Doug The Dog

As I was saying in my last post, we had a dog. A big, goofy Irish Setter. We called him Doug.

Abstract Art

In May of 1978, my sister Mary decided Dad needed a companion but instead of a cute little puppy she brought home a Tasmanian Devil. I had never before seen a creature that could run and shit at the same time. He chewed everything, including my hand. He yipped, barked, and howled while spinning around the kitchen in circles, painting the linoleum floor brown. Dad stood there for a few minutes In horrified astonishment, then locked himself in his room for the rest of the evening.

“Don’t worry, Doug will grow out of it,” we were told by the dog people. And he did, eventually, but the wild, hyper puppy morphed into a large Clem Cadiddle Hopper. It was like having a really dumb horse in the house. He bumped into things, his wagging tail could knock plates off the table, and he was a crotch sniffer. Not just the ordinary “cold nose in your no-no parts” kind of sniffer. No, he was ballistic.

The Boss Is Snarfed

One time, Gord came over to work on one of his songs with me. He knocked on the door, and I yelled, “It’s open; come in.” Doug was a good twenty feet away in the kitchen. It was a blur of red as he launched himself like a guided missile. If Gord hadn’t been my boss, his protective contortions would have been hilarious. The snout on that dog was pointy and determined. 

As I hauled the salivating, sparkly-eyed, grinning dog away by the collar, I heard, “Can’t you control your animal?”

I  replied (under my breath, I thought), “Well, obviously, no.”

I turned around for a quick glance, and Gord was laughing. 

Careful What You Feed Him

Here’s another thing about Doug that made him so… ahem… endearing: One day, after he had been with us for a year or so, I trudged up the stairs from the dungeon to speak to Dad about something. As I got to the top step, I was overwhelmed by an odor so foul that my eyes were stinging. Dad was standing, having a cigarette, by the kitchen sink, not looking pleased.

“Do you really think you should be smoking?’ I yelled, “It smells like gas!”. Dad just pointed at Doug, who was sprawled on the bench by the kitchen table, snoring. “Oh…….”

Just as Dad, the entertainer, could “do a room,” Doug could clear one. 

A Stand-Off, Until…….

Because we were close to the Credit River valley, we had an unusual amount of wildlife: opossums, raccoons, foxes, coyotes, and skunks, to name a few. And they were bold.

One time, just after dark, six or seven of us were out on the patio. Something furry rubbed against Pat’s leg. He thought it was a cat. Nope…..SKUNK! Pat was lucky; he didn’t get sprayed.

Later that same summer, I wasn’t so fortunate. I was in the kitchen getting a cup of coffee and Doug was in the backyard doing dog things. Suddenly, there was loud barking. The kind of ferocious barking that can give you chills. I opened the screen door, stepped out, and yelled, “Shut up!”. Well, it distracted Doug just long enough for two skunks he had cornered by the fence to turn around and let it rip. 

My life flashed before my eyes. As if in slow motion, I could see the arced trajectory of the skunk’s stench juice as it landed on Doug from his head to his tail and splattered against my left leg.

I was in paralyzed shock as Pepe and Stinky La Pieux squeezed under the fence and made their getaway. 

At first, it was like the ancient gates of smell-hell had opened. Then it got malodorically worse! We’d been anointed by the Count and Countess of fetid flatulence. 

Bloody Mary No Vodka

I jumped into my car and headed for the grocery store. I’d heard that there was something in Tomato juice that neutralizes skunk-funk. I piled half a dozen family-size cans of the stuff in front of the cashier. It was awkward. She scanned the juice with one hand and covered her nose with the other. 

When I got back, I poured three full cans of tomato juice all over Doug. The hue of his fur changed from auburn to ketchup.

I worked on myself next. 

Dad came home early that day for some reason. As soon as he walked in the front door, he got that same scrunched-up potato face he had the night Doug did the whirling Hershey squirts. 

I explained to him what happened, and he was marginally sympathetic.

“Where’s Doug now?”

“The backyard”

It had been a very hot day, and we didn’t have AC, so I figured I’d leave him out there.

We went through the screen door by the patio and saw Doug running around in circles angrily snapping at bees swarming him.

“You’re supposed… to rinse the tomato… juice off after… a few minutes.” He was laughing so hard it was difficult to get the words out.

I’m making fun of him, but the truth is we got very attached to that big, lovable klutz. Doug the dog became part of the family.