His name is Monty. I bought him with that handle.
Got the dog used, or as they say in the auto aftermarket sales industry, “pre-owned.” In the vernacular favored by pet people, the expression is “rescue dog,” but for me this conjures up an image of a St. Bernard benignly slushing to my rescue with a wooden jug of brandy hanging around his neck.
This dog’s a terrier. A fox terrier, A wire haired fox terrier, to be more precise.
He was a show dog, but finished out of the money so many times that he went up for bid.
Good family dog, I was told. Good with children, too. But if I liked children, I’d have created them. Instead, I own a dog.
Most people are too polite to ask why I don’t have progeny, so they ask about the dog. For example, “Is he friendly?”
My response: He has enough friends, thank you. Or, He Is. I’m Not.
Having a dog often means dealing with a lot of marginal adorables comprising the dog-walking guild.
How these tribalists qualify as canine care givers, mystifies me. They ferry their charges about in beat up vans and station wagons (yes such vehicles still exist) and let them loose in city parks or beaches where they can freely fight, urinate, and evacuate their bowels.
Pet supply stores are unpleasant, too. Usually staffed with clerks tattooed from stem to stern. Blue hair is not uncommon, nor are several piercings. Sexual ambiguity is a shared value here, even where dogs are concerned. As with staffers at the vet’s office, they inquire about Monty’s testicles. Why isn’t he “fixed”?
He’s not broken, I reply.
Vets, (animal physicians – not foreign war survivors) sometimes ask the same question, observing that male dogs live longer if they are castrated.
No, Herr Doktor, it only seems longer.
Have you a query about the breed? You are not alone. These terriers generally go far in the Westminster Trials, and they were made famous in the “Thin Man” movies.
The dog – Asta – was never groomed properly and his detective owner was always ginned up. So we actually do have a great deal in common.
Men want to know if the dog is a “babe magnet.” Well, yes, after a fashion.
We are often approached on our walks about town by beautiful young women.
The romantic tension and attraction manifests itself in many ways, but in the end, they want to sleep with Monty, not with a little old man mutilated by botched surgeries and battle scars.
Finally, it seems clear that Monty’s walks have been complicated by another recent urban phenomena: sidewalk yoga.
In their pursuit of fitness and spiritual oneness with the universe, spandex-clad clusters of limp and lithe exercisers pronate on the pavement once reserved for pedestrians.
I liken it to the Occupy Movement…only for rich people. “Downward Dog” anyone?
We walkers long ago adjusted to the challenges introduced by skateboarders and riders of other wheeled conveyances, but this new wrinkle has dogs confused.