Free Dog and I by Roy Macgregor Page B

“Great dogs,” said the vet. “Great, great dogs.”
    But the best dog, for his money, might be the one dog that has the least to do with money: the mutt.
    The mutt was once the only fashion—roughly separated into one group for work, one for hunting, one for hanging around—and it was only when the middle class began springing up and looking for anything that might translate into a little more social status that the poor mutt began having trouble finding its place. Having the “right” dog was just one more trapping.
    And if you think it’s tough being a mutt in today’s world, just think about what it was like back in Britain when the push for proper “breeds” began. There was even, at one point, an anti-mutt movement during the late Victorian era of the 1890s, with one famous commentator on animal care telling Brits, “No one would plant weeds in a flower garden, so why have mongrels as pets?”
    Well, I must confess here to having had an incredible string of them. And proud of it. The current one, Bandit, is going on fourteen, is stiff and deaf, but has never suffered from hip dysplasia and other assorted genetic conditions that seem to afflict so many expensive breeds. She is also excellent with children and alarming to burglars. Same for the previous mutt, who cost nothing and lived sixteen years. And the one before that, who also happily lived to a ripe old age. “Your next dog,” says one daughter, speaking like a car salesman trying to fit us into a minivan, “has to be a Portuguese water dog.”
    No thanks. I not only have no idea what they are, I don’t care. Besides, what would happen if they suddenly go out of fashion like the poor Afghan? It’s mutts for me, as it should be for all people—who are, if you think about it, themselves mutts of a fashion.

Squirrels and Sisyphus

    Bark!
    (Bark!)
    Bark! Bark!
    (Bark! Bark!)
    Bark! Bark! Bark!
    (Bark! Bark! Bark!)
    â€œIt’s your echo, idiot!”
    She pays no heed. Bark! Bark! (Bark! Bark!)
    It happens several times a day. This time it was a woodpecker that set her off. A while back, a squirrel. Last night, a barred owl. She barks, another dog instantly answers. It does not seem to occur to her that each bark is identical to the other, that they are bouncing back from across the bay. Even if I shout—“Shut up!” (“Shut up!”) —it doesn’t seem to register with her that there is absolutely nothing across the water, just a high hill and an echo.
    Willow and I have come here to this isolated northern lake to try to undo all that has taken place over the past few months as this poor mutt suffers through the petification of North American society.
    Having taken total control of their children’s lives, having sucked childhood dry of happenstance and idle time, those whose children have moved on and those whose children have yet to come have turned their astounding micromanaging skills on their dogs. When the pet stores are larger than Wal-Mart, you have a problem. When they serve the puppy first at the Tim Hortons window, you have a problem.
    This dog has more toys than any of the four children who previously passed through these doors. She has one diploma and is currently working on a second, which at the current rate will shortly give her more formal education than her master. Master —now there’s a word that has lost all meaning….
    No matter, with dog classes done for the week and no appearance of homework—I mean, how many times can you be told to sit and wait for a green street light you never noticed in the first place?—I decided to take the mutt and head up to the lake and let her learn for herself some of life’s great lessons. Like, no matter how quick you are, no matter how high you lunge, you will never, ever, catch a squirrel. And don’t poke that wet nose too close to the fireplace.
    The learning curve here