Copyright (c) 2000 by Michael Finley

Different Sticks

It is possible to over-romanticize dog society. While dogs are social, their socializing is not always natural or fluid. Not all dogs hit it off. Sure, they universally sniff one another out, but that's just the most basic thing, like a handshake or greeting. Beyond that, they can be quite helpless.

Each breed is like a tribe, and each tribe has its eminent concerns. Beagles are concerned – they are very concerned -- about rabbits. For a setter, fetching sticks is the order of the day. If a Labrador retriever is not paddling about in the water, it cannot be fulfilled. Border collies are obsessed with maintaining order in the herd, even when there is no herd. Whippets run. Terriers harangue. Poodles pose.

Get all these breeds together and there are bound to be disconnects. Beau wants other dogs to play dueling tyrannosauri with him. He can do it for hours. But if the other dog is a golden retriever, he won't get far because the retriever, perhaps nature's most devoted dog, will have all eyes on his human, in case a stick is thrown his way, or a compliment, or a pat on the head. (Goldens are do-gooders and praisehounds.) The poodle barks at the retriever to forget the stick and play with him. The retriever ignores the poodle, eyeing the stick as if it were God’s gift. Oh right, the poodle, says, and he almost rolls his eyes: the stick.

Dogs want to mix it up, but their interests are not the same. So different, they are unable to find common ground. I have been to parties like that.

I can illustrate this point by going one dog at a time through our neighborhood:

After Cobi and Sonja, Beau's best friend was Britt, a queenly Doberman pinscher several years his senior. We often poked our long nose in her back fence when passing her house, and if she was there, we let ourselves in for a few minutes of play. Britt was exactly what Beau's education lacked -- a strong feminine presence to lay down the law about what was proper and what was not. Some days Beau would hector her, and she would let him know with a cold glance that he was not welcome. Other days she would deign to play with him, and their play was inspired, like the dinosaur battles from old sci-fi movies, with the two of them thrashing, jawing, and pawing the air. I could watch the two of them wrestle for an hour.

Basil, an oversized golden retriever whose master bitterly regrets neutering him – “It took all the dog out of the dog” – is a loner by nature. He just likes to stand like a statue in his lawn, and warn away interlopers. He also likes to slip out of his collar and go for long, slow walks through the neighborhood. When Beau salutes him, Basil smiles fondly, but can’t think of anything they might do together.

Reggie, a fox terrier, is a people dog. He likes to be fondled and held on a lap. When Beau and he get together, they haven’t a clue what to do. Beau gets into a semi-sexual position with Reggie, standing atop him with his genitalia dancing in front of the little dog’s face. The little dog bows down and averts his gaze. It is a stalemate.

Emma, a Dalmatian, hates the thought of other dogs walking by her alley. She seems especially to despise Beau and wants to kill him.. Her owner wears a look of exquisite pain when we walk by – she is ashamed that Emma is such an unmitigated bitch. I eventually learned that dominant females are often the most difficult cases, because they feel territoriality even more fiercely than males -- because it is the nest they must protect.

Barney, an elderly beagle, looks gouty and gray. His owner, Bill, steers him away when we come by. My sense about beagles is that one thing alone causes blips on their radar, and that is rabbits. Beau, as a puppy, is blind to the possibility of wildlife. For a while I considered putting a bumper sticker in our back yard: Start Seeing Squirrels.

There are two Alexes near us. The Berubes have an Alex who is a sheltie, and he and Beau seem unable to connect. Alex only likes his master, Ned Berube. There is no room in his life for an erratic, attention-seeking puppy. Ned, a minister, finds Beau interesting, and always gives him a pat. But I get the sense he is writing sermons, with Beau as the Prodigal Poodle.

The other Alex is a soulful Brittany spaniel, who hints and whines when we stroll by. But he seems more lonely for human company than for Beau. He licks my fingers through the cyclone fence. Alex is a dog whose owners leave him all day, and each day he suffers meekly until they come home.

Two dogs Beau was intrigued by were Harley, a Rottweiler, and his pal Buster, a golden mix, who live upstairs and downstairs from one another in a duplex on Dayton Avenue. Harley's owner is Brent, a dancer, and Brent's dad Pete owns Harley. After the big snows, the two dogs discovered they could tiptoe up a tall drift and stand atop their garage, and bellow at anyone traversing their alley. It is quite a sight, to look up and see two giant dogs hollering at yo u. Beau thought that was very neat, but Buster, himself a puppy, was standoffish with Beau, and even a bit hostile.

Other dogs have even less chance of connecting. Sparky, the Keiths’ mini-dobie, is blind and frail and incontinent. Beau is more interested in her as a chew toy than a companion.

There are two dachshunds a few blocks away that are very clever. They ring bells to be let outside and poop in a litter box. One dog is evidently the pet of the other. But there is no room in this precise living arrangement for a creature of Beau’s sprawling temperament.

We also know a small poodle mix named Binks, but Beau doesn’t like him much. He is the kind of dog who tries to attack you and complain when you fight back, simultaneously. Even his owner doesn’t seem to like him. Only the daughter likes Binks, but she likes him very, very much, which suggests he has virtues only she can measure.

Besides Cobi and Sonja, Noelle’s dogs, I can think of only two dogs in the neighborhood that Beau has struck up any kind of relationship with. The first was a lovely small golden named Mango, who lives behind the Congregational church. Mango is a male the same age as Beau, and has the same ineffable light in his eyes, that seems to say is was ready for anything. But we have never got the two dogs together. Their friendship exists with a fence between them.

The other dog, whom Beau did not discover for several months yet, is a gorgeous white Samoyed named Sophie, who lives by the park in a corner house. Sophie and another dog, a ferocious-looking but very childlike, older, black Samoyed male,  spend hours every day tied to two giant spruce trees. Sophie and Bear are owned by Walter, who dotes on those two large dogs like a dad, and takes them running in the park across the street every night, off leash. When I met Walter, I felt I had met my twin, dogwise at least.

Beau and Sophie usually play with Sophie chained up, and Beau let loose. They have a marvelous chemistry, Beau pursuing Sophie with a heroic passion. Indeed, she is the quintessential spirit-dog, with an angelic light shining out of her, beaming news of great canine wisdom and joy. When she is with Beau, I see Beau at his very best -- gallant, funny, and fair-minded. He loves her.

Beau is so taken with Sophie that, if she is not home, he will find the spot in the yard and sit where she usually sits, and sprout a huge pink boner. And his smile is a true smile.

Beau loves all these dogs. But Sophie (and Cobi and Sonja) are the only dogs he gets to play with. The others are either barred from him by fences and gates, or their masters shoo him away, or the dogs can't figure out what to do with one another.

For a dog who lives to socialize, this is a frustrating formula.