A New Dog -- Nonfiction

Maggie May

Our Basset Hound died last summer and our Dachshund Oscar before her so we were down to one dog for the first time in at least 25 years. One dog, no cats, no birds, no chickens, no snakes. Just one dog – our Gracie Lu, a dapple, smooth coated Dachshund.

And dozens of fish, but fish are such quiet, unassuming pets. They require little attention and disdain any interaction. No cuddling. No adoring gazes.

We meant to get another dog before Bess the Basset left us, but it just didn’t happen. My husband, a veterinarian, now works in administration and no longer does clinical work, so dogs don’t just materialize at our door any more.

There was that young prairie dog that showed up on the front porch, but that’s a different story.

He, my husband that is, has always wanted an Airedale. We had one once. Hard-headedest dog we’ve ever had! Airedales are the largest of the terriers and they do tend to be, shall we say, independent.

On another occasion we had what our daughter-in-law thought might be part Airedale. That dog was in a shelter where she volunteered and was scheduled to be euthanized if he didn’t find a home. So she brought him to us. Hip-high at the shoulder with wiry hair, and no stop. His only Airedale-ness lay in his coloring, if you ignored all the gray. More likely he was part Irish Wolf Hound and no Airedale at all. He was the kindest dog we’ve ever had, except for the occasions when he practiced Dachshund tossing. He just got so excited sometimes.

Anyway, my husband accepted the mission to find a new dog. At first he looked for an Airedale. Then he focused on Dachshunds. Then we visited the local animal shelter. None of the dogs seemed quite right. They had a lovely rabbit, but we have plenty of them running the neighborhood wild, including the one who regularly produces babies under our front porch. (Which has nothing to do with prairie dogs or this story.)

Finally he turned the search over to me. I told my friend, who trains dogs and volunteers at the local shelter. We especially wanted a Dachshund under one-year-old. A smallish dog that I could lift into the car by myself in an emergency.

In the course of our discussions, I told her about my husband’s long-standing yen for an Airedale and my admiration for Blood Hounds. I do like hounds. Red Bones are, in my opinion, the most beautiful dogs ever, but quite uncommon on the Front Range.

She told me about a new arrival at the shelter – probably part Blood Hound, around three years old, spayed, housebroken, 75 pounds. Sounded like just what we’d been looking for.

I called my husband at work to see if he would be agreeable.

“Go see her. I’ve got too much to do here to go with you. Three isn’t too old. See what you think. I trust your judgment,” he said.

So I did. My father and I went before lunch that very day.

At the Foothills Animal Shelter, they put us in a visitation room. It’s a real uptown shelter. And brought this great reddish gold dog in and left her with us. She’s obviously NOT a bloodhound. But, equally obviously, she is part some kind of hound. She has a broad head, big muzzle, lots of lips, and a bit of drool. Think Hooch of Turner and Hooch, the Tom Hanks movie. She’s not that slobbery, besides that dog was a Dogue de Bordeaux, pure bred. Our dog is neither. Not French and not pure bred.

She is beautiful. Her eyes are the same red-gold color as her hair which is short, thick, and luxuriously soft. And she loves people. We brought her home.

The guy at the shelter suggested I walk her and Gracie Lu around the block before I took her in the house – maybe ease that initial meeting. So when we got home my father waited with Maggie (that’s what I wanted to call her) in the van while I went inside and got Gracie Lu for this recommended walk around the block.

Gracie went for her. And I don’t mean in a good way. That great alien beast of a dog was too close to her mama and Gracie would run her off or kill her which ever came first. Dogs have no sense of size. At 20 pounds, Gracie was sure right would make might and she was right.

What a rodeo. I yanked on leashes and yelled and was able to stay between them to prevent either of them getting hurt. My Dad got Gracie back into the house and I was standing in the driveway with a thoroughly confused big dog that I didn’t know at all well.

I called my husband and explained what happened.

“Is anyone bleeding?” he asked.

“Just me,” I said. “Broke the nail back into the quick on my little finger.”

He couldn’t leave work right then. I couldn’t take Maggie into the house with only my father there to help me referee. Daddy is pretty spry for 89 years old, but not strong enough to deal with 75 pound Maggie or adrenalin pumped Gracie Lu. So I called my daughter. We got the dogs inside and began the introduction process.

Thinking of it as an Arab-Israeli style peace would be too strong. Maggie was not interested in fighting. She just didn’t want to be eaten by a Dachshund.

She met my husband at the door, barking and growling. She quickly decided he belonged here and wanted a belly rub.

“She’s not a Bloodhound. She looks like a Pit Bull,” he said.

“They said maybe she’s part Mastiff,” I countered.

“Have they ever seen a Mastiff?” he asked.

The next day Maggie snagged an unopened bag of hotdog buns off the dining table and ate as much of them as she could before I caught her and took them away. She can easily reach the table, standing flat-footed on the floor.

Two days later I made pancakes for breakfast. Gracie was still being testy about Maggie’s very existence. I put the pancakes in a plastic bag and left it open on the top of the stove so they’d cool before I put them in the freezer.

By then the dogs were being allowed in the back yard under supervision. My husband was getting a chance to watch Maggie’s general behavior and the way she ran, all loose jointed.

“She’s definitely some kind of hound,” he declared.

Daddy found both dogs chowing down on the pancakes. Maggie had gotten them off the stove.

Three days later, the dogs were getting along pretty well. Probably bonded over the pancake caper.

On the fourth day we had to leave the dogs unsupervised in the house for one and one-half hours. Fearing for their lives, I put Gracie in her box in our bedroom and left Maggie loose in the rest of the house. What could go wrong? There were no left-overs on the table or stove. It did occur to me that if Maggie knocked the fish tanks over, that would qualify as a disaster. But they’re big and heavy, on sturdy stands, and against the wall.

When we got home, everything on the kitchen counter was strewn across the kitchen floor. An unopened jar of horseradish was under the dishwasher. A jar of cinnamon was under the table and a box of salt was under a chair. She’d apparently decided against exploring Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning. There were muddy smears on the counter and on the papers and cook books on the floor.

Now I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, but my floors aren’t muddy. The next possibility was dog poo. A careful sniff relieved that dread. And stepping around the couch into the living area, I found the source of the “mud.” A previously unopened box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix. A couple of the packets were in gooey shreds and the powder was everywhere.

I called my husband at work. “I guess I’m going to have to improve my housekeeping. All food stuffs will have to be behind closed doors. Or we’re going to have to get a box for her.”

He came home bearing gifts – a big Kong toy and an extra big box.

“I know what kind of dog she is,” he announced. “You’ve brought us a Bumpus Hound.”