Seeing the Syndrome

Murphy had no clue yesterday was Halloween. 

He could feel it, though. He raced around the house, more so than usual, and barked at me as I moved back and forth, from room to room. I tried to ignore him. The decorations were relatively non-existent this year, though I did manage to find a few pumpkins to strategically place on the table, and vat of homemade butternut squash soup was simmering on the stove. Eventually, the rumbling, the sharp yips and yaps, the constant tripping over his newly shaved body became frustrating, and I gave up. I crawled on the floor with him; rubbed his belly and ran my fingers through his soft ears, and contemplated his costume.

I’m not the type who goes out and purchases a sixty-dollar jersey or a stupid, frilly uniform, but I can imagine what the dog would look like if I were: a bandit, a bear, a dinosaur. I can see Murphy waddling around the kitchen in a bright red lobster costume or begging for dinner as an over-sized, mustard-splashed hot-dog. When he was a puppy, I almost dressed him up as Yoda. Last year, when he went through his terrible two’s, I was a card swipe away from making him a devil.

If anything, it would have been accurate.

But all those are too expensive, and a form of cruel and unusual punishment. Murphy hates anything strapped, clipped, or harnessed to his body. He mopes, hangs his head in embarrassment, and curls up in a corner where he thinks no one will notice him. He looks sad and pathetic and it makes me feel bad. So, I pull out the headbands. He hardly notices them; I can get my pictures and have a good laugh, while he runs around the house, happy and oblivious. Last Halloween, instead of horns, he wore Martian eyeballs that bounced as he jumped around. The year before that, he showed his Irish pride in the form of green-glittered shamrocks that bobbed back and forth over his head.

I like going the headband route. Headbands make Murphy look cute. They emphasize his dopiness and his toothy dog grin. The glitter makes his eyes bigger and the bright colors are a great contrast to his black fur. He looks funny. Friendly. Absolutely approachable and like a great family dog.

To the kids, however, Murphy looks like a monster.

Big and black, with huge, fake alien eyeballs that move back and forth, he could be a demon, or maybe a werewolf, content to kill. Though he's neither, the kids are always afraid. Murphy will wag his tail and go to give a sloppy “hello” kiss, and the trick-or-treaters think he’s about to lunge, or worse, eat them or their candy. They scream or cower next to their parents. Some fathers give disapproving looks. Others, the dog lovers, comfort their kids and pet Murphy themselves. Mostly, the parents take their kids and leave and Murphy is kicked down to the lonely basement.

It happens all the time, this “frightened of the big, black dog” mentality. People are scared of Murphy, and I have no idea why.

Take this, for example: A few weeks after bringing him home, my stepfather took Murphy for a walk. The dog was clutzy back then, with too-big-paws and a tongue that seemed to roll unhindered between top jaw and bottom. Murphy looked harmless, and his uneven gait made it apparent that he was just a pup. Still, one woman took it upon herself to step off the sidewalk and into the busy road, as a way to give my bumbling dog a huge, wide berth. When my stepfather mentioned that Murphy was just a puppy, the woman shot back that he was big and black and looked “really mean.”

Mean? My dog looked mean?

Other people feel the same way. The first time I brought Murphy to the groomer’s, a man asked about my “Hollywood pooch,” but refused to come closer than ten feet, because he had a fear of “big, mean lookin’ dogs.” Two summers ago, I went hiking at Sky Meadows State Park, and more than one jogger went off the trail, half-way down a ditch, just to avoid a run-in with my hot and panting mongrel. And kids, who are probably the most accepting of animals, either love my dog or run screaming from him, as evident by past Halloweens, soccer games, and one or two doggy play dates.

The assumption that my dog is mean, or unfriendly, was and still is baffling. I could understand the hesitation about his size. Murphy is tall, only an inch or two shorter than his Bull Mastiff best friend, and can easily lick my face when he stands on his two back feet. Throw in his weight and fluffy winter coat, and I could be walking a small black bear. I don’t notice him anymore, and scoff when people tell me he’s big, but to someone who may not have a dog at home, Murphy’s a giant. I also understand the uncertainty people feel around a strange dog. I’d probably keep my kids close, too, or push them behind me when a big dog came lumbering our way. But what about my dog gives people the impression that he's somehow unfriendly or even malicious? There's not an unloving bone in his body. His face is as friendly as they get, with melts-your-heart, chocolate brown eyes and a black, wet nose. He likes to play and snuggle and is always happy to see a young child.

So, where are people getting this "mean" impression?

The only thing I can think of is his color. Murphy's a salt-and-pepper black. Dark, blending in with the autumn shadows, and invisible when he's lying at the front window. He doesn't look scary, but people think he's scary, because black dogs like Murphy have been given an unfounded reputation.

Television and movies often place black or mostly black dogs into villain/evil-dog roles. The Resident Evil franchise has zombie Dobermans, entirely black with decay, repeatedly trying to tear the faces off the protagonists. Alpha, the evil dog in the children's movie Up, was also a Doberman. Literature, particularly folklore, also paints black dogs in an unforgiving light. Hellhounds are the most common, found in everything from The Hounds of Baskerville to Harry Potter and are often illustrated as large and black, with glowing red eyes, savagely long teeth, and a personality fit for the devil. In many cases, they are the bringers of death.

Whether in literature or the media, these dogs are all have one thing in common: very nasty personalities. The fictional idea that "black dogs mean trouble" translates to real life. When someone sees a big, black dog, they automatically think of aggression. Some link the color with bleakness, depression, or white-versus-dark, good-versus-evil. As a result, many dogs, such as Dobermans, Rotties, black Labs, and dark Great Danes, are overlooked in shelters. Thousands are killed ever year, and it's all because of a phenomenon known as Big Black Dog Syndrome.

This phenomenon affects me. When people look at my dog, they automatically assume he's aggressive, because of his color, or that he can't be gentle or calm, because of his size. Obviously, both are untrue, though it's difficult (and just plain exhausting) to try to tell that to the multitude of strangers who constantly and continually veer out of our way. There's very little I can do about how people perceive Murphy, though I've found one thing that seems to work: Halloween.

For us, Halloween isn't just once a year, but every day of the year. Every day, Murphy wears a fun, bright, collar, ID tag, and bandanna, that screams "I LOVE PEOPLE!" It's as close to dressing him up as I can get, without scaring the little kids.

To keep myself entertained, I frequently switch up his costume: during the summer, he runs around in Red Sox accessories; fall is meant for turkeys and the New England Patriots, and winter is a mix of jingle bells and Santa. I'm still searching for the perfect spring theme, and though I'd rather not emasculate my dog any more than I already have, I have a feeling once May rolls around, Murphy will be sporting a cute, hand-sewn flower collar and bandanna set.

People seem to react to it, to this type of costume, so Halloween has become our normal. I'd like to think that one day, Murphy will be able to walk around in a plain, nondescript collar, but I have to be realistic: people will always see color before personality. They see The Syndrome, instead of The Dog, and as a result, miss out on some of the best companions the canine world has to offer.