havanese – JT McKenna Writes

Dogs Bark

This might be another dog post. I’m not sure. It might be, however, about neighbors not behaving as good neighbors. About bullies who, having gotten away with their nonsense for years, need to be put in their place. Please ask yourself right now, Am I a dog person? Or, Am I a bully? If you’re not a dog person or you identify as a bully (or someone has called you one, but you’re too stupid to self-reflect and realize the truth of such accusation), then don’t waste your time on my words. I know you. You live about 200 yards from me.

I’ve lived for twenty-eight years on a quiet, dead-end street that has only three houses. The neighbors next to me are wonderful, friendly, helpful—everything one could hope for in a neighbor. The other neighbors—or I should qualify and say the husband—is self-centered, unfriendly, unhelpful, and clearly not a dog person. I’ll call him Schmurtis.

A year-and-a-half ago I made it my mission to rehabilitate my struggling front garden. The day was already warm by 10:00am. I was on my knees, pounding away at a metal edging, when Schmurtis approached from across the way. “Can I talk to you?” he asked. Instantly, I thought he was there to correct my method, although I should have had no reason to believe he was more expert on garden edging than I. Something in his tone, at the very least, told me that he wasn’t in a chuckly mood. Before I had a chance to rise off my knees, he thrust his pointing finger toward my two havanese, Mona and Bowie, (I believe you know them by now), at this point straining against their long leashes about forty feet away and barking up a storm at the hostile intrusion; finger-thrusting Schmurtis bellowed, “This has got to stop!”

I wordlessly got to my feet, immediately sensing that Schmurtis’ mood was not a very wholesome one; I’d call it “non-brooking”, if such is a word. Now, Schmurtis is a large man and, even off my knees, he towered over me. For about five minutes I endured his barrage of complaints about my dogs who were, admittedly, getting up to a great deal of barking. . . something they’re especially apt to do when they see Momma being badgered by an unfriendly, neighborhood non-dog person. My tepid defense (things like, “I’ve taken them to dog training. . . I’m doing my best.”) had no effect on Schmurtis. He offered his solution, “They need drugs.” He then, inexplicably, turned to approach my very-apoplectic Bowie and Mona, reaching out to, what, try and pet them?! That’s what it looked like (if one were observing a complete moron who can’t read the simplest of warning signs being emitted by two beings of the canine sort.) Before contact could be made, I grabbed the leashes to thwart any blitz on the minds of Bowie and Mona, thus preventing an obvious outcome. I turned away from angry, moronic Schmurtis, and walked toward my front door.

It’s important to note here that I don’t respond well to men who lose control of their temper. It’s a long story; all I want to say at this juncture is that angry men cause me to cower, to freeze. I’ve yet to learn how to confront belligerence and hostility with, well, belligerence and hostility. Even when it might be called for.

Nearly a year passed between the above-described event and the next, equally unsettling incident. Once again, unpleasant Schmurtis took exception to my dogs’ objectionable barking.* This time, he bellowed from his wrap-around porch across the space between our houses, “Shut your f-ing dogs up!” My usual tepid response to aggression resulted in me adopting — once again — a meek posture. This time, I said something like, “What is your problem?” (I really have to practice a better come-back, one that telegraphs, “Back the fuck off, Bitch!” Gee, that felt good to say out loud. . . even if only in the safety of my living room.)

Give a bully an inch, which I did with my “What is your problem?” reply, and it supplies the oxygen that the species relies on. Schmurtis began his (very public) rant this time by declaring, “I just want my peace and quiet,” and “There are nuisance laws. . . you’ll be fined $50. You’ll be fined $100. You’ll be fined this. You’ll be fined that” (He had done his homework, and he made clear what he planned to do.)

What Schmurtis hadn’t considered was possible push-back. Not by me, but my daughter, who had heard the whole exchange. She burst on the scene and became the quarrelsome dame that, had it been a much earlier era in our history, would vex even the Puritan elite (= wealthy, entitled, white men).**

Refusing to engage (civilly) in a conversation with my daughter, Schmurtis revealed his base tendencies by then hurling his Parthian shot, “You’re so disrespectful.” (Let that remark brew just a bit; are you seeing what I see?)

Epilogue

Lest the reader think that I lack awareness of how bothersome a barking dog might be, I invested in yet another bark collar that has two purposes: it vibrates any time my dog barks, whines, or howls — very effective (and immediate) in correcting barking, and it also keeps a record of all these “incidents”. So, in consideration of Schmurtis’ claim that my dogs “bark all the time”, I had proof that on any given day (especially when I was away from the house), such is not the case.

Because of repeated aggression by this one neighbor, my own behaviors have been altered. I live with all the windows, shades, and curtains closed on three sides of my house ALL YEAR LONG; I enter and exit from only the doors in the rear of my house, and I refrain from taking Bowie and Mona anywhere near the front of the house. Is this normal behavior for anyone? Really, why should I be ever on guard against triggering a hissy fit by some blinkered and very unpleasant bully?

By the way, Schmurtis did follow through with his threat, not by calling the animal control officer, but the police. They referred his complaint to the ACO, who conducted his investigation. The outcome: Yes, my dogs barked when he arrived, then settled down. Barking — as when someone comes to your door or delivers a package or when someone becomes aggressive toward you because you have dogs — does not, in and of itself, rise to the level of nuisance. It is normal dog behavior. This is an important distinction that “non-dog” people should be aware of. To those people, I say, Look up the definition of “incessant”. If that’s not good enough, then buy some fucking earplugs!

*Nuisance barking, in our community, is described as incessant barking for at least 15 minutes. To trigger an investigation, a complainant alerts the animal control officer to a potential nuisance situation. The ACO then makes an appearance and listens for 15 minutes.

**Of course, we know how the Puritan elders would have “addressed” the troublesome behavior of quarrelsome dames.

Mixing Basil Vinaigrette with Bacon and Dogs

Back a few months, when I was refining my list of goals for canine boot camp, the trainer wondered if I wanted to curb “counter surfing”. We both immediately acknowledged that with havanese, as long as you limit objects that can be used as ladders, there’s little need for training in that realm.

Once again, Bowie proved to be a bundle of vexation.

Normally, I don’t get excited about cooking. Last night, however, I was eager to prepare BLT’s, using lettuce from my garden and bacon sourced from a local farm. I had also been planning to make a basil vinaigrette with basil snipped from Megan’s garden. We could either jazz up the BLT with it or add it to the cucumber I picked earlier in the day.

It was an easy summer recipe, one that involved few bowls and pans and didn’t require the oven. What could possibly go wrong?

I have a little Black and Decker food chopper that I love, despite it habitually conking me in the head when I remove it from its high position in the cabinet (its top-heavy motor piece always separates as I lower the unit). It takes up hardly any storage space, does a satisfying job of mincing and pureeing, and is easy to clean. But it has been giving me a hard time lately — something is not lining up right, causing the top part to not sit properly. Of course I didn’t notice until I had added all the ingredients — basil, minced garlic and shallot, fresh lemon juice, white balsamic vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper. This was the first opportunity to make an oily mess in my prep area, which for most people means the entire kitchen (every surface and point of contact within that space.)

Transferring the vinaigrette to the dressing bottle was tricky and resulted in additional oily mess. While the bacon was sizzling in its pan and filling the kitchen with an intoxicating aroma, I cleaned up the second oily mess and chopped the cucumber. Mona and Bowie were only slightly satisfied with my offering of bits of cucumber — their noses were communicating more hopeful messages about available food stuffs. As the bacon pieces each arrived at that perfect degree of crispness I transferred them to a paper-towel covered plate. . . right at the edge of the counter. (See where this is going?)

Now ready to pull it all together I gave the bottle of homemade vinaigrette a good ‘n vigorous final shake, spraying green matter in every direction. Not only were there globs on the island, the floor, the ceiling, the cabinets, and everything resting on the island; but it was all over my face and arms, in my hair and ears, and sticking to my t-shirt. It smelled divine — as far as vinaigrettes go — but, well, it did mean I wasn’t going to be eating my dinner at the planned hour.

I dashed upstairs to do a quick shower and then skipped back down to clean the kitchen. . . and then I saw it. Or, rather, I didn’t. At the edge of the counter sat an empty plate. No paper towel and NO BACON. Bowie was just finishing up (because dogs don’t waste paper towels that are suffused with bacon grease).

So, here’s what I have. (A) I’m a slow learner where it concerns my doggies. This wasn’t the first time that Bowie made good use of my neglectful attitude. He has helped himself to things that I’ve (on occasion) left at the edge of the counter. He only needs it to overhang by about 1-mm. (B) I’m a slow learner in other aspects of my life, as well. Ask Megan about my bad habit of not tightening covers. And why does it always seem to be that the very items that need to be shaken up are the ones for which I leave the cap loose? (Juice bottles in my refrigerator are not to be trusted. Nor are the several cans of chalk paint in my craft area.)

And Bowie, other than exhibiting an increased need to slake his thirst in the quiet hours before even the earliest of birds is signaling a new day, is none the worse for his episode. He’ll not appreciate that it was very expensive bacon, and there’s no hint that he’s remorseful. Of course it is twelve hours later, so I’m not sure what I can realistically expect. I’m reminded by something that the trainer had said. In a different context (boot camp) I was expressing my worry that Bowie and Mona might be missing me. (In truth, I was more worried about Mona. She’s. . . . sensitive.) Jennie assured me that dogs very much live in the moment, so I shouldn’t worry. When I look at Bowie’s adorable little face with his crooked little teeth, I think, I wish I could be more like you. His ability to push “reset” gives him fresh starts over and over, all day long. Not a bad thing. . . unless it means you once again forget to tighten a cap on a bottle of vinaigrette.

Bridges

As everyone who knows me understands, I love to study the landscape when driving. It takes a real conscious effort to keep my eyes on the road, and there are several views that make such responsible behavior very difficult. As I’ve mentioned before, whenever I cross the Gillis Bridge on Rt. 1 between Salisbury and Newburyport — especially at either sunrise or sunset — my eyes veer from the path I’m traveling in order to drink in the beauty. What is it about bridges that stirs our sensibilities?

When I was teenager (and at the age where one would assume reason had begun to take hold), I often took long walks and even longer bike rides from my home high on Titicut Hill, a place that had amazing, long views in nearly every direction, but was envied by no one because of its proximity to a maximum security prison. For those wondering why on earth I would take long walks and bike rides in that setting, it comes down to this: you can live a cowed, circumscribed life behind locked doors, or you can shrug your shoulders and ask yourself, what are the odds — really — that an escaped prisoner will happen to be in the same space at the same moment as I? (Weirdly, and maybe inexplicably, I didn’t find it creepy, but rather reassuring when the patrol would follow slowly behind me on the service roads and field lanes.) As everyone who grew up around Alden Square knows, you did your best to assign the prison to a subordinate corner of your mind, and tried to have an ordinary childhood.

In my travels back then I would inevitably stop in the middle of whatever bridge I crossed. Living in Bridgewater implied that there was no paucity of bridges that spanned waterways. Most often, the water maundered lazily, affording my thoughts to likewise flow without hurry from one idea to another. Whether this habit translated into a lifelong fascination with bridges over water, or it was because of an innate fascination in the first place that led me — as if by magnetic force — to the middle spot of all those hometown bridges; it has been an enduring compulsion.

My dog Mona, however, does not share my affinity for bridges, and I trace it back to our first “journey” over a serious bridge. Soon after the completion of the new John Greenleaf Whittier Bridge over the Merrimack River in 2017, I was eager to walk the pedestrian trail connector that was included in the engineering plans for the replacement bridge. (The bike/pedestrian walkway had been proudly acclaimed as the first of its kind to be built into an interstate bridge.)

After parking the car, I set out with Mona from the Salisbury side of the William Lloyd Garrison Trail. We had gone barely fifty feet and she began sniffing around for a suitable place to “do her business”. Alas, her only option consisted of one thing — concrete. Soon her appraisal took on a desperate quality. I assumed (wrongly) as I coaxed her along that she would become less particular about bathroom accommodations. She tried to be a good sport about it, trotting along for a bit, then swiveling or zigzagging whenever her nose picked up a scent that only dogs can detect. Dissatisfied, she’d then continue on beside me. By now, we were about one-third of the way in our ascension of the bridge’s span. And, then, Mona’s relief was suddenly at hand (or paw). There, right there in her path, was the magic key to her deliverance. A single leaf. I watched — one can’t help but be interested when a dog is aiming for a single leaf. Mona skillfully arranged herself above the leaf and achieved a perfect dispatch. (Granted, the havanese — with those short legs — is already close to the ground.) I may have imagined it, but it did seem her eyes rolled toward heaven and she shuddered with (physical) relief.

Mona seemed, if not happy, at least willing to continue our journey. I, of course, felt the need to reach the pinnacle of the bridge’s span. (For those unfamiliar with the Whittier Bridge, it is a substantial one over a sizable river.) If I could get to the bridge’s midpoint, I knew I would be rewarded with an exquisite view of Deer Island, which sits in the middle of the Merrimack, suspended charmingly between two small bridges. To this point, I hadn’t noticed that the wind was picking up. But, by the time we reached my goal and turned to face Deer Island to the east, the wind was howling. I wanted to enjoy the moment. I tried to enjoy it. I just couldn’t, and in all fairness to my 12-pound little girl, the situation demanded that I — for once — accept that not every bridge is well-suited to reflective thought. We turned and headed back down the bridge, Mona in good spirits, but — no doubt — making a mental note to object with every one of her twelve pounds if I ever, ever tried to take her on the Whittier Bridge again.

Merrimack River looking west from RR Bridge trailhead at Old Eastern Marsh Trail (Salisbury MA)

Bowie’s Few Minutes of Freedom

Do you ever have those occasions when — after the horse has cantered gleefully out the barn door — you wish your “thinking fast” part of the brain had given way to the “thinking slow” area. . . but maybe at lightning speed? A fifteen minute ungraceful lurching through the still deep snow this morning was a result of one of those moments.

As much as my two dogs Mona and Bowie enjoy our daily walks, the restrained pace is a poor substitute for the freedom to run unhindered. These days they rarely have such opportunity (especially with the amount of snow that keeps getting dumped on us), so today — because the surface is just hard enough for them to run across without breaking through — I tried to simulate the experience as best I could by placing each of them on a long lead and running beside them up our private road. If you have dogs, you can probably relate to this: as soon as I began running, they thought, oh, fun, let’s play chase. The first obstacle, literally, was a maple tree that they decided to encircle with their long leashes. My solution was to follow behind. . . and go round and round as they continued round and round. This moment was the first in which it would have been wise to pause for a moment, reflect on alternatives to chasing two dogs round and round a tree.

Having successfully liberated the maple tree, we returned to our backyard, where I was able to pry the gate open to our new, fenced-in garden area. After unclipping my two excited pups, I sat on my bench and watched them chase each other and wrestle with all the freedom they could wish for. Their joy made me smile.

When I decided playtime was over, I clipped the two pups back on their leashes and headed out through the gate. That move was a signal to resume the game of chase and wrestle, or rather, chase and wrestle-wrestle-wrestle, quickly converting two dogs and two leads into something resembling a tumbleweed. Seeing that one of the leashes was wrapped around one of Bowie’s back feet, I reflexively — and here’s where I would have enjoyed the benefits of slow (rational) thinking — unclipped his leash BEFORE grabbing his collar. Thus freed, he dashed off across the yard, the leash having miraculously fallen away from his foot and the rest of his body. As Mona strained to join her brother at the end of a now tangled skein of two leashes, I set off in pursuit of the wily Bowie. By now, he was nearly to my neighbor’s front door, but he suddenly had second thoughts. I used his indecision as an opportunity to flip the script. I’m not proud of it, but I essentially dangled Mona as bait.

Oh, Mona, aren’t you just the best little doggie?! Let’s go play! And I ran with her toward our house. She, of course, was thrilled, thinking she was about to have Mommie to herself. She bounded along and bounced up and down. Bowie streaked straight as an arrow right at us. I threw myself at him as soon as he was close enough. Collapsing in the snow, we were now our own contorted arrangement, and both of us were breathing hard. I had no back-up plan if I had failed — it’s doubtful you can pull that trick a second time. A subdued trio then climbed the front yard and re-entered the house. God, I hope all my neighbors didn’t just witness that.

So, I’ve signed up Bowie for boot camp. It can’t come soon enough.