“Do any of your dogs sleep 18 hours a day?”
I was worried that Ray, our 2-year-old, 16-pound, 48% chihuahua, 18% beagle, 7% dachshund, 4% chow chow, and 2% rottweiler– despite the fact he was running circles around his 4-legged compadres in the dog park– might have something seriously wrong.
Also, he was gaining weight.
“I’d take him to the vet and have him tested for hypothyroidism,” ventured one of the dog parents who meet every afternoon at 4:00 in the park reserved for small canines. None of their dogs—not Joey or Django or Toby or Flumpy or Ozzy or Lizzie, or P.D. (which stands for “Paul’s Dog”), or Ella or Rocky or Merle– seemed to be sleeping their lives away.
I made the appointment the next day.
“His bloodwork’s all normal,” said the vet who’s ministered to our beloved dogs over the past 20-odd years—Tess the pit bull, Maggie the chocolate lab, Bix the sleek black dalmatian mix, and Pippa, our scruffy, odd-looking darling– who had so many breeds in her and was built like a warthog, that we called her a Dr. Seuss Terrier.
“I know you have a pretty chill household. It would be different if you had a bunch of 4-year-olds running around. I think he’s just settled into your routine”
Which I thought was very tactful but just confirmed my fears that our bright little creature, who somehow survived the first two years of his life as a stray on the streets of Houston before he was bussed north to New England, had lost the lottery and ended up with the world’s most boring dog parents.
Until the other day.
The night before, we had noticed that Ray was showing an intense interest in our pushed-up-against-the-wall hall table, the one with the low-to-the-ground shelf. Back and forth, around the three sides he paced, pushing his nose under the shelf, sniffing as if he were a tester in a perfume factory.
“A mouse,” my husband surmised, and sure enough, when we moved the table a smidge, a tiny grey fur ball scurried out, squeezed under the door to the garage, and was gone. Ray spent the next half hour sniffing around the table, the hall, and the door to the garage, and then resumed his after-dinner, pre-bedtime nap.
The next day, following his 9-hour beauty sleep in our bed, his morning walk, breakfast, his after-breakfast pee, and his post-breakfast 2-hour nap, Ray started sniffing around my husband’s office. This time, the parameters were wider than the hall table. He seemed especially interested in the built-in corner desk.
We watched for a while, so entranced by this little miracle who’d come into our lives seven months before, scarcely a month after we’d lost our precious Pippa to cancer, but then we got hungry, and left Ray to his sniffing, while we went to the kitchen to get lunch. We figured the dog would follow, since “lunch” and “dinner” were his two favorite words (oh, yes, and “chicken” –that 5- pound weight gain didn’t come out of nowhere).
“If feeding him from the table is a bonding thing for you,” said the vet after I’d confessed to slipping him morsels of our dinner (I was too embarrassed to mention “lunch”), “Just feed him less at his meals.” I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger to show him that all the nibbles had only added up to about the size of a quarter.
“He’s 16 pounds. That’s like me eating a steak.”
The vet had a point. All of our other dogs had been big, but we were now in our late 70s and had opted for a smaller companion this time.
So, where was Ray that noon, as I was making chicken salad sandwiches with leftovers from the roast chicken he had scarfed down the night before?
Still in the office.
“Fine,” said my husband. “Let him be. We won’t have to share our lunch.” Yes, the operative word was “our.” My husband was also guilty of slipping a bite or two or three under the table, because who could resist those adorable almost-too-big-for-his-face chihuahua eyes staring up at you?
We were just about to tuck into our sandwiches, when Ray trotted into the kitchen.
He was not alone.
Head held high, and tail in the air like a plume, Ray presented us with his catch. It wasn’t the expected mouse, but rather a large– and very dead– chipmunk.
I gasped and then with a plastic poop bag-encased hand, gently extracted the unfortunate critter from Ray’s mouth. I thanked him for the offering then noticed the lack of blood (thank God, or it might have been a shriek instead of a gasp). The chipmunk’s neck did not appear to be broken, either. Our victorious soldier, toting the spoils of war, had probably not engaged in a fight at all. I imagine the poor little rodent, cornered (probably literally, under the corner desk) by the massive
beast, had probably died of fright, as stressed chipmunks often do.
After getting a few bites of sandwich (it was after all, chicken), Ray went back to the office to circle and sniff. And maybe to get lucky for a second time.
That afternoon, he didn’t nap at all.