Layla at Eight
Couch Dog—photo by William E. Evans © 2019
I can always write about dogs—at the mere drop of a hat. Does anyone drop hats anymore? Did they ever, and that’s why the expression came about? The drop of a flag means the race has started, or ended, I forget. That’s right; that’s why they call it the starter’s pistol. Sharp as a pistol, or crack of the whip, eh? Do whips get cracks in them often?
Sean Kernan wrote a piece on the dog in Tokyo who always waited at the train station for his human to come home—for years after the man had died. The True Story of a Dog’s Love That Transcended Death The dog’s story became a Japanese fable. Multiple sculptures have been erected across Japan honoring the dog, including the bronze at the train station. Even has his own Wikipedia page: Hachikō.
The rap against dogs is they are simple creatures—not like we superior beings. My feeling is they just know themselves better than most humans, so they come across in their no-questions-asked, no diffidence about it style. Even if the smarter ones don’t love indiscriminately from what I’ve seen. Molly the rottweiler was a skeptic to be sure.
On first meeting, our dog behaviorist, Pam, said Molly’s drive to connect with us was what made her redeemable—which was more than the vet we took her to would admit. That first trip to the vet saved her life, so she was always cheerful about the visits—and that Al the vet tech loved her.
Let into the same room, she accepted the two older huskies without a fight—and with some reluctance admitted I came with the house. Mojo, our male husky, loved her from their first careful butt sniffs and a few facial swipes of his tongue. Maddie was showing less love—she wanted it understood who was still top dog.
It wasn’t until close to the end, when we were pilling her and bagging her with fluids to keep her alive week to week, that she finally admitted I meant her no harm. For the brief years she was part of the pack, she worked hard at being the best dog she could be.
Rottweilers were bred to be part of the family; always loyal in a way that huskies weren't. Huskies were left to be self-sustaining, roaming for game—or at least that’s how they behave. By contrast, Molly assumed the role of D’s personal bodyguard, which she took seriously. If you ever want a home security system, get a rottweiler.
Watching television in bed with a smiling ninety pound upside down rottweiler staring happily at me, floppy jowls and all, still sticks in my mind.
Molly (named for an Irish rabble-rouser, I decided) was selective in the humans she trusted—excepting D, who she’d follow from room to room from the first day. Her early years being abused as a puppy mill had taught her a hard lesson. The raging uterine infection had been left untreated by the monsters who were breeding her until she broke free of the garden chain, escaping down the hill, and falling into the freezing lake for D to rescue.
I’m always cheering for the outcasts and orphans, and Molly was surely one. The infection destroyed her kidneys in the end. It broke D’s heart—and mine—she died with her head in my lap.
All but a couple of Michael Vick’s rescued pit bulls recovered sufficiently to be placed in homes. The two that didn’t, they lived out their days on a reserve out west for rescued dogs. Molly would understand.
Molly on Deck— photo by William E. Evans ©2011
Layla turned eight this summer. She sleeps a bit longer these days, and when it’s as hot as it was this last July, she’d only go so far on a walk before turning around and sitting down. “She votes with her feet.” She also doesn’t want to run on rocky trails anymore. She’s pretty clear about her preferences and expects we’ll respect her wishes.
But Layla’s favorite vice—other than hating on felines—is hanging out in public places to meet new people. She could be the Ambassador of Dogs to the land of humans. Huskies aren’t known for yellow lab gregariousness, but she’s the exception. We began taking her to outdoor restaurants during the Covid shutdown, and she now feels entitled to go with us everywhere. So she can attend to her official outreach duties, to be sure.
She gets a lot of ogles when we’re out—from kids and older ladies in particular. The kids comment on her wolfish features first, and the ladies like her blue eyes. That’s a particular problem with huskies—their striking features attract people who don’t know who they’re taking on, then they abandon them. Huskies are not lap dogs; they’re high energy working dogs. Even when they slow down, they don’t stop until they can’t go anymore.
Our first, Butz, did his last eight mile run less than a week before he died, but then Butz was an athlete.
Layla understands it’s her duty to go into over-the-top vocalizations when someone she hasn’t seen in a while comes over to the house. And leaping to reach a face, no matter how startled they might be, is just proper form for her. When D returned recently from a five-day trip out West, it was late evening and Layla had already settled in, so her greeting was initially tepid, though soon enough she was howling and squirming for joy.
Kernan makes the point that for a dog it’s not about dinner and treats. His article starts:
“Some people don’t get my love of dogs. They see them as dirty furballs, as a nuisance. They don’t understand why I’d ever let them on my couch. Meanwhile, I don’t understand how someone could buy a dog and never let them in their house. Why even get the dog?”
from The True Story of a Dog’s Love That Transcended Death by Sean Kernan
I knew a woman who’s live-in boyfriend had an older husky who was about as sweet tempered as you could want, but the dog spent his life in the basement. He was not allowed upstairs. Ever. I felt for him; all he wanted was to hang with the family, so I can confirm Kernan’s comment. She settled it by dumping the live-in boyfriend AND dog. Though, when a follow-up boyfriend arrived with a young German shepherd, it was déjà vu all over again, as Joe DiMaggio liked saying.
Dogs presume there’s a binding contract between canine and human, and when it’s broken, it’s rarely the dog’s fault. People who decide they can’t afford to keep their pets betray them, whether or not they admit it to themselves. When they leave them behind in a natural disaster to fend for themselves, they betray them. The dogs would never do that.
Yes, a certain degree of disruption is involved living with a dog—same as with cats, except no litter box changes are required, and you get to take your beast with you to restaurants provided they behave themselves and charm the wait staff. Layla works the wait staff like a pro.
I’m no more happy than D when we’ve had to clean up after our dogs. We would have wall-to-wall fur-lined hardwood if we didn’t use the vacuum cleaner regularly. The books say huskies only shed twice a year, once before winter sets and once in the spring. What they don’t say is each molting takes months, so there’s plenty of dog fur. Come to think of it, I need to dig out the dog brush—winter’s not too far off.
For several years, I saw a man and his German shepherd by the exit ramp coming off I-395 into Shirlington. Returning to the office after a meeting, I’d take the exit and see the two of them next to the traffic signal box, traffic roaring past just feet away.
Days when it was raining and cold, the man would throw a tarp between the bushes and the signal box for a lean-to, and there’d they be. I had the impression the man was ex-military. No chain on the dog; he could have left any time he chose. What he chose was to hang with his mate. The intersection was a favorite for panhandlers, though I never saw the man asking for donations. Sad to know he was homeless, but the man had his dog at least. And vice versa. One day I didn’t see them anymore, and I could only hope that was for the better.
Growing up, D lived with a dog in the family—German shepherd-husky mix—so she might have known better than to adopt a real husky. Her family’s dog was named Butch. Our first rescue dog was already named Butz when we got him, so we were always getting the names mixed up. Butz was the neighbor’s dog behind D’s parents’ house who eventually became our running companion. His owner said he was going to take him to the dog pound because his wife was afraid the dog would eat one of her babies. Really. Butz might have gone for a cat, but children he loved. Some people are clueless about animals—they assume dogs are wild animals and unpredictable, when all that’s required is to study their eyes. That first Saturday, we threw a harness on him and took Butz for a three mile run, and he never looked back.
Butz being our first husky, I was convinced all huskies were naturally inclined to run. Until we adopted Layla, who explained ‘no way, Jose’ in very expressive terms. She’d run, though she never passes an interesting tree for sniffing it and don’t expect her to pass another dog without a reaction. Butz never lost focus on his runs, except for that one time we passed a confident feline sitting serenely in a kitty-loaf in the yard. One second Butz was trotting down the sidewalk in front of me and the next he was an inch from her nose when the leash caught him up short. Minus one or two cat lives in a single lunge.
Running downhill one night on the bike trail, Maddie and Mojo took me into a bush after a rabbit. And they never begged forgiveness. Surprised, yes, but not shocked.
So, what’s this need about having canines under foot? D and I had three of them clustered in a narrow kitchen, Molly taking up mid-floor occupancy so we had to step around the girl, ninety pounds of black dog, with Maddie and Mojo waiting expectantly nearby. Expecting miracles? treats? Maybe just love. The pack was together, and isn’t that what it’s all about?
Dogs don’t know any of what we’re babbling on about them, or if they do they’re not saying. The world they smell isn’t the same world we see, but it’s the only one we know, so why not stop when there’s a good spot of information to absorb? No, not that stuff, over here!
Truth, when the ancestors crossing over the Bering Strait arrived in North America, they relied on their new wolf cousins to tell them when the forest they were facing was hiding dangers—or tasty game either way.
We humans don’t rely on their canine senses the way we used to, but the bond goes that far back, and they’re still going about it like they always had. As are we, if we don’t want to admit it. Evolution is what we’re hanging it on, that we are evolving. Here’s to always hoping.
We adopted Layla going on four-years-old, knowing full well we’d not get her for her full life. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard if dogs lived longer, though to be honest, I much prefer that to the opposite case. Don’t know if she’ll be our last dog, but I can see that day coming, too. I don’t want to leave one behind when I shuffle off.
At this time of afternoon, Layla’s reminding me it’s time for her walk—in the usual manner by rolling over with a grunt, feet kicking the air, one, two, three, four, then staring at me and sighing. Who says dogs can’t communicate.