Three dog days: living my best life.
Those of a certain age will remember the music group, Three Dog Night (‘One is the Loneliest Number’). Curious about their name, I learned that it referred to how cold a night it was. Three dogs was mighty cold.
My modified version has a different meaning. I’ve found that my best days are Three Dog days.
I am no longer a dog owner. Instead I am a dedicated Dog Patter. My daily walk is always purposeful: I am on the lookout for dogs to pat. The arm holding a leash has a particular angle, a tension. (Although, in my dog stalking fervor, admittedly I have mistaken dog shaped things – a suitcase on wheels; a small child, a stuffed-full green garbage bag)
My patter is always the same: and always starts with getting permission.
Here’s how it goes: ‘May I pat your dog?’ assuming yes (90% of the time) ‘Hiya pooch. You are the best looking (black, brown, white) dog I’ve seen today. Very happy to meet you.’ Then, depending on if dog gets up close and personal, ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me about yourself?’ (almost always gets a laugh).
Should the dog be a crotch-sniffer, I assure the person at the end of the leash ‘I think that’s part of the job description.’ If gentle, a jumping dog warrants from me ‘oh a big hug!’ Inevitably, I am asked, more a statement made: You must have a dog. I take great joy in my response (the same every time, and almost every time elicits laughter or at the very least, a knowing nod) ‘No, I don’t have a dog anymore. I have freedom.’
there’s the occasional dog, tied to a post, waiting for their ‘someone’, that get a much more cautious approach: when they give me a sign, I give them a pat. I have erred on the side of safety to the point of offending a dog I knew well. People that walk with me – however short or long the walk, whatever the destination – must put up with me. This does not stop some people from cautioning every single attempt. That I put up with this is a compromise that still results in a personal triumph.
I have had dogs: growing up, there was Suki and then Suki the Second. Suki (the first) looked out for me in my infant years. The story is that I wandered across the street (these were different times) and into someone’s back yard and then found myself lost. Suki to the rescue.
Suki the Second came with me on my adventures with neighbourhood kids but when she was winding down, I was discovering boys and dogs took a second place.
Fast forward, married with two young kids and two low(ish) maintenance
Cats. Busy tho that was, a dog-need caught me by surprise. I lobbied to no avail. And then the universe heard my cry: at the corner of the busy intersection near our house, a mid size black dog, dusty and without a collar, was hanging with a fella whom I already knew from his two hefty boxer type doggies. “New pooch?” “Nope: this is a stray – doggie’s been sniffing at baby carriages when they go by. I’m going to take the dog to the humane society.” I seized the opportunity. Lured the gangly-legged dog home, and into my car for kindergarten pick up. Dog came in with me because I knew the K teacher also loved and longed for a dog. She was indeed charmed.
Bringing kid and dog home to hub was a different but predictable story: No way. Nope we’re not having a dog. I sighed and promised I’d deal with it tomorrow. I did various things over the next couple of days: called vets, put up signs. By day 3, what I hoped would happen, happened. Dog won hub over. Then there was the question of a name. I had understood, from previous hypothetical conversations, that the name of choice would be ‘Woof’. But when I put this forward, it was met with derision: “I’m not going to be calling Woof when I want the dog to come” What name would you like? Anything but Woof. Something like Rufus.
Rufus! The dog had a name. That Rufus turned out to be a girl was in keeping with the journey to Dog. With some adolescent rebelliousness, Rufus evolved into a great dog. Hub – a smoker at the time – would do dog-walk-smoke twice a day. When hub and I went out together, neighbours I didn’t know would shout out: “Where’s the dog?” This also happened when I walked the dog, except they’d ask “Where’s the guy that usually walks the dog?” I explained the smoke-dog-walk thing to one women who said her hub used to do that, too, but then quit smoking. I asked for any tips to help my hub do the same: “Get rid of the dog.”
Another time, when I was doing the walking, a young fella, 9 or 10 year old Mathew asked me “Where’s the old guy that walks the dog?” I dined on that ‘old guy’ description until, crouching down to eye level with dog and Mathew, Rufus gave me a kiss. Matthew made a face “I guess old people don’t mind dogs kissing them.”
Rufus died one winter day, collapsing on a walk. It was sad and we mourned her and decided a break from dogging was in order. That worked until the kids left the nest and there were two fewer people to demand hugs from. And so my dog stalking days began.
I’ve loved her from the moment I met her, and Josie can be counted on to greet me with unbridled enthusiasm. Molly and I have an exceptional relationship, even tho we’re often separated by the bars of a fence. Malina I met when she’d just arrived from Greece. The language barrier made her reticent, but I thot she was absolutely worth me being patient. Now, she greets me with cautious pleasure, although a bit over protective of Dad when she’s with him.
This is not restricted to my Toronto walks. Everywhere I go, I’m Stalking.
I have met the greatest dogs all over North America, Costa Rica, Italy and Switzerland.
The thing about meeting dogs is the Owner Factor. I have to pay the dog owners a bit of attention. This has resulted in many an interesting conversation and revelations: In California, two Dobermans (dobermen?) sat like sphynxes beside a fabulously muscled man. “I have five of them. Their master was murdered. I took ‘em all.” In Maui, dogs Bonnie and Clyde, in the back of a pick-up truck, led to a friendship that’s lasted over miles and over years.
My neighbours with dogs know I will barely acknowledge them, going directly for their dog. Casey and Nate and Evie and Hero and Murphy and Luna. For a while there was also Aspen and Yoda, but they’re now in doggie heaven. Not all owners are as enthusiastic about me as I am about them: I am certain Millie’s owners, when the see me, change their route.
I decided, with my daughter’s encouragement, to take pictures – selfies – and post them on instagram. Oh what fun that is: I’ve met Chicklet and several Lunas of varying sizes. There’s Maverick and Goose (Top Gun doggies) : Agnes the Pooch (name for an Auntie Mame character, Agnes Gooch) There’s Doobie and April and Larry. I met Edit and her sister Render – parents are video producer. Alas, I have found that not all dogs want a selfie and make very clear: “No pictures please.” Nonetheless I persist. The result: often laughable.
And people react. When I saw Josie – who pees with happiness when she sees me – I remembered I needed her in a selfie. Josie’s mom wanted to see my insta and loved it. Getting fish for dinner, I wore my shirt that has dogs replacing the Beatles on their famous walk across a London street. “I like your shirt” said fish-man. I told him of my IG @kathy_kastner. He asked me to call it up: “I love this. I’ll follow you if you follow my fish IG.”
We each have our obsessions. Goood doggies.
