July 30, 2004
View From Lodi, CA: Fido: A Man's Best Friend…And
Greatest Trial
By Joe Guzzardi
[See
also
View From Lodi, CA: The LOT of Springer Spaniels,
and click here for a
picture of Fido himself.]
I am locked in a titanic struggle
with my new dog Fido. At stake is nothing less than who
will control the house.
Las Vegas wise guys, obviously
privy to insider information, have established Fido as
the prohibitive favorite. And why shouldn’t he be?
My entire day is spent catering to
Fido’s needs—real and imagined.
I am Fido’s third owner in an equal
number of years. Trust me. In a lifetime that now spans
over five decades, nothing is clearer to me than how
Fido, a rescued English Springer Spaniel, exhausted
three masters before he landed at my house.
Fido is the single most demanding
dog I have owned. Within my four walls, he is a mere
blur. One way Fido amuses himself is to grab whatever
may be within reach and run around tossing it up in the
air, then catching it. To Fido, socks, pencils,
newspapers, ice cubes—even a jalapeno pepper once— all
give him the same pleasure.
My Fido-created problem is that to
survive the madness, my floors must be totally picked up
at all times. That’s a
tall order for me.
Throw him outside? Easy for you to
say but Fido is just as content to gnaw on grass,
leaves, tree bark and last night’s charcoal briquettes.
Fido simply cannot be worn out. In
the morning, he goes to
Lodi’s dog park for a long romp. Then at noon it’s
off to the irrigation canal for non-stop swimming and
frolicking in the cornfield. Late in the afternoon, Fido
fetches tennis balls. If I pause even slightly, Fido
gives me a hard nudge with his snout.
Fido induced frustration is a
constant. Sometimes at the park, kids will run up to
Fido to hug him and say, “You’re so cute. I wish I
could take you home with me.”
Normally, a dog owner’s buttons
would burst with pride knowing that his pet is the
object of such affection. But instead, I find myself
muttering, “If only you knew what headaches Fido
would introduce into your young and happy life.”
When I bemoan existence with Fido,
my friends have the same comment. “Why do you
complain so much about Fido? He is a young dog. Things
will improve.”
That’s like saying, “Why are you
worried about the 49ers? Sure, they’re behind. But
the game is only in the first quarter.”
Yes, it’s true that Fido and I are
also in the first quarter of our relationship. But the
score is Fido, 38; Joe, 0.
I’ve probably had 25 dogs in my
day. I’ve never had fewer than two and not long ago had
five.
Without fear of contradiction, I
can tell you that Fido ranks 25th
And yet…..
I ask myself if I expect too much
from Fido. Although he doesn’t know it, Fido has big
paws to fill. Over the last couple of years, four
wonderful dogs passed on. All of them— Loo-Loo, Spot,
Russie and Howie—were wonderful. Each lived into its
teens and died peacefully surrounded by adoring pals.
And there’s another reason Fido and
I have to make it work. Fido may be my last dog. By the
time he reaches his teens, I may be ready to shift to
less troublesome cats.
So a few nights ago, I decided to
let Fido sleep on the bed. Although all my dogs end up
sleeping with me, I wasn’t quite ready to give Fido that
privilege. I considered the bed to be the hallowed
ground belonging to those who preceded him.
Not surprisingly, the project got
off to a rocky start. Even though Fido’s measurements
are 3 feet long by 2 feet high by 6 inches wide—plenty
of room for both of us—he impossibly he took up the
entire bed!
Fido watched me intently while I
got ready. And once I joined him, he went out like a
rock. Fido slept so soundly—sawing wood the whole
time—that I could not budge him. I poked him. I prodded
him. But his eyes never opened. The whirlwind had been
stilled.
As I pondered Fido, I thought that
maybe all his antics are his way of proving to me that
he is too cute not to keep around. And I suppose if I
had had a new master in each of my first three years,
I’d want to find a home I’d be welcome in for the rest
of my days.
So for better or for worse, it’s
Fido and me together as we walk toward the territory
ahead.
JOENOTE
TO VDARE.COM READERS:
I hope
you enjoyed reading about Fido. Life with him and my
black lab Lily is a gas.
While I
was writing my column, the Los Angeles Times
published the very troubling story
(“Mexican Puppy Mills Breed Grief in Southland”,
July 26, 2004,By Richard
Marosi,) about a Mexican puppy mill dumping terminally
ill dogs into southern California.
Humans
cannot sink much lower than these groups who sell sick
dogs to the unsuspecting. Lured to an out of the way
location and told to bring cash, the buyers end up with
dogs with distemper or other visually hard- to- detect
diseases. And good luck in trying to find the sellers.
The
Border Patrol has added sick puppies to its list of
contraband items it looks for when searching vehicles.
Said
John Carlson, director of
San Diego County’s Northern Regional Animal Shelter:
“There is no such thing as
an ugly puppy. It’s almost like drug peddling except
that it’s not illegal to possess a young puppy. But it
is illegal to be selling young puppies that are sick.”
Joe Guzzardi [email
him], an instructor in English
at the Lodi Adult School, has been writing a weekly
column since 1988. It currently appears in the
Lodi News-Sentinel.
