Mr. Regal

I love my dog.  He suits me. Most of the time I think I suit him, too, though he wishes I were more active.  He'd like to race about, free and unfettered, at least twice a day.  I can only manage his heart's desire about three times a week.  Other times, he gambols in the back yard or a leash binds us together as he takes me along for neighborhood walks.

He mostly ignores me as he checks his messages on every post, pole and tree.  After all, I'm only the Royal consort to this dog named Regal.  He grants me permission to trail along.  Bearing baggies, I attend to his personal needs. Handmaiden to his majesty.

You'd think he'd be grateful

Or gracious.  But no, he grumbles. Truly, this dog grouses and grumbles.  Mutters under his breath.  Spoiled.  I didn't make him that way.  That's the way he came.  Already spoiled.  It's in his nature. You see, he's half Whippet.  His other half?  Perhaps Jack Russell or Rat Terrier?  An odd combination.  The Whippet half prevails.

Whippets and other dogs from the sight hound group are the aristocrats of the dog world. While the working dogs and herding dogs were putting in the long hours in weather both foul and fair, sleety or torrid, the sight-hounds were used for brief coursing contests and prey pursuit. After their short stints, they were coddled, laying about on softest cushions and plush rugs.  To this day, these dogs regard good food—served on time, mind you—a soft bed, warmth and wide open spaces as their due.

Shabby service is unacceptable

So it is with Regal—or Mr. Regal, as he prefers being called. He complains when his creature comforts are shoddy or beneath his expectations. And the bar's high, believe me.

But I love him.  He's my buddy, my companion. We escape for walks in pretty places.  Places where I, too, can roam free and unfettered.  Far away from deadlines, bills, errands and chores.

Go ahead, ask me

In public, Mr. Regal starts conversations with strangers. An odd-looking fellow, people can't quite figure him out. They recognize certain parts, but not the combination.  With big black splotches on a snowy coat of white, long, long legs, and ears as big as a mule deer's, just about everyone whose path we cross inquires as to his make.

Just the other day, a woman commented that he looked like “a Jack Russell on stilts.”  That's about right.

When I'm feeling frisky, I enjoy making up fake breed names for him.  Sometimes I say he's a “Whippet-Holstein,” as his markings resemble a black and white cow's.  Some people nod and accept this breed as fact.  Mostly city folks. Country folks wink and laugh.

Other times, I call him a Peruvian Fly-Catcher Hound—the only dog in the world fast enough to catch flies in mid-air at high altitudes.

When I'm feeling really puckish, I go to greater lengths and invent entire tales—especially when kids are involved.  Watching their eyes grow big and round like shiny saucers drives me onward.  Then, I start channeling Mark Twain's story, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.  Soon enough, the child catches on.  We share a laugh.

Kids have a great sense of humor.  I like to provoke it.

The conversation goes something like this:

“This dog?  You want to know about this dog?  Well, funny you should ask.  This dog is kind of special.  See his legs?  You can tell he's born to run, right?  And run he does.  Let me tell you, this dog is fast.  Really fast.  How fast?  Well, he's retired now, but in his day, this dog was the fastest dog in California, Arizona and Nevada combined.  Beat almost every dog in Florida, too.  Won major races in Mexico. Cleaned up in Canada. Not another dog could catch him.  That's over the quarter-mile, you understand.  He's a sprinter, not designed for distance.”

“Once he ran so fast, he left paw-rubber on the track.  Practically ran his paws right off.  Got a lot of heart.  But he's retired now.  He's a formerly fast dog.  Just runs for fun now, not for bets.”

“His name?  You want to know his name?  My, aren't you the curious one.  Well, his full name is Big Ear Black Spot Sporty Speedster.  But his racing name was Speedster Spotty. Me?  I just call him Zippy.”

“Sure, you can pet him.  He won't bite.  Unless you've got a pork chop in your hand.  Then you'd better count your fingers.  Hey, want to race him?  I'll give you a head start.  Better not run like a rabbit. He just might forget he's retired.  Nip your rump when he catches you.  And he will catch you, guaranteed.  Oh, you don't want to race?  Can't say I blame you.  He's got some sharp little teeth.”

That's my dog, the conversation-starter

The dog that answers to Regal.  Or not.  Sometimes he can't be bothered. Especially when he's checking his messages.  But when I put on my hiking boots, he's very attentive. Then he's doggy-on-the-spot.  Couldn't be more helpful. Eager. Carries my car keys.   Starts the ignition.  Drives way too fast. Honks at cats.

I've got to go now.  Mr. Regal's making his grumble-sound.  And he's pacing.  That means his mailbox is full.  Time for him to go check his messages—and reply to a few. Hope his attachments aren't too messy.

If we get lucky, we'll meet some curious people.  Got a new dog breed to try out:  North Carolina Coastal Retrieving Chow Hound. Works for me. Truthful, too.

So the next time someone asks “what kind of dog is that?”-- we're ready.

Copyright 2009  Patricia Frank.  All rights reserved.

Please take me for a walk

There may be something more enjoyable than walking down a woodland path with a couple of dogs, but if there is, I've not yet discovered what that might be.

Two dog faces, four eyes and four ears intensely regard my every move as I tie the laces of my shoes. Their eyes follow me as I move to the door and tug it open.  “Okay, guys, let's go!”

With a bark and a bound, the two streak from the house and gambol about my feet, tails a blur of wags. We set off down the gravel lane, and turn onto a narrow side trail through the woods. How delightful is this dog-sitting job for friends. Their black lab is a charmer and my Whippet-mix loves to visit his friend. And all three of us love to wander their thirty acres of riverfront, marsh and woods.

The two dogs' waving tails lead the way as they trot in front of me. The air is fresh with morning. Lit by the sun, dew still sparkles on the grass and leaves. Bird song accompanies our walk. The two dogs, one midnight-black and the other white and black-spotted like a Holstein cow, stop and interpret the bushes and trees, checking for messages on the wooded bulletin board.

If only I'd been gifted with their sense of smell. They knew, but I didn't, what animals, birds, reptiles or people had passed this way during the night. A fox? A skunk? A rabbit? A neighbor's dog? Only they knew, and they had no way to communicate their knowledge. But from their busy noses, I could tell whatever scent had been left behind was of exceeding interest. And so we wander. Sometimes they led; sometimes they lagged behind, lingering over a scent that merited a long sniff.

Regal, my Whippet-mix, ran as a wisp of wind-blown smoke, his paws barely touching the ground. He stretched out, flying down the trail, free to run—his heritage. The dog on the Greyhound bus could have been Regal. Onward he flew, galloping like a little race horse aiming for the finish line.

My friends' black Lab, Boone, was more a dog of the earth; she ran more heavily and sounded like an express train coming down the trail. But she was fast. I always expected her to plow into me, but for all her bulk of body, she brushed by me with ease.

It was Regal, the fleet, who sometimes collided, his legs faster than his braking power. I learned to step to the side of the trail to avoid Regal's wayward flight.

We found our way to a small meadow, encircled by trees. It seemed a secret room, quite enchanted with woodland spirits.  Here I was wont to pause. A canvas camp chair sat in the clearing. Sitting still, I would see what I could see.

This morning brought a quick flash of buzzing, iridescent green. I flinched a bit, thinking wasp, but no, it's a darting, hummingbird, busy on his rounds of taking in enough fuel to power his jet propulsion flights. He perches on a small branch for a moment to regard me. I regard him. We regard one another. He flies. I sit.

I spy a spiderweb festooned with dew, the sunlight turning the drops into diamonds. My eyes trace the ornate weaving of strength and delicacy.

Here are the dogs. They've returned from their sniffing-fest and sit beside me, one on each side — doggy bookends. As long as I pet, they stay, leaning into me, noses lifted into the breeze, filtering out questions and answers from the air.

A Great Blue Heron flies overhead, looking primeval in flight, a bit ungainly until the powerful wings take hold of the air. Another heron launches from a nearby Loblolly pine. Were they a mated pair, building a nest there? Did these majestic birds nest in trees? I don't know. I'll have to find out. Or had the two herons been resting, making bird love, or observing the water flowing into the nearby tidal pool and hoping for a silver glint of a fish for breakfast?

I ask the dogs, but they just cock their heads and gave me canine smiles, they're not telling. When I bend over Boone to whisper a secret into her ear (how lovely she was with the sunlight glinting off her ebony coat), she gives me a lick on the face. Black Labs have large tongues. I wipe away her moist kiss with the back of my sleeve.

We sit, dogs and human, alone and quiet in the clearing, encircled by trees, for a few more precious moments. I could feel, under my stroking hands, the dogs' growing impatience to be off. More messages to check, no doubt.  So I stop petting, and they, released from human contact, go rocketing down the trail.

Slowly, I rise to my feet. It's hard to break the spell that's been cast upon me by this place. But soothed by the wind singing in the pines, grateful for the company of the hummingbird, appreciative of the architecture of the spider web, I give thanks for this moment away in the natural world. Feeling at peace, I follow the two wagging tails down the trail toward home.

I wished I had a tail to wag, too. That's just how happy I was.

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