. Well, this sure was a change. Something wrapped up nice and neat, deep from the depths of the . . .

National Forest? What the heck did she have?? I reached for the white-papered package and gave her the drop command. She miraculously obeyed.

"Plop." It dropped and sank softly into the late morning snow.

There were two words printed on the outside.

"T-Bone Steaks," it read.

As in Grade A, USDA Premium, ready to be thrown on the grill T-bone steaks. I scratched my head as the rest of the family gathered around. We all stared quietly for a moment. George finally broke the silence.

"Uh, Dad . . . what kind of dog finds T-Bone steaks in the middle of the forest?"

"A very lucky one," I said.

We all started to laugh. Goose looked up guiltily. Her eyes said it all...

"Can I keep them?"

God only knows how the steaks ever got there, and he was also the only one who knew how long they'd been around. I couldn't risk her getting ill.

"Sorry Goose old girl," I know these are quite the treasure, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait until another day . . ." The kids protested heavily.

"C'mon Dad, she found them . . . they're hers!"

"Yeah, Dad . . . How often is Goose going to find steaks in the forest . . ."

"A couple of bites won't hurt her . . ."

"Gee Dad, that doesn't seem fair!"

And it wasn't. But that didn't change the fact that I couldn't let her eat them. I responded with a two-minute dissertation on the dangers of bacterial toxins. It did not impress. But I still chucked the package in the dumpster when we got back to the lodge. Goose watched me do so as though it were a matter of course and then happily took off in pursuit of some deer on the other side of the river.

But sometimes one gift leads to another - regardless of the apparently capricious judgements from the "powers that be." That night when I wasn't looking the wife and kids fed her a rack of leftover bar-b-qued ribs in the kitchen . . . with some leftover ice cream to boot.

Sooner or later, every dog has her day.