Dog Sharing

Boxer: wet & camera shy

In this age of modern families, even dogs are taking advantage of the trend.

When I grew up, most of the kids I knew were from two parent households. These days, they’re as common as single parent and blended families. Kids have two bedrooms — one at Mom’s and one at Dad’s, and many of them seem to love it.

A few months ago, Boxer’s guardian and my dear friend Ariy moved out and into his own place. He got an apartment just down the street so the dog could stay in the hood with his furry friends, his swimming hole, and me, his fairy dogmother. Ariy does long afternoon shifts, so while I’m still off work, we figured the dog could camp here part-time. The plan was Boxer would hang here, get walked and fed and groomed, then go home with his Dad at night.

Uh-uh. Boxer’s stubborn. And he’s a squatter.

At first, he stayed with me after the move because of the heat wave — I have air conditioning, Ariy doesn’t. But then, once he started coming by to pick up Boxer after work, the dog wouldn’t go!

We figured it was the a/c factor. But then the weather cooled off, so we’ve eliminated that possibility. It might be his fear of walking after dark in the summer — what with those pesky fireworks sporadically terrorizing us — but he’s getting used to them. (I can’t get him out for a late night walk either.)

Wounded, Ariy is taking it personally. For the first month he showed up faithfully, night after night. Boxer met him at the door, wagging his tail, happy to see his Dad. But once Ariy puts on his collar and opens the door, Boxer stays put.

Like his refusal to pass the creek without taking a dip, that dog plants his feet and his eighty-one pounds and stands there like a mule. We’ve bribed him with the ball, with treats, with coaxing and stern orders, but Boxer won’t go. He’s become a squatter in my home.

He stays until Ariy comes early in the morning for his first walk. They hang at Ariy’s until he drops him off before work. The only time Boxer stays at Dad’s is his one night off because Ariy has had him all day.

I’ve spent years studying dogs, and I must confess to being baffled. Maybe Ariy’s frequent moves made Boxer stubborn about changing dens. Or he likes to sleep where his stick collection does. Or I’m spoiling him too much. Or he actually likes living with my psychotic cat, who he mostly ignores.

But then it occurred to me that this just might be our Karma.

Back when I had Jules, she adopted Ariy. It’s true. She met him and his doggie bags from the Greek restaurant he used to work at and pronounced him “Dad.”

Jules and Ariy in the kitchen

Fine, he’s a better cook than most people, but she was my dog! And she became Daddy’s girl. I used to get so jealous, the way she’d whine and jump all over him when he dropped by. She never welcomed me home that way. I was wounded, I’ll admit. I had saved her from a neglectful situation and this was the thanks I got. She was two-timing me.

Jules Ariy and pink bear

So, I started taking advantage of the situation and let her spend the weekends at Ariy’s so I could go clubbing. It gave me a little freedom and I learned to love it.

Dog sharing has it’s advantages for everyone in the pack. The dog gets maximum attention while the humans get help with the responsibility. Maybe that’s what Boxer is doing: making us share him so that he gets the best of both worlds.

Or maybe he just doesn’t like to go out at night.

The Adventures of a Wet Retriever

It should come as no surprise that Boxer, my part-time Golden Retriever, loves the water. After all, it’s in his DNA. His obsession with retrieving sticks is, too.

So what do you get when you combine a golden retriever, a fast-flowing creek and  a stick?

A perpetual stick launcher.

After a brutal winter, it took a while before the creek’s water level subsided enough that Boxer could wade in. And I’m having a devil of a time getting him out.

A few times a day, as we venture along the Etobicoke Creek Trail a stone’s throw from my building, Boxer won’t budge past the first bench. It’s bright blue and shadowed by an ancient Weeping Willow that hides our special spot. We duck behind the tree, where there’s a slope down to the rushing water that makes a noisy business of meeting the rocks. There are piles of branches and sticks hurdled upon its banks we can use as ammunition, and a large, flat stone I cop a squat on with my book.

I only need to toss the stick once to keep him retrieving.

I aim for the creek’s deepest spot. Boxer captures it lustfully, and once he’s gotten in a good chew or two, he’ll pretend to look the other way, or roll over to ensure he’s evenly soaked.

Then he’ll look up suddenly and oh no! there it goes! Bobbing down the stream is his runaway stick!

He chases after it merrily, recapturing his prey with a thundering splash. Sometimes he’ll lay there in the water, a look of zen on his face, waiting and watching for ducks. He’s got the stick pinned between his paws, and will duck his head under occasionally to give it a disciplinary nip.

Finally, streaming water, Boxer will splash back upstream to his spot, where he’ll settle down with his stick and pretend to look the other way again until… Oh no! There it goes!

He’ll repeat as necessary until I beg him to come in.

Some days he won’t.

Delaying the inevitable, he’ll let the stick keep running away. Oops! I mean, he has to chase it, we can’t go home without it.

His next (mandated) stop is the lush grass in the park, where he puts his prey through the adoption process — he rolls on it —  just like The Happy Birthday Stick. Then we’ll play fetch until he decides he wants to finish it off, and will settle in the clover and chew it to bits.

But our forays into the deep have pitfalls.

For one thing, he stinks. Since he’s been going into the creek, Boxer has developed a robust aroma. I’m not sure if it’s the oil coming out of his coat, or the algae growing on the creek bed’s rocks, but something is making this puppy stinky. We’ve tried bathing him, but there’s still a cloud of odor around us.

He lost a stick to the rapids one day and it took me forever to convince him it was gone for good. Then there was the time we arrived upon a family of ducks cached along the bank. He made chase until he was utterly exhausted by reality — Boxer can’t swim as fast as a duck, and they like to tease.

We’ve also brought home a slimy souvenir. A retriever’s thick coat is the mother of high maintenance, and during a post-swim groom, I picked something black off his tail. I didn’t know what it was until I dropped it in the toilet — and it began to swim. A leech. So we steer clear of standing water now.

Some nights I’ll take him for a bonus swim before bed. When it’s hot and humid here I take pity on wearing fur. I try to keep these dips short, but ooops! there goes my stick again! and we’re there for a while.

And of course, there are times I can’t let him go in. It’s the end of the world. If the water level is too high, Boxer will act like the most neglected dog on earth. Sadder than sad, his big dopey brown eyes will fix upon me with a guilt-inducing gaze.

He’ll stop in front of the bench and refuse his walk. With planted feet and an ample 81 pounds, Boxer strains towards the call of the sea. He looks at me as if to say, “How can you deprive me of my destiny?”

It’s summer, and he’s been bred to swim and retrieve.

And he stinks.

 If you enjoyed this blog, you’ll love The Happy Birthday Stick:

https://thepatronsaintofdogs.com/2014/04/09/the-happy-birthday-stick/

and The Most Phobic Dog in the World

https://thepatronsaintofdogs.com/2014/03/14/the-most-phobic-dog-in-the-world/%20