BENEATH the furry coat of every dog beats a surprisingly fervent heart.
Dogs like what they like, and they like it a lot. You can't make a hand-licking spaniel out of an aloof shar-pei, or a whip-fast greyhound out of a stubby bulldog. That's why research is necessary before you buy a dog, unless you're sufficiently kind-hearted to take whatever you find at the pound. If so, more power to you.
We did the pound thing once and got a lovably nutty coonhound pup. Her life's mission was finally realized when we moved from Calgary to Lynn Valley and a family of raccoons made the mistake of living under our deck.
There was no bloodshed, just extraordinary baying and gratuitous treeing. She instinctively knew what she'd been bred to do, and she did it well.
Experts say that all dogs need a job. It's not enough for them to loaf around your house like an unemployed relative - their lives need purpose beyond our entertainment, and each breed has a specific purpose, whether it be chasing rats, herding sheep or retrieving birds.
Our current dog's apparent raison d'être is somewhat useless, but diverting. A retriever-lab cross, Stella, now 18 months old, became obsessed with retrieving balls early on and can now catch as well as a junior league baseball player. Her idea of bliss, inasmuch as dogs have any ideas whatsoever, was an afternoon spent squatting at the edge of a creek, waiting to have a ball sail over her head so she could jump in after it. That was her pleasure in life - at least, until she fell in love.
It was Aries who took her fancy. A rambunctious golden doodle whose owners are friends with our daughter, Aries was Stella's first chum. What seemed like mere enthusiasm on her part has blossomed into passion, a desire that's wreaking havoc at our place.
Stella first leapt a fence for Aries a few months ago, when she evidently got a whiff of him from across the street through our wooden front patio fence. The patio gate was then only three feet high, so we got a taller gate, and the problem appeared to be solved.
A couple of months ago, it was time to replace our back yard fence, which had been rained on so steadily over the years that it was about to throw in the towel. Hardy professionals came over and put up a new one in a couple of days. Now we had a sturdy five-foot-eight-inch cedar fence protecting us from the green space and bears beyond the yard and below them, the constant traffic on Highway 1.
We'd had a gate installed in the fence to avail ourselves of that little forest walk, which is probably why Stella began to take a keen interest in what was back there.
One day, what was back there was Aries, having a jaunt with one of his owners. A mere scent of his manly dander, and our dog vanished.
We couldn't figure out how she had escaped. Surely she couldn't clear an almost six-foot-tall fence? She must have used a stump to propel herself over it, we agreed, and my husband Stanley did his best to obliterate the stump to keep her in.
No dice. Stella went missing again soon afterward, during another of Aries' green space walkabouts. We had no idea where she was. I called her and called her, and finally shouted an invitation to go for a walk with her ball. Shortly afterward, we watched through the living room window as she clambered back over the fence using her front legs as if they were arms and armpits, like a deft teenager sneaking into the family compound hours after curfew.
So Stanley added a foot of lattice to the most vulnerable parts of the fence. This morning, the tantalizing Aries apparently trotted by again. Shortly afterward, his owner called to say that Stella had scrambled out once more and barrelled down the path after them.
Stanley is now fastening plastic panels to the cedar boards, in hopes that their surface will be too slippery for our love-crazed girl. Aries' owner suggests that we let them play more often, so Stella's romantic cravings will be sated, but I remember myself as an adolescent girl and have my doubts. I was 13 when I met my first boyfriend. He completely consumed my thoughts, despite the fact that a few years later it was no surprise when I heard he'd just come out of the closet.
Stella seems almost as silly as I was, given her Harriet Houdini antics. I can even picture her doodling "Mrs. Stella Aries" in pee on some grassy notebook.
Aries is a nice fellow. He's tall and handsome. He's been fixed, and so has she, so there will be no shotgun wedding. He enjoys her company, tolerates her literal browbeating, and doesn't begrudge it when she steals his ball.
It looks like a match to me. But there's poor Stanley, out at 8 p.m., still working away at the fence. [email protected]
