“A man with no enemies is a man without character.”
- Paul Newman
He howled. Howled right in Schmoo’s face for what seemed
like an hour straight – longer and louder than what could be deemed acceptable
in the kingdoms of man or animal. All this time, Schmoo just stood and stared –
Duke’s grizzled, old hound face burning more and more into the portions of his
brain reserved for hate with each obnoxious bellow. In that first meeting, the
relationship of these two dogs was set – their minds made up. Duke had his
opinions and Schmoo had his, which I believe could be summed up simply as “fuck
this guy”.
This introduction of Schmoo to my parents’ dogs was necessary
and one I was looking forward to. This was my first official dog meeting the dogs I'd grown up with. How everything would go down was arranged
according to my Mother’s advanced animal acumen. He was introduced slowly and
met by cordial-enough greetings from Loomis, a wolfy-mutt with her own
behavioral quirks and Peewee, the mush-brained puggle no one had to worry
about. Schmoo had showed signs of dog-aggression, so I was more worried about
how he’d react to this motley pack than how they'd react to him, but I think he was taken off-guard by
Duke’s actions, which I’m sure were embarrassing to all the animals and humans
present that day.
Duke was my family’s beagle, a ridiculous animal
deserving on his own collection of tales. When he passed away in early 2013, I
remarked that he wasn’t the kind of dog you mourned with sadness, but more
appropriately with an Irish Wake or Viking Funeral. He was a bastard – loud,
misbehaved, foolhardy – but damned if he wasn’t entertaining.
When my family adopted him, he was just a pup, with
vibrant hound coloring and a sweet little face. He looked like a young beagle
should. As he grew older, he grew into something less-so. His colors faded to
gray early in life (to almost exclusively white in his later years), his frame
became large and bulky and his ears hung far past the breed standard.
One of Duke’s most frustrating tendencies was to rush out
the door when unsuspecting visitors entered our home and to chase around the
subdivision howling at nothing for hours (and sometimes days) at a time. His
transformation over the years was such that we joked that our sweet Duke had
run away for good during some misadventure and some beastly stray has returned
in his stead.
Though he certainly didn’t have to, Duke lived much of
his life hard and on the edge, which is sort of commendable. During one of the
many times I was tasked with hunting him down, I watched on in horror as he
came within a few short moments of being run over on the busy road that ran
behind my parents’ property (to his indifference). When I eventually caught
him, with no leash in my possession, I was forced to sling him over my
shoulders, where he fought, fussed and wailed the whole walk home.
Another time,
he returned home from a brief sojourn in the woods with a small hole in his
haunch. What could have caused this injury is up for debate, but, judging from
the size, a BB was the likely culprit. I wouldn’t have put it past some of our
more “rural” neighbors to take a shot at him. While I’m sure he was fun and
worthy target-practice, I doubt he even felt the pellet land while in the
throes of his smell-driven fit. No mere BB (or box of BB’s) was ever going to
take that dog down.
By the time Schmoo came into the picture, Duke was
getting old and surly. It’s too bad about first impressions because I think the
two could have been friends if history had unfolded differently. I can imagine
Duke uttering the hackneyed go-to of the action-movie antagonist “we’re not so
different, you and I” during one of their private moments. Both were particular
dogs, with big personalities and untold but vaguely decipherable codes of
conduct. Both were food motivated, fond of human comforts and prone to grumbling.
Both were strong-willed, stubborn survivors who out-foxed their respective
illnesses longer than they were meant to.
It’s the above-mentioned codes of conduct that seemed to
stir trouble between the two more often than not. Schmoo had what we liked to
call his “Corgi Rules”. What those rules were only Schmoo knew, but they
consisted of outlawing behaviors that he deemed obnoxious or untoward. Being
too obvious while begging during human-dinner time? – Inappropriate! Trying to
lick the plates and kitchenware while the masters loaded the dishwasher? –
Unacceptable! Groaning and writhing on the coach in an effort to soothe one's
aching old bones? – How undignified! Such behaviors, which Duke was prone to,
often resulted in reprimands from Schmoo – a sharp bark and whale-eyed stare.
Occasionally, Duke responded in kind with a “fuck off” bark of his own coupled
with a crazy “go for it” gaze through his cataract-ridden eyes. Despite the animus, such altercations never
came to blows.
Until one day, they did.
Duke had had enough. While congregating in the kitchen,
sniffing for scraps and pestering my Mother, Schmoo scolded Duke as he
turned a corner – probably for the crime of being a sour sonofabitch who was
undoubtedly up to no good. This was the straw that broke the old hound's back. Duke lunged at him and the
snapping and howling began.
When those unmistakable wails rang out, I ran in from the
other room to help break it up. Those who’ve witnessed such altercations know
how awful they can be, even with smaller breeds. There’s very little calculation
to a dog fight – chess it is not - just an explosion of teeth, snapping jaws
and bad intentions propelled by instinct and ancestral ghosts.
Due to our intervention, the bout only lasted a few moments, but, to my
surprise, Schmoo seemed to have gotten the better of things, for it was his jaw
that needed to be removed from Duke’s fleshy throat.
I gathered up my dog and hurried him into the living room to
cool down. I was shaken up by the incident, but when everything calmed down and
it became apparent that no one was injured, I couldn’t help but laugh a little. I
was proud of Schmoo – not for fighting, but for holding his own once the
fighting started and for taking it to the bigger dog. He’d proven, as he
continued to prove for the remaining years of his life, that the frailty I’d
used as an excuse to coddle him was an illusion.
Even though Duke’s death came at the end of long stretch
of failing health, it was a tough one to take. The bigger a dog’s
personality, the bigger the hole they leave in your life once they’re gone.
Besides Schmoo, I’d say there was no greater dog I’d ever known.
I wouldn’t say Schmoo enjoyed Duke’s absence during the
visits of his final years. I wonder if he noticed. I think I would be
underestimating him (and the species as a whole) if I said he didn’t. I know I’m
ascribing a human spin to their relationship, but there’s something poetic and
eternal to the idea of the rivalry – Magic-Bird, Ali-Frazier, Duke-Schmoo -
these stories are for the ages. These men and dogs made each other better,
alternating between whetstone and blade to make each stronger, sharper. Schmoo was
stimulated by Duke’s presence; his “Corgi Rules” written in antipathy to the
behaviors of the beast who greeted him so rudely; his confidence bolstered by
the time they went mano a mano. Without Duke, Schmoo's life wouldn’t have been quite
as full.
This past July Julie, Schmoo and I moved back to the
Midwest from Colorado. While spending some time at my parent’s house, Schmoo
did something very out-of-character. He wasn’t the type of dog to run off, so I
took him out for a brief jaunt in their backyard without a leash. However, down
on the edge of the woods lining their property he spotted a rabbit and took off into
the overgrowth to find it. Without proper footwear I couldn't follow, so I had
to wait for my Mom to bring me my hiking shoes. In the time that elapsed, he’d
disappeared. I ran after him, chasing back and forth around the woods like a
madman, crying out for him to come back. His hearing was mostly shot at this
point and he’d never been in these winding thickets before, so I was deeply concerned
about the possibilities. More troubling than the thought that he might be found
injured or killed was the thought that I might never see him again or know his
fate – a reality I would have probably met with a nervous breakdown.
As it turned out, all my fear and frantic energy was for
nothing. While we were all out searching for any sign of him, he’d wound his
way through the rough terrain and back up the hill to my parent’s backyard. He was hot and
probably a bit tired, but no worse for wear. He’d thrown caution to the wind
and chased the rabbit into the woods – Duke’s woods. That day he traveled the
same road as his nemesis, smelling the same permanent smells of the land, crossing
the same trees and avoiding the same dangers – their adventurous spirits
another common ground they failed to stand on in life.
Though this was an isolated incident for Schmoo and a
regular occurrence for Duke, I’ll still think of them both and their exploits
whenever I look upon those trees and tangled brambles. While they were not friends in life, in my
memory they can haunt the land and its rabbits together.
