Book Review

the new work of dogs
tending to life, love and family

by Jon Katz

reviewed by Rick Brown

Anyone familiar with the work of Jon Katz knows that his last book, A Dog Year, was a wonderful chronicle of the author's life…first with two loveable Labs…and later with the addition of two incredulous Border Collies. And it would be very easy to assume the new work of dogs…his latest…to be a sequel. Hardly. Instead Mr. Katz approaches his subject's behavior patterns by what he refers to as "attachment theory". This new book is as much about people as it is dogs … perhaps more so. It is an examination of how and why we get so attached emotionally to our dogs. Since dogs were originally bred to work…even if only for companionship... Katz surmises that in our modern society where families are smaller or spread across the country, that a dog's work has changed. People have different expectations of their dog than say 30 years ago.

The author begins the first chapter explaining that his hometown of Montclair, New Jersey is a good demographic of dog ownership and diverse population and economic standing…good enough to do solid research concerning American society in general. He dubs the town…and the beginning chapter…as Dogville, U.S.A. Sandwiched between Dogville and the summations of his epilogue "Dogville Revisited" are intriguing chapters of dog owners who allow themselves to be observed, interviewed and analyzed. Some of these stories will make you smile. And some of them…more than one would like to believe…will make you cry. It is incredibly difficult trying to read with wet eyes. But these are real tales of real people and real dogs. Mr. Katz does not tamper with the reality.

The reader meets many single dog owners living alone…either old, young or in-between. There are people with cancer…folks who are old and frail…families living far, far away … divorced … and the way they are presented makes them, their animals and the relationship between them relevant enough to make you examine your own "attachment" to your dog. Mr. Katz tells these tales fairly and with an ease, withholding blame or judgment. But he pulls no punches in doing so. More is expected of dogs in today's society. Many are neglected or abused…even abandoned…once their "job" of emotional support diminishes. The author makes it very clear there are too many people with dogs for all the wrong reason…that owners are too cheap to pay for training…or have misguided ideas about living with a dog. Although the book is written as an insight into people's relationships with dogs, Katz makes no effort to hide the fact that he loves dogs passionately. He clearly states that there is nothing inherently wrong with projecting human characteristics and emotions on our pets…as long as we remember they are still after all…dogs. I do this. I know a lot of folks who do this. But the point Mr. Katz makes is that dogs probably do not. A dog can never take the place of a relationship with another human being. But people sure try.

There is however, a good balance in the new work of dogs. There are many stories of dogs and people that are tender and heartwarming. The Dogville Jon Katz portrays is a wonderful tapestry of emotions, lifestyles, wanting, yearning, pain, love and pleasure. Betty Jean's relentless dedication to rescuing dogs…albeit obsession…could have been a book in itself.. And Trixie's work of watching over a dying Mrs. Giamatti … the dog's selfless devotion and loyalty is nothing short of inspirational. Once again Jon Katz refuses to turn this wonderful book into a heroic odyssey the likes of Lassie or Old Yeller, instead respecting our canine friends for what they truly are and can be for us. And after all his research and work, Mr. Katz wonders aloud why…in spite of our misunderstanding of our pets … the abuse and neglect…why do we not have rescue groups for humans? Why is so much money spent on toys, treats…even costumes and parties…for dogs…yet school levies fail…libraries close…medical treatment is withheld to those in our species?

Questions abound in this glorious read…and many answers also. I have lived with at least one dog for 47 of my 51 years. And yet I learned much about my very own dog from this delightful book. It's easy to think…myself included…when my pup Henri tilts his little head when I speak to him in that cute way, that he actually knows the words I'm saying…that he thinks them sometimes himself. No one knows. And the answer is probably not. I can't be cynical enough to believe dogs are social parasites adept in getting what they want from humans. Some people do. But what I've learned through experience…and from Jon Katz's books about dogs…is that maybe it doesn't matter. As long as the relationship is between my dog and myself…not me and my replacement for another person…why should it really matter? I think it's as simple as this … and I believe Mr. Katz would agree. The next time you get angry because you weren't home for 12 hours and your dog peed on the floor ask yourself this, "When was the last time I went 12 hours without taking a leak?" Sometimes we expect more from our dog than we do from ourselves. And the next time your dog is giving you pleasure…kissing you…making you feel loved … wanted … remember this. They love you. But perhaps they are only doing their job.

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Bocephus Hoser Thane…aka Bo

By Karl Gruber

"GOOBER!" I half yelled out loud (one of his silly pet names) with more than a tinge of frustration sounding in my voice. That was my first word to my buddy, my traveling companion, Bo, my 12 yr. old Golden Retriever. After the two of us had lived the past year on the Big Island of Hawaii, he had just been unloaded off the plane we had just flown to San Francisco. As I walked up to his cage, I was over-powered by the intense smell of dog poop emanating from his direction. The airport baggage personnel were both chuckling, and holding their noses as I embarrassingly claimed my stinky buddy. I couldn't be mad at him, because I suppose that if I had been stuck in a small cage for 7 or 8 hours, and flown in the belly of a jumbo jet across the Pacific, I too would have had the same result. After all he was just an animal, right?

Sandy

By Rick Brown

When I was a very young boy…5 or 6…we had a tan and white Cocker Spaniel named Sandy. I'm not sure exactly when he became a member of the Brown family…or whose idea it was to get him. After all, my mother was already home with 4 kids under the age of 6. Still…it could very well have been her idea. What's one dog when you already have a house full of four screaming kids? And of course she got stuck with the feeding and general care of the dog…most mothers…especially in 1957 did. Perhaps we weren't typical…poor…four kids…HEY! Let's get another mouth to feed! However it came to pass, my earliest memories include a playful dog we lovingly called Sandy.

Now if you've never been around a Cocker Spaniel before let me tell you about it. Sandy LOVED to bark. We had a big fenced in yard and when we weren't trying to get him into our inflatable wading pool with us…the pool my dad would hyperventilate blowing up…then Sandy would either bite or poke with a claw so dad would have to patch it and blow up again…you could find Sandy running back and forth along the front of the fence barking ferociously at passing cars. He wore paths along the fence. He was that dedicated. Of course since we were all so small, we did spend considerable time playing with our doggie friend.

My mother used to tell this story about how Sandy once bit my youngest brother Don…only my sister Kathy was younger. And mom would proudly exclaim, "So Donny BIT HIM BACK!!" Even as a small child I felt as if my mom was mythologizing the tale. Knowing my brother as I did at the time…and still do…I theorized that Sandy was probably minding his own business when Donny waddled up to the dog and bit him FIRST! However it happened, the story came from my mother and that was that. There apparently were no witnesses.

Sandy was with us constantly. Even when we weren't playing together, we were all out in the backyard playing, while the pooch raced back and forth on either side of the house along the fence, yelping as if he were chasing the Devil himself away from us. And as with every dog after him…when he got real bored…especially if the four of us other pack members weren't around…he would sneak out of the fence. About 15 minutes later he would slink back into the yard with one of the chickens from a coop a couple houses down the street. Much to our chagrin Sandy was not bringing a chicken home to play with. It was more like a trip to Doggie Kentucky Fried Chicken…without all the breading and grease. But despite his dog-ness everyone in our family…including my father…looked at him as a member of the family. "You can't have dogs AND furniture." my dad would say. (He said the same of children.) But we all loved Sandy more than any sofa that's for sure. He watched TV with us…so to speak…slept in our beds…ate our food (along with his own.)

One time Sandy tried to go down the basement stairs. We lived in an old farmhouse. The basement had a dirt floor and quarry stone walls. He fell and broke his leg. And even though we were poor my parents took him to the vet. He came home with a cast on his leg…a rounded metal rod poked out from under the plaster…beneath his paw so he wouldn't put weight on it while it healed. I can still remember vividly all of us kids charging into the kitchen…Sandy right on our heals…and when he hit the linoleum with that metal brace he went sprawling on his chest…then jumped up…wagged his tail and begged for something. Sandy knew he had it good. And we thought the same at the time.

On a very hot, humid summer day Sandy was chasing cars back and forth along the fence when he slipped a disc in his spine. He couldn't walk…just dragged his back legs behind him. My father took him to see the vet. A couple hours later he brought him home. The vet told him there was nothing he could do. They had no surgery for animals for things such as this back then. But there was a glimmer of hope. We were to put Sandy on the back porch in a kid's playpen. Apparently, on rare occasion a disc will slip back into place. At least that 's what we were told.

We all hoped for the best. But it was extremely hot. And Sandy was miserable. Flies buzzed around the poor dog as if he were no longer amongst the living. None of us wanted to think what we inevitably were thinking. Than one day Sandy bit my Dad…and it became obvious that this was no longer the Sandy who playfully bit holes into our inflatable wading pool. My father got a tarp out of the garage and…after we said our tearful goodbyes…wrapped our playmate carefully in it. He gently placed Sandy in the backseat of our old Ford.

My mom, brothers and sister filed into the house in silence. I stayed to watch the car leave. As I stood there alongside the house I'm sure my father assumed we were all inside. I looked past the windshield and saw my father…this gruff cantankerous man…crying like a baby. I had never seen him cry before. His heart was breaking and so was mine. The scene didn't last long…but it's burnt into my brain. The heat of summer. The suffering of Sandy. The pain in our hearts.

Upon his return we carefully put Sandy's lifeless but peaceful body into a burlap bag and took him out to an apple tree at the beginning of the orchard. Beneath it we dug a hole…said more goodbyes…and covered him over. My father painted a large rock with silver paint. It was the only color he had at the time. And after it dried we put it at the head of Sandy's grave with the notion of putting his name on it at a later date. That never happened. Life goes on. We knew it was Sandy.

Every once in a while I would just go stand over that silver rock. Even after I went to college sometimes I would go back there and just think about my childhood…this yapping Cocker Spaniel…and my family. About the bliss life can provide if you let it…and the inevitable for all living creatures. I saw my father cry only once more in my lifetime. That was the day he looked down at my mother on her deathbed and spoke these words. "I love you. We were poor…but we had fun." And he cried.

Early on in our family life…Sandy was the big reason we had fun.