THE ES-SCENTS OF DOGS

By Peggy McManus

I love dogs. I just don’t love owning dogs. For me, dogs are like grandchildren. It’s great when they pop by for a visit, but once they get tired and cranky, it’s time for them to leave. 

The truth is, just like kids, dogs are gross. At least that’s true of the dogs I’ve known. I once had an adorable Cockapoo named Tank. He was a nice dog; good with kids, not a barker, and he even protected my beloved cat, Fuzz. But Tank had a fatal flaw, and it wasn’t that he used my backyard as a toilet, which was plenty gross enough. What I couldn’t tolerate was that he smelled like canned peas. 

It turned out Tank was allergic to the outdoors. Yes, ALL things outdoors, and this somehow caused the awful canned peas smell. The vet said to try keeping him indoors, but how can you keep a dog indoors? Especially one that is used to running around outside? It seemed too cruel a fate, so I endured the canned peas smell for the 14 years he lived.

The dogs we had when I was growing up were selected by Dad, and for some reason, he loved a good weiner dog. We got our first one when I was six years old. Her name was Ladybug, which we usually shortened to Lady. She was fairly old when Dad rescued her, and we didn’t want to confuse her by changing her name, even though, on her first trip to the vet, we found out Lady was a male. 

Dad often referred to Ladybug as his “dog son", which I deeply resented. As the third-born daughter, I harbored a suspicion that Dad would have preferred I’d been born a boy; thus, I was offended that he’d call our lowly dog, Lady, his son.

“My dog son and I went out fishing the other day,” Dad would say. “He’s pretty good company as far as dog sons go.”

Rude…

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized Dad was saying dachshund, not dog son.

Dad with two of his favorite things: his pipe and his "dog son".

Back then, we lived in a trailer court called Picnic Pines, which bordered Silver Lake Resort in Eastern Washington. Unfortunately, the year we moved in, the Department of Fish & Wildlife decided to kill off the overpopulation of carp in the lake. That meant no swimming for the entire season. Now that I think about it, that’s probably the only reason we could afford to live there. But losing beach access wasn’t so bad. I mean, you don’t miss what you never had, right? The worst part of the mass carp killing was that Ladybug loved rolling around on the rotting carp that washed ashore and gnawing on their bloated bodies. To make matters worse, each night he would drag a particularly smelly carp home and leave it on our doormat.

To say Ladybug stank was a huge understatement. His fishiness permeated our single-wide trailer. I tried to stay clear of him, but eventually he’d notice me and sneak up to lay a big, sloppy dog kiss on my face. The screams, tears, and gagging I emitted as I rushed to the bathroom to wash my face were a huge source of amusement for him. Lady would bark gleefully and grin at Dad, who would fiendishly grin back at him.

In 1968, my family moved to a small farm in Spokane Valley, where we got a cockapoo puppy named Fergus. He was a great dog, mostly because he usually didn’t smell too bad. One day, Fergus decided he liked our neighbors more than us. After all, they had two young boys who were captivated by him and played with him for hours each day. I have to admit that I could not compete with that. Each evening, Fergus would come home with his head hanging low. He didn’t want to leave his boys. In the morning, Mom would let him out again, and he would happily race, tongue hanging, back to them. 

Eventually, the boys’ father came by to discuss the embarrassing situation with my parents. Dad agreed that the boys were a better fit for Fergus and that they should become his official family. 

After that, Fergus took up residence with our neighbors, and he never came back to our house, even for a short visit. I’d see him occasionally, off in the distance, playing with his boys. It was humiliating to be rejected by your own dog, but I couldn’t deny that Fergus was happier playing fetch with the boys than playing Barbies with me. Wouldn’t you know that our least gross dog would disown us? I wonder if he thought we were too gross for him?

It was Fergus who finally drove home the point that I am a better dog admirer than dog owner. Dogs need people who don’t care about mouth breathing, hot, sloppy kisses, potty pick-ups, and all the other gross dog smells. I sometimes wish I were one of those people. But I am not. Fergus taught me that. 

Well, I guess I should head on home. I have a cat box to clean.