I have always had dogs, at least one, my entire childhood and young adult life. A series of purebreds and pot hounds that I lovingly tended and cossetted and spoiled. In order of appearance: Jinx, Tommy, Gasparee, Rusty, Zulu, Skippy, Benji, Nikki, Lady, Jolie, Kyrie, Toddy, and lastly, weighing in at a hundred and twenty pounds, my beloved Marley. I say “my” Marley, but he belongs in fact to my sons. In theory.
Christian has wanted a dog since he was old enough to say so, well before he was two. I want one, he’d beg. I need one. Please Mama.
Well Mama was more than willing, but Daddy, not having been raised with pets, was resistant. I’d beg on their behalf. I’d plead. I’d offer bribes. But nothing ever worked. Until the Daddy of the family had a serious illness, almost lost his life, and came back home to his children to find that for that time of convalescence he could deny them nothing. This period of vulnerability happened to coincide with the whelping of my friend Taryn’s golden retriever Colby. Colby and her mate Jack, (both named after cheese) were barely a year old when they conceived their first unplanned litter. I suppose they were the canine equivalents of teen-aged parents, wild and hormonal and for one fleeting moment, inadequately supervised. Colby produced a fine bundle of red and blonde retrievers. More than a dozen in all. Being no more than a puppy herself this horde of demanding younglings so terrified her that she would run and hide when she saw them coming. As a result the babies were hand reared by Taryn and her sister Taunya – grueling and exhausting work. But joyful too I imagine.
When they were weaned, Taryn offered us a pup, for almost nothing. The possibility of a new puppy was discussed at length with the children. What their responsibilities would be. What I would help with and what I wouldn’t. My friend Christine, a lover of the breed, brought over her beautiful golden rescue, Shadow, for the boys to test drive. Shadow was huge and rambunctious. The boys fell in love immediately.
The following weekend we went to Taryn’s house to choose a puppy. Most of them were already spoken for with the exception of one male and a single female. I told Taryn that we’d have the boy as my children had a strong preference. We’d call him Marley as an homage to Bob.
I remember sitting on the steps of the deck at my friend’s house as she released the puppies from where they were penned. The horde rushed over and pounced on me in an onslaught of huge paws, big heads, pink tongues and sweet puppy breath. The boys were delighted. Which one was theirs, they wanted to know.
Well, said Taryn, none of these.
She pointed to the side of the deck where the hose was kept and the ground was damp and slushy. There, in a mud puddle lay a goodly sized pup, sleeping, with his black nose squished deep in the sludge.
There he is, she said. There’s Marley.
She called to the pup. He made no response. Then she scooped him up and brought him over. He looked up at us with enormous brown eyes and seemed unmoved. He did not smile. But Christian did. He opened his arms to receive the puppy and bent his lips to the silky, muddy head.
Hello Marley, he whispered.
He was beautiful.
They each took turns holding him and kissing him. I noticed that when the children spoke to him or attempted to bring their faces level with his, Marley would turn his head away. When Marley was returned to the ground, he turned and walked away, and resettled himself in his mud puddle.
I don’t know, I told Taryn. I find him standoffish. Was she sure that there were no other males available.
No, she said. All the others were spoken for.
I encouraged the boys to play with Marley, to see if he’d warm up to them any. And he did, marginally. So I agreed, with trepidations. He just did not fit my mental image of puppy. Too solitary. Too independent. I so wanted this to be the experience that they’d dreamed about. But the boys were adamant. They did not care if he was not friendly, they said. They wanted that puppy. So we left to prepare for Marley’s homecoming. Purchased a bed, and a crate, bowls, toys, a blanket and food and returned to collect Marley the following weekend.
Marley trembled in my lap on the ride home. When we got to the house he took a cursory look around and went to sleep, looking overwhelmed. That night he cried and sobbed and grieved and yelped in his crate in Liam’s room. I took him out and lay him in my lap and he continued to cry. I wrapped him in the scarf that Taryn had sent us home with, bathed in the scent of his mother and littermates. He cried louder. Not knowing what else to do, I put him on my shoulder and walked him, singing the songs that had soothed my baby humans. Eventually he slept. But the next night, again, the crying and grieving continued.
The boys were still finishing the school year but I was at home. I began toilet training and leash learning. Had him practice walking up and down the stairs.Took him with me when I gardened. Discovered that he loved the hose. Was dismayed that he enjoyed digging so much. I took him to the woods and the field and let him off the leash to explore. His baby legs were not very fast which made him easy to catch, unlike now. And all through it I talked to him. And eventually he began to follow me although he’d never come when called unless I had food.
Eventually he became a handful. Willful and stubborn and extremely destructive. And huge. He seemed bigger by the day. The vet suggested teething gel to easy the chewing and gnawing but it did not help. Marley also ripped open pillows and disemboweled stuffed toys, chewed shoes and shredded paper. He had to be watched all the time and wore a leash, even when in the house. As he grew he would have to be handled carefully outside the house as he seemed continually hell bent upon escape, as though he was a wild thing yearning for freedom. He has run at least a dozen times and it takes forever to catch him again. The bigger he got, the stronger and faster he became. And the faster he got the more secure he was in his knowledge that he could not be caught until he was ready to stop running. Thankfully he always stops running. Eventually. But he is microchipped just in case. It’s all an elaborate game. He breaks free and runs away at a speed. He looks back to see who is following, and then runs some more. He darts around us in circles, smiling broadly and panting, until eventually he sits and allows himself to be leashed. This process tends to happen faster if someone has a Dorito handy. One day the wind blew the back door open. I was roused from what I was doing by a long plaintive wail. I looked for Marley all over the house thinking he’d gotten stuck somewhere or shut in a room. Eventually I realize the sound is coming from outside. I go out and find Marley sitting by the swing set, looking at the open door, crying and trembling. He was confused. This was not how the game was meant to be played. He’s supposed to run and Mama is supposed to give a loud frantic chase. Does Mama maybe not care if he runs away? He follows me closely the rest of the morning. I reassure him continually that he is my boy, and I promise to chase him the next time he runs. But I am assured now that he’ll never really run away.
Marley learned commands easily enough. He could sit on command and lie down when told to. He learned early that offering his paw would more often than not result in a treat being offered in response. But he was still difficult to manage outside the house and would try to pull away when he was walked. He would also not waste any opportunities presented to bully the baby. Ethan was five and tiny when we brought Marley home. By the time Marley was six months old he outweighed and outsized our youngest child and he knew it. As soon as he found himself alone with Ethan he would often knock him down, grab his toys, take whatever Ethan was eating. Shockingly, he learned to take Ethan’s long curls in his mouth, and pull, making the baby cry. Marley clearly saw himself as ranking higher on the totem pole than a mere kindergartener. This behavior earned the puppy a trip to the vet’s for neutering , and obedience classes on his first birthday. Both fell short of the expected result.
After the neutering he continued to threaten male dogs and to attempt to woo females. I am certain that whatever science may say, Marley makes testosterone in some other organ. His spleen perhaps. In the obedience classes he was introduced to the correction collar and learned to heel, to stay, to come but once again, only if treats were offered. You have to have a firm hand with him, the trainer said. He’s bright and has got you all figured out. In this respect he is much like the children of the house.
I see his trainer, Bruce, from time to time as he lives near here. How’s that monster he always asks. Monstrous, I always reply.
My mother, as I have mentioned elsewhere, lived with us for many years and was with us when she suffered her final illness. In those dark days my Marley was a great comfort to us all, especially to my sons. My mother spoiled him, as she did all the children. There’s my golden boy, she’d say. There’s Marley. One day towards the end of her illness I was at home with her, I had just settled her in bed and left the room as she slept. I was downstairs in Christian’s room on the computer when Marley comes in, stands in the doorway and stares at me long and hard.
No, I say. I’m busy. Go lie down.
I am thinking that he must want a walk but he has already been taken out.
Marley walks over to me, stares again, turns and walks to the door and looks over his shoulder. He barks.
Nope, I say. Not getting any more to eat either.
Marley growls.
And don’t you dare be rude, I say, still typing.
Marley barks.
Shut up, I say, you’ll wake Grandma.
Marley comes over to me again and, curiously, sneezes. Then sneezes again.
He then takes my arm in his teeth and pulls, hard.
I stop writing, puzzled. He starts barking oddly. More of a howl than a bark. I stand up and he sneezes again, and runs to the door and looks back.
It is a definite “Lassie moment.”
I leave the room and go upstairs and go into my mother’s bedroom where I find her crumpled on the floor. She had tried to leave her bed unaided and had fallen. And Marley heard, knew something was wrong and that my attention was required. I thought only dogs in movies did such things.
Through this difficult time I remember lying on Liam’s bed with the children- arms and legs entwined, drawing strength from each other. I remember Marley’s comforting presence. His head on my leg. Warm breath on my skin. Liquid brown eyes gazing up.
But we took a while to get here. This love came slowly. Which is to say, Marley’s love came slowly. Ours was immediate. His was tentative. But once our bond was sealed, it was sealed forever. I know in my heart that this dog who is afraid of thunder and is unsure in the dark would fight a mountain lion for me, would protect his boys with his life. I hope we never have to test that.
Across the street from our house there is a rental property- people come and go. This day I am sitting where I am now at my computer, pretending to write. Marley is looking out the low windows and is growling fiercely, baring his teeth, hackles raised, fierce as a dire wolf. There are new tenants moving in across the way. He looks and me and barks. Then faces the street again and continues his menacing growl, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Well, I think, they do look a mite dubious.
I try to calm Marley but he won’t be distracted. He goes to the front door and lays his body across the threshold. There is a window light to one side of the door where he can keep an eye on the suspected ax murderers across the street and every time his glances back at them he emits a dangerous sounding guttural hiss. He lies there, hyperalert, keeping vigil, until I hear the mail truck and, eager for a distraction from the chapter I am barely writing. I rise to go out to fetch the mail. If I am lucky there will be some new catalogs I can waste more time investigating.
But Marley won’t move.
Move, I say.
Come on Marley. Up, up!
He stares at me, immobile.
I reach for the doorknob and he growls again, this time at me.
Do not be ridiculous. You can’t guard me. Move! And I open the door and attempt to slide him out of the way. Eventually he permits me by, and I take him with me to the mailbox, on the leash. I wave at the new neighbors and one of the miscreants dares to wave back and bid me good morning. This is way too much for Marley. He lunges forward like an attack dog and it takes all my strength and dexterity to maneuver him back into the house.
He is thinking – you don’t get Mama buddy. Not on my watch.
Thinking, you may ask. Yes, thinking.
Marley thinks. I know he does. I have seen him do it.
He is, as I mentioned, perpetually on a leash. When he walks through the house the end of the leash may occasionally snag on the leg of a piece of furniture. Marley will turn, see where the leash has snagged, and pull it free with his mouth. If I need him to stay in one spot while I do something elsewhere I have learned that just looping the leash handle over a doorknob will not work. He will simply use his teeth and work the loop over the knob. So I started tying a knot but have also learned not to leave him too long. One day I tied him to the pantry door and went upstairs. Some minutes later Marley comes to find me. When I look at the knob later I can see smears of blood. He had worked the knot loose with his mouth, injuring his gum as he did so. I have seen him once when very young, spread his blanket over the cold floor of his crate, the blanket having become bunched up at one end on a particularly cold winter morning. Marley clearly, can problem solve.
He has a vocabulary, mostly to do with food. If you want to see a very, very happy dog, mention that pizza is coming. He also knows “cheese” and “cookie” and the very popular “peanut butter.” He also understands the word “eat”. Ask him if he’d like to and he will pick up his metal food bowl and bang it on the tile floor; something he does every night if dinner is not forthcoming with speed. There are times when he’s pacing and agitated and the boys will be at a loss as to what he needs. I’ll look at him. He’ll look at me. And I’ll say – he wants to go outside.
I’ll get a sneeze in response. That’s a “yes”. Then a single bark. That’s a vehement “yes”.
How do you know they ask? I’m his mother, I answer.
Marley loves his boys. With Timothy, the oldest, he is obedient and respectful as this is for sure the alpha of the pack. With Liam, he is affectionate but sometimes intolerant. When Marley is tired of Liam’s games he will freeze him with a withering stare, turn his back and saunter rudely away. With Ethan-Jonah, he has declared a truce, especially since the baby has done some growing of his own and cannot be knocked over as easily. But if it came to a hand to paw battle for a sandwich, Marley knows who’d win. For this reason Ethan is cautioned to eat only at the table or be prepared to give up the peanut butter. With Christian, that child with an affinity for all animals, there is a symbiosis. Christian talks conversationally to Marley even more than I do. This dog would follow that boy into a maelstrom without a backward glance. I am sure of it.
Sadly Marley has never developed a relationship with the father of the family. Daddy still does not like dogs and the dog knows this and they generally ignore each other with the exception of the day Daddy came home unexpectedly from a trip wearing a bomber jacket, gloves and an unfamiliar hat. That was not a good night.
With me Marley is extremely affectionate and protective as though he knows I generally stumble through my days and may need extra watching. He knows the last bite of my steak and the crust of my pizza will always be his. When I return from errands it is the cause for celebration. When I come home from a long trip he is beside himself with joy. I know that a dog is not supposed to be aware of the passage of time, but he is. With apologies to Kyrie and Jolie and Toddy and the rest of the pack that I loved so well, I have to say that I have never known such a dog as this.
When he is playing with the boys I need only sit and say – come to Mama Marley- and he rushes over, the game forgotten. He sits before me and clasps my arm with both paws, holding tight.
Why? Why does he love you so much, the children always ask.
And I always reply – I’m his mother.
Raising Cain 