GAGE IS A TEENAGER!

One dog year equals seven for the owner?

It turns out the math isn’t quite that simple.

 

I wanted a ‘manly dog.’ So mine hails from Texas, that’s manly country, right? The good folks that brought him into the world out near Henrietta (pop. 3000+, about 100 miles NW of Fort Worth) named him GAGE. A manly name. So I kept it. A name to live up to. And “believe you me,” as my mother used to say, he’s doin’ it, partner.

 

LOVE

I met GAGE at the airport when he was 3 months old and weighed 24 pounds. I had just arrived home from Israel. Still in his a shipping crate, he was cute, furry and innocent. That was then. He just celebrated his first birthday (27 June 2017). Here’s what he looks like now at 65 pounds. They say large dogs reach maturity at 18 months to 2 years. We’ve still  a ways to grow.

 

PATIENCE

He peed on my carpet the first day and often thereafter. He has chewed through several  leashes, countless expensive toys (24-48 hours until they are garbage), electric light cords, socks, computer cords, sticks, almost anything—his teeth and jaws are like the fearsome Mosasaurus, currently playing a role in the new dinosaur flick you may have heard about. What does a Mosasaurus eat? Ask GAGE.

 

PEACE

When GAGE is not chewing up other stuff, he chews up treats and dog food by the bags full. When I’m not buying a new leash or a fifty pound bag of BilJac’s, I’m at the veterinarian’s office, a place GAGE loves to go (don’t ask). I tell the vet GAGE loves her, but to me she’s like a monthly car payment.

 

JOY

My son-in-law, Mark, took GAGE on morning trail hikes recently in the Cascades, near Lake Chelan, Washington. Alone in the forest, off leash, he bounded up and down trails like a convict on parole. By the time they returned each day, he fell to the floor in a hairy heap and spent the afternoon snoring.

 

SELF CONTROL

GAGE and I walked to Safeway the other day, just six blocks from our home. I told him to sit, and put my foot on his leash like his trainer taught me to do. While I am explaining to the clerk what I want, I must have inadvertently moved my foot. The next thing I hear is a shout, “Dog loose!”

 

I look up in time to see GAGE at the far end of a long aisle. I shout, “GAGE!” He turns, looks at me, wags his tail, and disappears around the corner. Running down the aisle, I round the corner just in time to see GAGE, standing up, with both front paws on the display counter and his nose in dog heaven, buried between cool packages of hamburger and chicken. I cry out again, “GAGE, come here!”

 

GOODNESS

He looks up, wags his tail at me again, then takes off running as I manage to step on the end of his leash. It slows him long enough for us both to slip and fall to the floor. He is scrambling to his feet, and I’m flat out as I grab his hind quarters with both hands, then turn loose to reach for the leash that is trailing past. Wrestling him to the floor, we look at each other. He is panting, tongue drooling, and tail wagging wildly with happiness. Actually, I’m pretty much the same. Is this a great game or what!

 

KINDNESS

By the time I gather myself and GAGE into a sitting position on the meat market aisle in Safeway’s flagship grocery store, we are encircled by clerks and customers laughing at the show we had just put on. I think a few were hoping for pawgraphs, but we didn’t wait around for the store manager.

 

Last evening at our condo board meeting, he slept through the whole two hours. “Look at that, isn’t he cute?” “Such a beautiful dog.” “And well mannered, too.” “He really belongs in our community.” Mmm. If his neighbor’s only knew.

 

The next day is one of those “dog days.” I’m trying to get some writing done and GAGE is having nothing to do with it. I gave him three “calm treats” this morning, we went for two long walks, we rough-housed, we played indoors and out, and still he sits here looking at me, growling his best throaty “put-your-iPad-down-and-pay-me-some-attention growl, as if to say, OK, what’s next? He is bored, I’m sure, as I watch him destroy his latest toy.

 

If you own a dog, you know the rule, one dog year equals seven for the owner? It turns out the math isn’t quite that simple. Dogs mature more quickly than we do early on. In a large dog, like GAGE, the first year is equal to about fifteen human years. From pup to teenager in one short year? No wonder he’s wired and I’m exhausted!

 

GENTLENESS

Yet after all is said and done, tonight he lays by my bed, breathing softly a well-earned sleep. His powerful, rust colored body, and big paws at the ends of long stretched out legs, are all reminders of passersby on foot and in cars today who called out as we were walking, “I love your dog.”

 

FAITHFULNESS

I imagine he’s sleeping here close by my bedside tonight to protect me, and perhaps he is. Or maybe he’s just a teenage dog with separation anxiety. One thing is becoming clear as he and I leave his first dog year behind. We are both pretty sure dogs and people know how to love one another. It’s what God intended.

 

Yes, GAGE is a good dog. Except when he’s not.