One thing I love about dogs is that they live in the moment. I know there are cat lovers out there too, but I feel that cats, who are smart and worldly, know just a little too much about my personal life.
But dogs are like the poster children for whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Whatever happened five minutes ago is long forgotten, forgiven and forever lost in a brain the size of a walnut. Don’t get defensive, now; I say this with all due respect, since my own brain power is only as big as a sliver of spinach. That memory loss includes admonishments about getting on the couch, barking over and over again at the sliding patio doors, and stealing loaves of bread off the counter. And that’s just my memory loss. For dogs, the look you’ll get is always: Who, me?
Recently, I visited my granddogs, a Golden Retriever the size of an aircraft carrier, who has the attitude of someone who has just won the Miss America crown, and a Black Lab who is built like a heavily financed new building that could house an NBA team.
As soon as I pulled into the driveway, they rounded the corner from behind the house and put on the brakes; one look at the luggage and they realized they had hit the dog jackpot: treats, guest bedroom and best of all, no rules! Only baby talk would ruin that dream. Contrary to popular belief, dogs really despise baby talk. They greeted me like the Allies had landed.
Between the joyous sobbing and throwing themselves on the ground, I made a break for it. I reached the back door before they pulled themselves together and realized that I wouldn’t be used as a tackling dummy.
The two posed outside the window like innocents seen on the family Christmas card. You know, the card where they are all dressed alike, sitting in front of a fireplace and the dog is in the middle with a matching Norwegian sweater.
But it’s all worth it when Nan, as they call me, arrives. Because dogs love their visitors. Oh, it’s not just the chance to wear those tiaras on their heads, the ones with the antennae. They can tolerate that peculiar human idea of fun. And it’s not being seen walking on a leash wearing a complicated hoodie. No, the idea of dressing up in clothes is excusable, considering what insane attire their owners wear. I mean, black tights with an enormous butt sticking out? Get real.
No, the beauty of the visit is the garbage can. It rules this time of year.
They sense this is baking and sautéing season, and don’t forget the mother lode of sugar that gets dumped in the can. Butter is everywhere. The mutts at the dog park think shoes, especially stilettoes, are real boss food, but intelligent dogs have given up the habit in favor of the gingerbread house at this time of year. Now that is some down-home eatin’.
The other great thing about a visit is the entire family goes shopping. Ergo, the house is empty. The people are gone for hours. Dogs love to be home alone. No more enforced rules. They can watch cooking shows, CSI and their classic favorite movie, “Hotel Chihuahua.”
Except for one fly in the ointment. Dog forensics. This is a little-known field to them. I check the beds and the sofa, and there is the evidence, the indentation. It’s a like a perfect chalk outline at a crime scene.
We know the forensic conclusion, we know the verdict and we know the broken rule. But it’s the visit, so we both look the other way. Let the canine season begin, for they are back to the beach.
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Nancy Katz has a degree in creative writing and is the author of the book, "Notes from the Beach." She has written the column Around Town for the Cape Gazette for twenty years. Her style is satirical and deals with all aspects of living in a resort area on Delmarva.
