Having
not checked the local website for dog law changes in quite some time, and never
able to understand the Rules Board in the parking lot due to an overzealous use
of abbreviations, Murphy and I hide out just inside the dune on the path that crosses
from the public thoroughfare to the water.
Here we won’t be seen from a distance by any of the beach police. I feel like an unwelcome immigrant sitting on
the border about to make a dash to a new life of running from the law.
This
would be a very good time for Murphy to behave, rather than start barking at
passers by and bringing us the attention of the boys and girls who help make
our beach safe for beer drinking.
Usually,
Murphy can be a very comfortable dog to have around. That’s more true when she’s having a good day
and behaving herself. Sometimes a
streak of willfulness will blaze through her veins and she will literally start
trouble. If she had a little brother,
she would get up and go over to him and slap him on the back of the head, just
to start a fight. With no little brother
around, she comes to me or my wife and for no reason nips a toe or a hand with
a bite not meant to injure but to inform us of her frustration. Either way, I take exception to it and the
chase is on.
She
comes running through the doorway to the living room with an ardent anticipation,
tongue streaming out the side of her mouth.
She has careened through three rooms to get here. To slow down now just because she’s reached
her destination would seem pointless, so still barking she circles the living
room before putting on the brakes. She
sits back on her haunches, looks to the left, then right to check for any
changes since she was here ten minutes ago.
Has any furniture been moved, has any dog toy disappeared from exactly
where she left it on the floor … always in the middle of a human walkway? She is looking for changes made by people or
animals and she is continually searching for new friends. Murphy is ... shall we say ... overly
social. She wants to lick every person
coming through the front door. If the
entire population of the world assembled in my front yard, she would be ready
for them.
It’s
simply not fair that a dog should always be that open and loving and happy while
I occasionally sit in my human stew gnashing my teeth over some slight only a human
would recognize. So I decide to be mean
and annoy her before she begins to pick on me.
I get her attention and stare deep into her eyes. She notes my behavior while lying on the floor gnawing a rawhide bone, but goes on with what she’s doing. I keep my stare on her and soon a look of suspicion works it’s way across her face. I can almost hear her whine, “Wha-at? I’m not doing anything wrong.” Her jaws continue to firmly grasp the bone, holding it down on the floor. But now she swings her butt around 30 degrees so she can arch her eyebrows, peek up and keep an eye on my face while she wonders what I’m planning. I continue to stare at her until something behind her eyes seems to open up and I imagine I’m reading her mind. I know it’s my imagination, but I’ve come to understand that a lot of one’s relationship with a dog is indeed imagination.
I
wonder what she really thinks about.
Perhaps she’s still miffed when she remembers my writing the "Expected
Behavior of A Currently Breathing One
Year Old Dog," a checklist for
behavior modification of puppies with implied severe consequences. Murphy didn’t even take the time to read
it. Hell, my wife wouldn’t read it.
But
Murphy knows there are limits and has to admit that where the call of
nature is taken is important, as is trying to restrain herself from jumping all
over anyone who comes to the door, from the UPS man to that scaredy-cat guy who
mows the lawn.
But
that's the discipline side of what some might expect from a one year old
dog. Certainly all of her cuddling and
attention should count on the positive side of the ledger. And what about all the entertainment she
provides as she runs through the house?
Who could possibly not appreciate Murphy’s presence?
“Sir?
Your dog is not allowed on the beach after seven a.m.”
“I
wondered about that, Officer. I didn’t
bring my watch.
“It’s
seven-ten, sir. You need to take the dog
home.”
“I
will, I will. But can’t we have another
ten minutes? You can see she’s really
enjoying herself, Officer.”
“C’mon,
Mister. I’m just doing my job.”
Officer
Ryder works for a subcontractor. He
enforces the rules among lunkheads such as me when he’s not cleaning the
toilets or touching up the paint on the
hand rails leading over the dunes. I’m
sure he was uniformed by a local costume store and is the only toilet cleaner
in the state to wear epaulettes and a tin badge. I don’t want to add to his frustrations in
life.
Murphy
and I will hang out at home for the rest of
the day. I’ll probably work on a
writing project and she’ll work on her bone.
From
time to time she’ll give up a spot on the floor she favors ... we have no idea
why ... and come over to me and lay down, draping herself over my foot. As she works on her chunk of rawhide, the sound
and vibrations of bone gnawing and crunching will travel down her chest and
through to my foot. We’re communicating
again, but not like earlier when I stared into her eyes and imagined a
conversation of my making. This time Murphy has taken charge and I’m not
totally sure of what she’s saying. I
suppose it may have something to do with her very strong jaws and her position
of authority on top of my foot. This is a
dog who has something to say.
Copyright 2015, David Griffin
The Windswept Press
Murrells Inlet,
South Carolina
