Who's A Good Boy?
Sometimes I think dogs really are the highest life form
Magnus- the son I never had.
I made a mental note that sharing dog stories not only breaks the ice but also opens our hearts, a ritual that might be helpful to our bipartisan negotiations. Couldn’t hurt.
Later that evening, dog talk came naturally at a dinner hosted by the Best Friends Animal Society, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping homeless dogs and cats through adoption and to making America a no-kill country by 2025. It runs the country’s largest no-kill shelter in southern Utah, where, on average, about 1,600 dogs, cats and other animals live at a time until they’re adopted. Since 2016, the Best Friends Animal Society and its partners have managed to help reduce the number of dogs and cats killed in U.S. shelters from roughly 1.5 million a year to about 347,000 in 2020, the organization announced this year.
Rarely have I heard so much laughter at a D.C. dinner, especially among other writers and editors. We tend to be an overcautious and, therefore, dull group in such settings. As is customary, we began by introducing ourselves to one another, but this time we also introduced our dogs, telling stories and producing photos. By the time the last person spoke, we were no longer strangers but, well, Best Friends bonded by our love of dogs. (One person confessed to not currently having a dog, but Jim Acosta’s secret is safe with me for now.)
Like a lot of us, I spent most of 2020 confined to the four walls of my domicile. It wasn’t an official house arrest, of course, but it might as well have been. The COVID-19 pandemic and the associated lack of information, at least early on, meant that I got to know the cracks and crevices of my home in ways I’d never thought possible.
There was one saving grace, though- something that made the whole experience somehow worth it- my then-eight-year-old, 19-pound Chiweenie, Magnus. Because my presence at home was more or less enforced, he had a captive audience 24/7, something that didn’t seem to bother him one bit.
We also have two cats, but they couldn’t have cared less whether we were there or not. Erin and I could be abstract concepts for all they know or care- as long as they have food and water. Magnus, though, is quite another story. My enforced quarantine gave me a chance to get to know him, and it made my time at home much more enjoyable, in a way the cats never would’ve lowered themselves to do.
One of the first things I learned about Magnus is that I can tell, from anywhere in the house, who’s at the front door by the way he barks. For instance, he wants to rip anyone in a U.S. Postal Service uniform limb from limb (I have no idea why). His bark when a mail person approaches our front door is ferocious (if ANYTHING about a 19-lb. Chiweenie can be described as “ferocious”).
A Fedex or UPS delivery person means a slightly different and less aggressive bark. Someone selling Jesus or another product I almost certainly won’t want is an altogether different bark (it’s his “It’s OK, Dad; you can ignore this clown” bark).
I’ve refined my guessing sufficiently so that I’m correct about 90% of the time. Magnus is just that predictable, but I also think that’s deliberate on his part. Sometimes I think he might be trying to warn me. Or at least let me know if I need to answer the door. Or not (“I got this, Dad!!”).
There’s nothing quite like coming home- whether it’s been 20 minutes or two weeks- and being greeted by Magnus. When I get out of my car in front of our house, he’s at the window next to the front door, tail wagging and jumping up and down as if I’m a conquering hero returning from battle.
What makes it all the more extraordinary is the knowledge that it’s the same every time I come home. There’s a purity, genuineness, and absence of artifice to Magnus’ greeting. At that moment, I’m his world, and I’ve returned to it, which is all the cause for a celebration he needs.
These days, he’s not as young as he used to be (who among us is?). The fur on his face is now more white than the bronze it used to be, but he still sleeps more than any sentient being I’ve ever known. Magnus sleeps under the covers with us at night, and when he’s decided it’s time for me to wake up, he starts licking my head.
He occasionally pees on things in the house, but he’s male. What guy doesn’t occasionally pee on something he shouldn’t?
I can see his claw marks on our bamboo floors, which some might see as damage, but I see as proof we have a house that’s well and properly loved.
He’s claimed our new living room furniture as his own and has rearranged the couch cushions into his own little nest. Most of the time, we leave it as is because he’s so earnest about making everything just so, and it feels mean to break it up. He spends far more time on it than we do, anyway.
Magnus has been part of our lives for six years now. Before that, as much as I love dogs, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take on the responsibility. Now I can’t imagine life without him in it. He’s the son we never had, the one we look forward to seeing whenever we’re heading home because, whether it’s been one day or three weeks, he’s always deliriously happy to see us.
Dog is my co-pilot.
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