Many people believe the Devil resides in Hell, but I’m convinced he lives in Toronto at the corner of Roehampton and Rawlinson. He lurks behind a neatly trimmed row of hedges, protecting his property from all who come near it. Step too close to the perimeter and you can hear his growl from deep within the foliage. The dark cloud that swirls over his yard is so foreboding that I’ve taken to the sidewalk across the street, lest he lunges in my direction and takes a bite out of my ankle.
I’ve never been afraid of dogs, despite a nasty incident I had with a Cocker Spaniel when I was little. I don’t remember acquiring the scar on my left hand, but every time I notice it I remember that I don’t remember how it got there. I was told that a Cocker Spaniel mistook my thumb for breakfast, but for all know the scar is the result of being dropped on a pile of broken glass as a baby.
“Blame it on the dog,” I can hear my father saying, as though I were an incomplete homework assignment.
“Good idea, Rick. He never has to know.”
Fortunately my parents are not known to be liars, so I tend to believe their story of canine carnage. Were I a little bit older, perhaps I would have been forever traumatized by man’s best friend, but thankfully I’ve wiped the incident from my memory and my affinity for dogs remains intact.
Boots lived on the front stoop of our house and was the first dog I ever loved. She was a big Irish Setter with matted black fur and white “boots” around her ankles. The life of a farm dog is not unlike that of a homeless person. She could often be spotted howling at nothing in particular and panhandling for food from business men as they hustled toward their vehicles. Then she would seek shelter on an icy slab of concrete and curl up against the warmest part of the house. Presumably the role of a farm dog is to chase rabid wildlife from the premises. With her goofy grin and tail permanently tucked between her legs, Boots was not up to this challenge. Asking her to ward off skunks and weasels was about as effective as hiring Jim J. Bullock to coordinate a drug bust.
Our inside dog at the time was equally as timid. Muffy was a scraggly Terrier mix with long black nails that seemed to grow overnight. While her nails may well have been the envy of Cher impersonators, they were constantly needing clipped. Every step she made across the kitchen linoleum sounded like the clack of a manual typewriter. Given the proper scare, say a thunder clap or root beer induced belch, she would scurry back and forth until the entire house sounded like a Mavis Beacon typing seminar.
It was not uncommon to see Muffy perched upon my dad’s lap as he watched episodes of Law and Order before bed. When Dad would retire for the evening, Muffy would usually take to her hiding place under the sofa. She had ripped a chunk of fabric from the underside of the sofa with her drag queen nails and slept soundly under the flap. She would occasionally sneak out for a piece of kibble or two, but otherwise she kept to where she felt safe. And I felt safe knowing she was there.
Boots managed to survive longer than anyone expected. Then one cold winter morning, she was discovered clinging for dear life to a chunk of ice that had formed on the top of a pool of water in a ditch. She was put down later that day. Muffy was so skittish that I was certain if someone looked at her the wrong way she would drop dead of a heart attack. Still, she lived to be quite old and was always the first thing to greet me whenever I’d come home from university. Then one day the phone rang and when I picked it up, there was silence on the other end of the line. Before Mom said anything, I somehow knew what was coming. Muffy had died in her arms.
With my two childhood dogs gone, I didn’t think it was possible to love another. I was wrong. Mom inherited my sister’s dog, an adorable mix of stupid and sweet named Dino, whose licks made my heart melt like an ice cream cone. Not long before he died, Mom acquired Poochie, a forlorn Shih Tzu with bulging Barbara Bush eyes. Then along came Holly, another “Shih Tzu” (she’s so fat and farty that I’m sure there’s some Pug in her) with a mangy Colonel Sanders beard. Poochie and Holly have taken such a liking to one another that I’m sure many countries would consider them domestic partners. Now when I come home, I’m greeted by two bearded lesbians who dance on their hind legs every time the front door is opened.
Then Jeff came along. My dog. Or more accurately, my owner. Jeff is unlike any dog I’ve ever met. I’m aware all pet owners say that about their companions, but I swear it’s true. He’s a Shiba Inu; a breed that’s as popular in Asia as the Golden Retriever is in North America. It’s easy to see why the Japanese consider the breed royalty. He’s stoic, quiet, and calm. The word Zen comes to mind. He’s also smart. Sometimes too smart. Rather than barking or whining to go outside, he directs my attention to the door with a subtle flick of his head. If that doesn’t work, he gingerly taps me on the knee with his paw and then sits by the door until I inevitably cave in. But I don’t mind. These walks are the highlight of my day.
He also has a foot fetish. It took a long time for him warm up to me, but six months into his residency at my apartment, he curled up at my feet and began licking them. He started on my big toe and then moved down the line as though he were counting piggies. At first it tickled so badly that I could barely stand it, but now I’ve grown so accustomed to his foot baths that instead of making me giggle, they make me smile.
He’s definitely not this warm to everyone. In public, he’s extremely aloof with strangers. Not rude exactly, but when someone leans down to pet him, he looks at them with a sneer that says, What the hell do you think you’re doing? As he patiently waits for this invasion of privacy to be over, he tilts his head in my direction. Who is this moron?
I’m stopped at least once a day by a passerby who exclaims, “He looks just like a fox!”
“Yes,” I politely reply for the umpteenth time. And he really does. He has a thick red coat, bushy tail, and pointy snout.
Now and then someone comes back at me with, “Is it?” I’d roll my eyes at the question, but surely Jeff had already beat me to it.
If you were playing the celebrity lookalike game, Jeff would be Cary Grant. He has the same chiseled jaw line and debonair strut. I constantly have to resist the urge to put a pair of spectacles on his head and make him pose with cardboard cut-outs of Deborah Kerr and Grace Kelly. He’s also a babe magnet. I’ve been beckoned at many a stoplight by pretty girls who first bat their eyelashes at Jeff and then in my direction. You’re barking up the wrong tree, I want to tell them. Hey, maybe that’s where the saying came from.
What I love most about Jeff is his confidence. He’s my constant protector. He inspects every package that comes through the mail slot before declaring it safe to open. On our walks, he’s never afraid to ward off any passing U-Haul truck or skateboard. And if approached by someone that has been drinking alcohol, he lets out a low growl to keep them at bay.
Neither is he afraid of the Devil that lives at the corner of Rawlinson and Roehampton. This particular Devil is disguised as a dog named Hugo. Hugo is ugly, aggressive, and possibly rabid. He’s just the sort of dog Walt Disney would have had put down in one of his movies.
I only know this dog’s name because he’s never on a leash and his owner always seems to be shouting from her front porch. “Huuuuuuuuuuuugo!” she hollers, in a foreign accent that coordinates with her bushy eyebrow. “Come baaaaaaaaaaaack!”
I almost put Hugo down myself the day he jumped out of the bushes and took a bite out of Jeff. He snapped his jaw and shook his head like a maniac, retreating only after he had plucked a sizable chunk of fur from Jeff’s haunches.
“Huuuuuuuuuuuugo! Come baaaaaaaaaaaack!”
I was so angry that I was seconds away from putting them both out of my misery. But then I looked down at Jeff. He was perfectly fine. He simply shook his fur, although it looked more like a shrug, and then rolled his eyes. Moron.
Funny how one can be tied to a dog with a leash, yet feel anything but tied down. Ever since Jeff came into my life, I’ve been more fearless than ever. He gives me a reason to get dressed in the morning and encourages me to see what’s around every single corner. And if something dangerous lurks there, I don’t have to worry. He’ll take care of it. Even if it’s the Devil.
I’ve never been afraid of dogs, despite a nasty incident I had with a Cocker Spaniel when I was little. I don’t remember acquiring the scar on my left hand, but every time I notice it I remember that I don’t remember how it got there. I was told that a Cocker Spaniel mistook my thumb for breakfast, but for all know the scar is the result of being dropped on a pile of broken glass as a baby.
“Blame it on the dog,” I can hear my father saying, as though I were an incomplete homework assignment.
“Good idea, Rick. He never has to know.”
Fortunately my parents are not known to be liars, so I tend to believe their story of canine carnage. Were I a little bit older, perhaps I would have been forever traumatized by man’s best friend, but thankfully I’ve wiped the incident from my memory and my affinity for dogs remains intact.
Boots lived on the front stoop of our house and was the first dog I ever loved. She was a big Irish Setter with matted black fur and white “boots” around her ankles. The life of a farm dog is not unlike that of a homeless person. She could often be spotted howling at nothing in particular and panhandling for food from business men as they hustled toward their vehicles. Then she would seek shelter on an icy slab of concrete and curl up against the warmest part of the house. Presumably the role of a farm dog is to chase rabid wildlife from the premises. With her goofy grin and tail permanently tucked between her legs, Boots was not up to this challenge. Asking her to ward off skunks and weasels was about as effective as hiring Jim J. Bullock to coordinate a drug bust.
Our inside dog at the time was equally as timid. Muffy was a scraggly Terrier mix with long black nails that seemed to grow overnight. While her nails may well have been the envy of Cher impersonators, they were constantly needing clipped. Every step she made across the kitchen linoleum sounded like the clack of a manual typewriter. Given the proper scare, say a thunder clap or root beer induced belch, she would scurry back and forth until the entire house sounded like a Mavis Beacon typing seminar.
It was not uncommon to see Muffy perched upon my dad’s lap as he watched episodes of Law and Order before bed. When Dad would retire for the evening, Muffy would usually take to her hiding place under the sofa. She had ripped a chunk of fabric from the underside of the sofa with her drag queen nails and slept soundly under the flap. She would occasionally sneak out for a piece of kibble or two, but otherwise she kept to where she felt safe. And I felt safe knowing she was there.
Boots managed to survive longer than anyone expected. Then one cold winter morning, she was discovered clinging for dear life to a chunk of ice that had formed on the top of a pool of water in a ditch. She was put down later that day. Muffy was so skittish that I was certain if someone looked at her the wrong way she would drop dead of a heart attack. Still, she lived to be quite old and was always the first thing to greet me whenever I’d come home from university. Then one day the phone rang and when I picked it up, there was silence on the other end of the line. Before Mom said anything, I somehow knew what was coming. Muffy had died in her arms.
With my two childhood dogs gone, I didn’t think it was possible to love another. I was wrong. Mom inherited my sister’s dog, an adorable mix of stupid and sweet named Dino, whose licks made my heart melt like an ice cream cone. Not long before he died, Mom acquired Poochie, a forlorn Shih Tzu with bulging Barbara Bush eyes. Then along came Holly, another “Shih Tzu” (she’s so fat and farty that I’m sure there’s some Pug in her) with a mangy Colonel Sanders beard. Poochie and Holly have taken such a liking to one another that I’m sure many countries would consider them domestic partners. Now when I come home, I’m greeted by two bearded lesbians who dance on their hind legs every time the front door is opened.
Then Jeff came along. My dog. Or more accurately, my owner. Jeff is unlike any dog I’ve ever met. I’m aware all pet owners say that about their companions, but I swear it’s true. He’s a Shiba Inu; a breed that’s as popular in Asia as the Golden Retriever is in North America. It’s easy to see why the Japanese consider the breed royalty. He’s stoic, quiet, and calm. The word Zen comes to mind. He’s also smart. Sometimes too smart. Rather than barking or whining to go outside, he directs my attention to the door with a subtle flick of his head. If that doesn’t work, he gingerly taps me on the knee with his paw and then sits by the door until I inevitably cave in. But I don’t mind. These walks are the highlight of my day.
He also has a foot fetish. It took a long time for him warm up to me, but six months into his residency at my apartment, he curled up at my feet and began licking them. He started on my big toe and then moved down the line as though he were counting piggies. At first it tickled so badly that I could barely stand it, but now I’ve grown so accustomed to his foot baths that instead of making me giggle, they make me smile.
He’s definitely not this warm to everyone. In public, he’s extremely aloof with strangers. Not rude exactly, but when someone leans down to pet him, he looks at them with a sneer that says, What the hell do you think you’re doing? As he patiently waits for this invasion of privacy to be over, he tilts his head in my direction. Who is this moron?
I’m stopped at least once a day by a passerby who exclaims, “He looks just like a fox!”
“Yes,” I politely reply for the umpteenth time. And he really does. He has a thick red coat, bushy tail, and pointy snout.
Now and then someone comes back at me with, “Is it?” I’d roll my eyes at the question, but surely Jeff had already beat me to it.
If you were playing the celebrity lookalike game, Jeff would be Cary Grant. He has the same chiseled jaw line and debonair strut. I constantly have to resist the urge to put a pair of spectacles on his head and make him pose with cardboard cut-outs of Deborah Kerr and Grace Kelly. He’s also a babe magnet. I’ve been beckoned at many a stoplight by pretty girls who first bat their eyelashes at Jeff and then in my direction. You’re barking up the wrong tree, I want to tell them. Hey, maybe that’s where the saying came from.
What I love most about Jeff is his confidence. He’s my constant protector. He inspects every package that comes through the mail slot before declaring it safe to open. On our walks, he’s never afraid to ward off any passing U-Haul truck or skateboard. And if approached by someone that has been drinking alcohol, he lets out a low growl to keep them at bay.
Neither is he afraid of the Devil that lives at the corner of Rawlinson and Roehampton. This particular Devil is disguised as a dog named Hugo. Hugo is ugly, aggressive, and possibly rabid. He’s just the sort of dog Walt Disney would have had put down in one of his movies.
I only know this dog’s name because he’s never on a leash and his owner always seems to be shouting from her front porch. “Huuuuuuuuuuuugo!” she hollers, in a foreign accent that coordinates with her bushy eyebrow. “Come baaaaaaaaaaaack!”
I almost put Hugo down myself the day he jumped out of the bushes and took a bite out of Jeff. He snapped his jaw and shook his head like a maniac, retreating only after he had plucked a sizable chunk of fur from Jeff’s haunches.
“Huuuuuuuuuuuugo! Come baaaaaaaaaaaack!”
I was so angry that I was seconds away from putting them both out of my misery. But then I looked down at Jeff. He was perfectly fine. He simply shook his fur, although it looked more like a shrug, and then rolled his eyes. Moron.
Funny how one can be tied to a dog with a leash, yet feel anything but tied down. Ever since Jeff came into my life, I’ve been more fearless than ever. He gives me a reason to get dressed in the morning and encourages me to see what’s around every single corner. And if something dangerous lurks there, I don’t have to worry. He’ll take care of it. Even if it’s the Devil.
