D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e  March 2006

A Dog's Life

Dogs, like pickups and teenagers, are getting soft.

The only things that seem to get better with time are broken hearts and certain varieties of wine. The same can certainly not be said of pickup trucks, teenagers or dogs, which only get softer and more disappointing with each generation. It is my belief that every inch of a pickup should be constructed of heavy-gauge steel held together with exposed rivets; that teenagers should wear clothes that fit and stop calling everyone "dude"; and that dogs should be treated more like business associates and less like children.

Growing up, we all had dogs, and they were all big, dumb slobbering mutts with no more than four active neurons firing at any one time. They pretty much lived outdoors, unless it got really cold, in which case you'd let them into the garage, an arrangement that left the dogs feeling awkward and uncomfortably conspicuous. Dogs went with you everywhere except church, and even then only because your mom thought the Lord wouldn't appreciate the smell. The dogs knew that the sound of car keys meant it was time to jump into the truck, where they stayed unless they were called or the tailgate was put down. Dogs were companions, but not in the "my-precious-little-puff-ball" way— more in a "hand-me-that-wrench" kind of way.

For example, a scraggly mutt of questionable heritage drifted onto my brother-in-law's farm years ago and, apparently having an opening in his busy canine schedule, started hanging around. After a few days, he acquiesced to being petted in exchange for some sandwich scraps, and a bond was forged. My nephew, a fine lad of three at the time, gave the pooch the unfortunate name of Taco Head, for no reason other than the dog had a head and the boy liked tacos. However, Taco Head overcame the social stigma of his sobriquet to assume the responsibilities of a fine farm cur, such as pursuing rabbits and barking at strangers. For his efforts, Taco Head learned to collect food scraps at every meal and sleep in the shade. After a few years, Taco Head drifted away to some other farm, and I'd like to think he's still moving westward toward California like the ghost of Tom Joad.

Later, another dog appeared on the farm, albeit under somewhat different circumstances. This unfortunate mutt, looking like the product of an unholy union involving a spaniel, something like a Labrador and a starched badger, was a gift to my brother-in-law from a neighbor. It seems the neighbor didn't have much use for another dog, especially one that had only three legs. Never one to conform to convention, a three-legged dog seemed like a splendid idea to my brother-in-law, who paid homage to Taco Head by naming the tripod pooch Melon Head. Obviously, Melon Head was something of a charity case, as he wasn't that good at catching rabbits, but he was a boon companion and amazed the farmhands with his tenacity and determination. Alas, poor Melon Head miscalculated the dangers of nipping at the tires of a rolling tractor one day, and reunited with his leg in the afterlife.

Now, there is yet another abandoned dog on the farm, and he looks like he could hold his own at the Westminster Dog Show, if all the judges were suddenly stricken with a blinding palsy at the exact same moment. Affectionately called Stucco Head (at this point, I no longer ask questions), this pooch seems to be hanging around only for the next scrap of fat or ear scratching. He has no interest in the rabbits, hides from coyotes, and can be seen hanging only around at dinner time. No one is sure how Stucco Head spends his time, only that he seems content to live his days out perfecting the art of doggie welfare.

When you consider each of the Heads in succession, I think you will agree that there is a sad yet unmistakable pattern of worthlessness in these hounds. Taco Head worked for his tack, Melon Head's handicap limited his contributions, while Stucco Head appears to be waiting on finding the winning lottery ticket. Now, each of these stray mutts had been dealt a raw deal, missing out on the joys of suburban dog-living with overflowing buckets of canned dog food and Frisbee-tossing children. Even Stucco Head is a dog's dog when compared to an over-groomed, yappy little Bichon Frise motoring around in a Landau-roofed Buick in Panama Beach City, yet he isn't exactly the kind of dog that Jack London wrote about.

Dogs like Lassie and Benji. Rin-Tin-Tin and Old Yeller. Balto of the Yukon and Clifford the Big Red Dog. The kind of pooch we read about in the news that hauls gaggles of sleeping orphans out of burning buildings. Dogs like my Uncle Bill's Blue Heeler that used to help him herd the cows into the milking shed twice a day despite being kicked in the head on occasion by annoyed bovines. Every day for over 10 years, this Heeler went out to herd the cows. One day, while riding to town in the back of Uncle Bill's truck, the Heeler got overly excited by a passing bug or something and dived over the side of the bed, which would have been fine if the truck wasn't doing 45 miles per hour. Uncle Bill quickly skidded to a stop and went back to find the dog, which he found lying beside the road. Not willing to give up on his best herding dog, he picked up the Heeler, which wasn't breathing, and lowered the pickup's tailgate. In a moment of Ozark hillbilly clarity, Uncle Bill administered a few whacks to the dog's carcass on the tailgate, and the dog started drawing breath again. Uncle Bill said the dog was never quite right in the head after this experience, but I think the Heeler just wasn't ready to quit Uncle Bill yet. Now that was a dog by any measure, and Stucco Head and the anonymous Bichon Frise would do well to take notes.

A good bloodhound could find Henry Lightcap in Las Cruces.

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