Pitching My Tent by Anita Diamant

Author:Anita Diamant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

Dogs and Katz

MY BEAGLE LIVED through fifteen eventful years, accompanying me through college, graduate school, a divorce, remarriage, many jobs, and the indignity of being out-cuted in his own house by a baby.

When Bartholomew died, I lost the guarantee that someone in my house would always be in a good mood. My human family is lovely, but in his absence, I was almost never greeted at the door with a wild outpouring of ardor, gratitude, and unconditional love. Life without him meant that no one was simply dying to lick my toes.

I was dogless, which meant that I went for walks only when the spirit moved me. My check register showed no entries for the veterinarian. I was free to go away on weekends without worrying about what to do with the pooch. There was no bowl of water dripping onto the kitchen floor. My house smelled dogless.

It was too sad.

Canines correct the existential imbalances of human beings, such as our insatiable need for affection and the constant gratification of our primary sense—which is touch. Dogs never walk away from petting, patting, scratching, or stroking. And even when you are momentarily sated, a dog will put his head in your lap and look up (eyes wet with adoration) for more. No matter how loving your mate, no matter how huggy-kissy your kid, doglessness spells tactile deprivation.

Dogs are not subtle. They shiver and drool at your touch. They have no secrets and no false pride as they wait for you to get down on the floor and play, like a mammal, at last.

After my beloved beagle died, I did experience moments of guilty relief, especially on frigid mornings and rainy nights when no one needed walking. But I never once considered parting with his wicker bed or his food and water bowls. They awaited a successor. I don’t like being dogless. The day I found myself cruising the pet-food aisle at the supermarket, I knew it was time to fill the bowlegged gap left by my late hound.

Enter Pom, the poodle.

“A poodle?” they gasped, or sniffed with an air of superior amusement. “You got a poodle?”

Never mind that he was housebroken within hours, or that his vocabulary is bigger than the average hockey fan’s, or that he is as gentle as a lamb. Tell people you’ve got a poodle, and they tend to react as though you’ve announced that you breakfast on champagne and bonbons.

Naturally, I get defensive. I rush to explain that ours is a midsize “miniature,” not a tiny, yappy “toy,” a distinction that is as dishonest as it is disloyal since I have no firsthand experience with high-strung toy poodles. Nor does my quibble convince anyone that I have not somehow sullied my credentials as a regular person.

I can’t tell you exactly why I set my heart on a poodle. Poodles (curly-haired, intellectual, leggy) are as different from beagles (flat-coated, stubborn, squat) as canaries and ostriches. Perhaps picking his polar opposite was an unconscious way of paying tribute to the fact that there was no replacement for my First True Dog.

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