Opera Dog
Canine Music In The Key Of “Shut Up!”
Someone recently asked my opinion concerning hunting dogs as they were in the market for their first pup. Unfortunately, based on my decades of hunting and shooting experience, the person was under the grossly mistaken impression I was some kind of gundog expert or at least a reasonably competent amateur. If they had known my first dog, Jake, it would be apparent I am barely qualified to raise earthworms let alone offer opinions about canines.
Truth Of The Matter
Nowadays, most of my friends are under the misapprehension I hate dogs. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I love dogs, at least those who do not resemble a yapping, urine-dribbling, ankle-biting dustball. And, before those of you who own such four-legged genetic mistakes start writing breathless hate mail, I freely recognize your legitimate affection for little Fluffy — so long as you recognize everyone else besides you hates the damn thing. Especially when you drag it on an airplane.
The rest of the dogs out there are fine. More than fine, I really love them. Deeply. However, after owning countless dogs ranging from a narcotic canine to a brace of rabbit-hunting beagles to an English setter with better bloodlines than the majority of the Daughters of the American Revolution, I’m “done” with dogs. For now, anyway.
You see, about 10 years ago I had a massive epiphany after realizing the fewer living creatures depending on you for sustenance, the more liberated you are. This sudden consciousness caused me to throw my entire collection of exotic indoor orchids in the trash, release my aquarium full of darter fish back into the creek from whence they came and swear off any further owning of things requiring food, water or love aside from two-legged family members. The landscaping was allowed to stay since we’ve got an automatic sprinkler system.
For the last decade I have been totally successful in my efforts to avoid becoming a pet or plant sugar-daddy, forming the basis of the urban legend claiming I hate dogs. Had you seen me recently wallowing around with Roy Huntington’s new puppy, you’d understand — I’ve merely realized the best dogs in life are yours.
Back To Jake
Many years ago as a young cop and dad, in a fit of hunting enthusiasm, I used our entire stash of discretionary income to purchase a male Labrador Retriever puppy. He was to be my first “real” dog as an adult after the endless stream of mutts and even cats we owned when I was a kid.
Jacob Adams Lucky Nugget came from a championship bloodline, an important factor in a good hunting dog. Having read all the available books about training, I knew turning Jake into a superior specimen of canine hunting prowess was a simple matter of patience, understanding and gentle discipline. Yet, within a week I had learned the real truth — dog training is more complicated than brain surgery, with potentially more devasting long-term effects.
I started training the pup in our backyard. Our work consisted of The Master running around the yard, shouting and pointing while the dog attempted to use the bathroom on every square inch of lawn. The training sessions eventually reached the point where I realized it was easier to chase the retrieving dummies myself while the dog relieved himself at will. The neighbors thought these performances were high comedy and frequently gathered on their own patios for free evening entertainment.
We also labored under the mistaken belief Jake could serve a secondary role as a house dog, hopefully becoming the inseparable boyhood chum of our first child. Looking back, this was probably the only reason High Command allowed the puppy purchase in the first place.
Only a few weeks later our fantasy was shattered when Jake attempted to walk behind a small table in the nursery. As my then-spouse watched in horror, the lamp cord became entangled in the dog’s collar, which immediately launched Jake into Code Red Extreme Panic Mode.
The dog responded to the sudden attack from the Trundle Bunny Baby Lamp by accelerating to top speed and running over, under, around and through every piece of furniture in our small home. My wife’s continuous shrieks only served to reinforce Jake’s belief the lamp was attempting to capture and eat him. I ran to catch the yelping dog, diving under tables, leaping over stereo equipment and knocking pictures off the wall but to no avail. In only a few moments, our modest yet tasteful home resembled a jungle hut remodeled by meth-addicted chimpanzees.
Eventually, the dog and I collapsed on the kitchen floor, ready to accept our fate. The Grim Reaper arrived in the form of my livid ex-wife but fortunately she has a weak grip and I easily wrestled my shotgun from her grasp. I did have to agree to banish Jake to the backyard and build a kennel — for the dog, fortunately.
All Grown Up
Upon reaching adulthood, Jake developed into 75 lbs. of powerful hunting machine operated by three or, possibly four, functional brain cells. I’m sure scientific tests would have shown some dinosaurs and most squid had a larger brain than my dog.
Once, while I still vaguely hoped to become an outdoor TV star, I used our family video camera — purchased with the solemn promise to record birthdays and holidays — to film the following exchange on opening day of dove season:
Me: Jake! Look boy! Bird Down, Bird Down!
Jake: Huh?
Me: Over there, where I’m pointing.
Jake: Oh boy. A rock.
Me: NO, NO stupid! Over there, where I’m pointing!
Jake: Oh, I see … Corn. I love me some corn.
Me: Arggg.
I must admit he did okay retrieving several bits of trash including a wounded candy wrapper, but he did lose an old bottle in the stubble.
And this was one of his finest performances.
Opera Dog
Jake had another unique talent — he could whistle. It wasn’t a literal whistle but shrill quavering noise in the upper audible range he somehow made with his mouth and throat. It wasn’t quite a screech, hum, ululation or trill but a combination of all of them. He only did this when he was bored, upset, lonely or hungry, which fortunately was only about 23 ½ hours a day.
We would be relaxing in our backyard with friends when they would suddenly develop a strange look and wonder aloud where the weird, high-pitched noise was coming from. Some speculated it was a bad wheel bearing on a passing truck while others believed it was the death throes of some type of mutant cricket. The truth was it was merely Jake performing his dramatic light opera “Lonely Dog at Twilight.” The piece would go on all evening until peaking around 2 a.m. with the climactic “Allegro Barking Chorus.”
For all his faults, Jake did possess the intangible quality called “personality.” Practically all good hunting dogs tend to remind you of someone serious and hard-charging, sort of a canine U.S. Marine colonel. On the other hand was my friend Jake who, if given the choice between hunting and kennel life, would obviously rather be lying around in his own filth while pouring beer over a bowl of cornflakes. It stands to reason his favorite food was Vienna sausage, a pseudo-food made from ground meat and attic insulation packed in a can of mucus.
However, despite the fact he disrupted our lives for an entire decade, sometimes to the point we considered moving without leaving him a forwarding address, of the many dogs I’ve owned and been around, he was hands-down the most memorable. Not the best or brightest, but certainly the most unforgettable.
Whenever I prop my feet on the fireplace and gaze into the dancing flames to recall favorite hunts, I often remember those golden days afield with my first “real” dog, my inseparable hunting companion — me chasing downed birds while Jake, whistling and eating the jerky hidden in my backpack, shouted encouragement from the blind.
And you wonder why I don’t own dogs anymore?
