Two-Dog Weekend

Kemba and his cousin Bruce, by consensus, get along as well as any two dogs can.  Or, to be

more specific, as well as a mellow, sweet, food-loving six-year-old black Lab and a hyper-energetic, exercise-freak, doesn’t-know-when-to-quit, one-and-a-half-year-old Duck Toller can.  They’ve spent weekends together out at the beach in Montauk.  Bruce has come up from NYC for many a visit to Kemba in Westport.  And it’s always gone very, very well.

Which is why, when my niece Patty and her husband Teddy made plans for a five-day trip to Palo Alto, their old stomping ground, Carol and I jumped at the chance to take Bruce off their hands.

Now I know there are tons of people who look after multiple dogs full-time.  But this was a first for me.  And I’ll say, for starters, that I picked up an awful lot of poop over these last five days.

A few other observations . . .

•  Collected Bruce from Patty and Teddy’s apartment on East 66th Wednesday night, after Greg’s b-day dinner at a mediterranean restaurant in that same part of town.  Bruce was watchful and alert in the back seat as we drove up to CT, but seemed happy enough.  Little did the poor thing know that would be his last bit of peace and quiet for five days.

•  Bruce and I arrived at the house in WePo (Carol had stayed over in New York for business) to hear Kemba already clawing eagerly at the door.  As soon as I opened it a crack, he literally launched himself at Bruce, smothering the unsuspecting Lab with love and affection.  I led them outside to Kemba’s run, where the (mostly one-sided) lovefest continued unabated.

•  Bruce seemed only too happy to retreat to his crate that first night.  (Notes from the cheat

sheet Patty had given me:  Bruce really likes to sleep in his crate.  He’ll go in there by himself if he’s really tired.  She might have added:  . . . or to escape from Cousin Kemba.)  Kemba, meanwhile, who I barricaded upstairs, whimpered at the gate for a full two hours, apparently not able to live without Bruce’s company.  He was up early the next morning —  and at it again.

•  Took the two boys to the dog park Thursday A.M.  Kemba went right into extreme fetch,

and continued like a machine for the better part of an hour.  Brucie chased a ball or two, but for the most part kept himself occupied exploring the new turf, digging in the grass and dirt, and looking up at me imploringly for treats.  (Patty:  We give him a lot of treats throughout the day.  He always gets treats when he pees or poops, and when he gets into his crate.)

•  My study is the one place Kemba is generally quiet and calm.  When he sees me working, he knows, for once, he’s not going entice me into ball-playing.  So I brought both boys upstairs with me.  They started wrestling.  Non-stop.  And lest you think Kemba, who I’ve been casting as the instigator, was egging Bruce on, think again.  Both dogs were into it, wholeheartedly.  Eventually they ran out of steam, and we called it a draw.  Kemba collapsed on the Oriental rug, and Bruce retreated to a comfy spot under my desk.  Very sweet scene.

•  Drove the cousins up to Vermont Friday morning.  No skiing, of course — haven’t had any

snow up there for centuries — so the game plan called for lots of hiking and walks in the woods.  At first Bruce seemed to think the idea was to wander around and eat all the plants, sticks, and other good stuff he could find, but he caught on to the hiking part quickly, and was a trooper. (Patty:  He is pretty good about coming back to you if he’s off leash.  The only time he won’t come back is if he’s found some food on the ground and is eating it.  If he won’t come back with a normal “Bruce, come back,” try saying, “Cookie.”  If he won’t come back for that, you can ask, “Are you hungry?”  That always works.)

•  At any point that either Carol or I found ourselves in the kitchen, Bruce would drop everything, even if he’d been dead asleep, and hustle to our side.  Those goo-goo eyes trained on us.  Like lasers.  Total focus, standing ready, lest any food might chance to come his way.  (Patty:  We give him people food, so he’ll beg.  Sorry.)  Reminded us of a certain little Beagle who once patrolled our kitchen with the fervor of a sentry guarding Fort Knox.

•  On a gorgeous, bright sunny Saturday, both dogs fetched tennis balls and sticks in a glistening Emerald Lake in East Dorset.  They met up with a local Golden, Lobu, who, like Kemba, was one-and-a-half years old.  Lobu got into the act with the boys in their water frolic, and also joined them for a hike around the lake.  It seemed to me that Bruce was actually relieved to have another young whipper-snapper around to soak up some of Kemba’s excess energy.  (Patty:  Bruce takes a lot of naps during the day.  We’re not sure if he’ll be able to keep up with Kemba.)  

•  A few hours later, back at the house, I took the boys for another 45-minute walk along winding, hard-packed French Hollow Road.  Surrounded by evergreens.  Both Bromley and Stratton Mountains visible, at intervals, in the distance.  Kemba and Bruce were already nicely worn out from the Emerald Lake adventure, so they were content to walk peacefully by my side.  A man and his dogs.  Pretty perfect.  When we got back, they were both dead as doornails.

•  Saturday night, it was dinner at The Wife, our very own Cheers tavern in Manchester.  While Carol dashed inside to grab us a table, I stayed and asked Kemba to explain the routine to Bruce:  We’re going in for a quick bite; you guys hang out and take care of the car.  Worked out well —at least as far as we could tell.  Both still breathing when we got back.

•  Kemba definitely had a thing for Bruce’s possessions.  He constantly was tugging the cushy mat out of Brucie’s crate so he could chew on it.  Ditto the over-sized cuddly toy bone, Bruce’s favorite.  Now I can’t swear, but this behavior seemed deliberately designed to get a rise out of his cousin.  Didn’t work though — peace-loving Brucie wouldn’t take the bait.  Acted as if he couldn’t care less.  He did get back at Kemba, though, for the taunting.  Earlier today, back in CT, Kemba dropped a disgusting, slobber-greased ball at my feet in the kitchen, which I was supposed to kick or throw.  Instead, Bruce quietly slipped in, scooped the ball up in his mouth, and ambled away.  Kemba followed.  Bruce picked up the pace.  So did Kemba.  Bruce started running.  So did Kemba.  Around and around the kitchen island they flew, like a cartoon dog-chasing-cat.  I’m pretty sure this was Bruce saying, “In your face, K-Dawg.”

•  This morning, in the pouring rain, I took both boys over to the small, dog-friendly park off Green Acre Lane for some fetch.  After just one retrieve, Kemba pulled up and hunched over for a poop.  I put my coffee cup down on the grass, carefully placed my Chuckit next to it, took off my gloves, reached for one of my ever-present blue Doogie Doo Bags, and scooped, then placed my “package” near the car for disposal later.  Next I put my gloves back on, picked up my coffee, picked up the Chuckit, and got ready to resume chucking.  Bruce waited patiently while I did all this . . . and then he assumed the position.  As I mentioned, it was pouring rain.  And he was perched right on the border between the fairway (where I really should pick up) and the rough (where I wouldn’t have to).  So I looked the other way.  God forgive me, but enough is enough.

Later this evening, Patty and Teddy will be stopping by to reclaim their dog.  Kemba, I know, will be crestfallen.  Carol and I will miss Kemba’s gentle cousin.  And while I think Brucie had a great time, I’m sure he’s pretty ready for his mom and dad.  And for a little peace and quiet.

LOOK FOR A NEW BEAGLE MAN POST EVERY THURSDAY. OR PRETTY CLOSE TO THURSDAY. COULD BE WEDNESDAY. OR FRIDAY. LET’S NOT GET TOO OBSESSIVE HERE . . . OH, AND BTW, YOU CAN ALSO FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK, TWITTER, AND INSTAGRAM.