It has always struck me as odd why, in general, human beings are either dog people or cat people. Is there a correlation to someone's character, or does it happen because someone grew up with one or the other? Not the stuff of grand philosophizing, and so I will stop there and admit that I am a dog person.
I have enjoyed being around some cats, but I would never choose to own one. I appreciate the unconditional love dogs give one no matter what one throws at them; I think it is beneath a cat to show anything like devotion--unless the food dish is being filled. I have heard some cats definitely let an owner know when they are displeased, including, when leaving them behind with a cat sitter for a few days, by throwing up in unlikely places as punishment upon the owner's return. A dog instantly forgives an absence and bounds about in ecstatic joy--even after a period of an hour.
What triggered this quirky topic today was this Gary Larson cartoon, reminding me of my own dog ownership through the years. My family or I have at one time or another owned a german shepherd, three golden retrievers, and Jasper, an Adirondack ridgeback--read "mutt." (In full disclosure here, I have not had a dog for the last 20 years mostly due to both my and Scott's work travel schedules following our beloved 16-year-old Jasper's death.)
This woman in the cartoon could be me--afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night. Here's an example.
When I was married to my first husband, Lou, a USAF pilot, we welcomed a golden retriever pup into our small California townhouse, who Lou named Ayse (pronounced Eye-shay) after his favorite student from his days as a Peace Corps volunteer in Turkey. One night, when Lou was TDY in Thailand for two months, I was awakened by a crash underneath me in the kitchen, where Ayse had her dog bed, and Ayse barking furiously. Did I mention I was afraid of the dark? I froze and grabbed--I kid you not--the softball bat I kept by my bedside. Creeping down the stairs, the barking having stopped, I went into the kitchen only to find Ayse looking sheepishly at an overturned chair. She must have knocked it over in her sleep and frightened herself. Scared the crap out of me, I can tell you.
But my favorite Ayse story was on one night when Lou was home, which meant I shouldn't have been scared. He was fast asleep upstairs early, around 9 p.m., with a crack of dawn flight scheduled. I was happily watching TV, when suddenly Ayse's hackles went up and a menacing low growl began as she sidled towards the front door. Anyone who has owned a golden knows they are bone lazy about bothering to bark or play guard dog! So I had reason to take notice.
We lived in a new development of townhomes, only half built at that point, and with many of the homes still unsold, it was very quiet in the neighborhood. Ayse's growling unnerved me. I turned off the TV, tiptoed to the door and listened. Silence. Ayse's growling increased but her tail wasn't wagging, so I knew she was scared too! "Some guard dog you are," I told her, now a bit spooked. "Stop it!" But as she wouldn't stop, there was nothing more I could do but creep up the stairs that were right beside the door and wake Lou. (No, I was not about to open the door. Sorry.)
Now Lou, who was not long out of Vietnam, had been trained to sit straight up in bed when suddenly awakened and perhaps in danger. He didn't disappoint. "What's the matter?" he barked, eyes starting from his head and fists clenched. Maybe he saw my worried face or realized the Viet Cong were not after him, but he humored me and got out of bed. "Ayse heard something outside the door and she won't stop growling and her tail's between her legs. I didn't dare open the door," I whispered. The fact that Ayse hadn't followed me upstairs and was still heard gnarling below was a sign for Lou to take me seriously, throw on his robe and get out his service gun. When we got downstairs, I took hold of Ayse's collar and pulled her away.
Lou cracked the door, gun at the ready. There was nobody there. What there was was a brown paper bag, perfectly placed in the middle of the doormat. Checking to make sure there was no one skulking across the road in the construction, Lou bent down and trained the gun on the bag. "Perhaps the IRA knew I was a Brit and found me," I suggested (it was the era of many bombs left at stations and pubs in London by the terrorist group). Both holding our collective breath, Lou held the crumpled bag at arm's length and shook it. When nothing happened, he finally opened it and peered inside, his gun still at the ready. And then he chuckled, and then he laughed, and then he roared. (That was a nice thing about Lou, he had a great sense of humor!) "It's a sandwich! Nothing but a half-eaten sandwich, probably discarded by a construction worker."
We shut the door, disposed of the bag and contents and pondered why someone would walk into our front yard, which even had a low wall around it, and leave a half-eaten sandwich on our doorstep at night. All we could surmise was that another dog had found it and taken it across the street to our lighted doorway, where it was scared away by Ayse's warning snarls. Instead of barking at a human, which she would do in a pinch, Ayse must have known it was a fellow creature and merely menaced it to move along with growls.
The best part of this story is its ending. As Lou climbed the stairs to get back into bed, he commanded in all seriousness: "Don't you ever tell anyone at the squadron that I pulled a gun on a sandwich!" I thought I would wet my knickers stifling my laughter.
Perhaps one day soon, when we feel more settled and my travel bucket list is filled, we will rescue another dog, but finding one to match the personality and intelligence of Jasper will be hard. Arf!
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