Dog Hater

I hate dogs. I have always hated dogs. The worst kind are farm dogs. No chain or rope or leash. They roam free. As a small child, I was often knocked over by large, friendly, farm dogs. I remember hiding in the Bayberry bushes at Grandma's house. I'd spotted the Irish Setter crossing a nearby field, and I panicked. I couldn't make it back to the house, so I wedged myself into the stiff, scratchy cover. The dog sniffed me out, curse him. He licked my face. I almost cried.

There was the Dalmatian puppy my dad brought home when I was five. She liked to bite ankles. Dad wanted to name her Candy because of her sweet disposition. The irony. I prayed she would die. A few weeks later, God answered my prayer. That last afternoon as Candy suffered in our back yard, barely able to move, I petted her soft, soft ears. Sick dogs aren't so mean, I thought. I was almost sorry when she died.

My dad was always bringing home dogs. Rusty was a Cocker Spaniel with long, matted hair. Copper was a terrier or rat of some kind. We never really discovered which. They killed my pet rabbit and taught me about worms (little, white, wriggling masses in their fecies). I checked my own bowel movements religiously for a year to make sure I hadn't somehow contracted the parasite. Even now, 20 years later, I sometimes check (just in case). They were found dead on the highway with some cheap floozie of a German Shepherd, victims of a very lucky driver (three in one).

For my 13th birthday, Dad brought home a Doberman. We got along ok. She was quiet and well trained. On long walks, neighbor dogs atacked her instead of me. There were others: Shadow, who had a fresh litter every six or seven months; Bear, who attacked a friend in defense of my brother. (Along with the friendship, Bear also destroyed every Nintendo game controller in the hosue. He was put down by the vet before his first birthday.) Chewie wore a plastic dish on his neck and spit out pills for his skin problem. Louis liked our house better than his own. I carried him home (half-mile walk) at least once every other week or so. The Unnamed Puppy was run down by my schoolbus driver (along with two of our cats).

As I'm writing, the dog across the street is yelping. Her bark of welcome sounds more like a response to physical abuse, like the sound a dog makes when hit by a car or a heavy, blunt object. (Don't ask. I just know.)

I'm grown up now and have no dog of my own. Instead, I have certain understandings with dogs I know. Bingo is one of the less intellectual of my new friends. I watch him when the folks are out of town. He celebrates my visits with barking leaps and slobbery whines. I hate slobber. I get impatient and leave the room. Five minutes later, I return. Bingo, pleasantly surprised by my appearance, greets me with leaping barks and whiny slobber. I leave the room. When I return, five minutes later, Bingo goes through the whole act again as if I have been gone for years rather than minutes. We sometimes play this game (so much like Peek-a-Boo) for hours, or at least until Bingo is too exhausted to continue.

Mattie is an old, fat Dalmatian who tolerates my presence. She likes to bark. At her house, I never ring the doorbell. Instead, I lightly tap at the door. She barks in frenzied fashion. As she gains confidence that the house is secure, I tap again. We once tapped and barked to each other for 47 minutes. (Like the boy who cried, "Wolf!" Mattie's barks often go ignored.) She has amazing stamina.

Sometimes, I feel guilty. I wonder: If dogs are man's best friend, is it fair for me (a man) to hate them so? Is it just? Could I unwittingly nullify the prehistoric friendship contract? Then I remember something I saw on PBS and breathe a sigh of relief. In some countries, they eat dogs.