The Thanksgiving Thief

Last Thanksgiving, Murphy ate an entire block of cheese.

To be honest, I couldn’t really blame him. My family, like most families, celebrates holidays with some form of delicious appetizer: stuffed olives and marinated mushrooms; fruits and nuts, fresh or dried or candied—it depends on what pairs nicely with the wine; interesting Scottish concoctions, such as haggis or mini shepherds pies or whatever my stepfather picked up at one of his Scottish Highland Games competitions; oysters on the half shell, plucked and shucked courtesy of my grandfather, an avid, elderly clammer. The appetizers are always good, sometimes better than the big meal, and Thanksgiving of 2009 was no different. Everyone decided against bacon wrapped chestnuts, because they were more of a December food, and we’d grown tired of the raw bar. Instead, we opted for something a bit more simple and refined: a nice cheese platter.  

Everyone was excited. My siblings and I are cheesers, courtesy of my mother, who is the biggest cheese of them all. I grew up on blocks of Swiss, thick slices of Cheddar. American was quickly snubbed for the softer Brie; Mozzarella didn’t even last an afternoon. We ate whatever Mom liked, and eventually developed a palate of our own, so the Thanksgiving appetizer suggestions were long and detailed: aged gruyere, the kind that tastes like an earthy caramel; creamy camembert to spread on some type of herbed cracker; smoked gouda, which we could eat by itself; sweet baby Swiss, to pair with fresh slices of apple and pear.

In the end, our spread included a very large, very delicious baked Brie, a thick wedge of creamy blue cheese, and everyone’s favorite cheese, a tangy, strange combination of cheddar, Swiss, and Parmesan, called Dubliner. Dubliner was a cheese I ran across right before I went to Ireland for three months, and it had a texture—hard, with small white calcium lactate crystals—that I’d never encountered before. The taste, sharp and mature, combined with the crystallized crunch made the cheese, already an addicting snack, irresistible.

Apparently Murphy felt the same way.

Thanksgiving afternoon rolled around; the turkey was pulled out of the oven and placed on the stove to rest, and my family, as well as some of Mom’s relatives, pulled out a chilled bottle of white wine. Glasses clanked with amber liquid, a bowl of roasted peanuts randomly appeared, and everyone moved into the family room to settle in spots around the coffee table. I squeezed myself between the cold fireplace hearth and one of my brothers, and as I waited for a slice of granny smith and blue cheese, watched as the contentedness reached the dogs; tugged them away from the smells of turkey and potatoes, and led them straight into our laps. Sandy curled up with my mother, and Murphy’s nose turned in the direction of food, like it always did. A few warning noises came from throughout the room, a sharp clearing of throats, and I pulled Murphy to me. After a wide-eyed, suffering look, he settled at my feet, away from trouble, and eventually fell asleep with my toes curled in his still-long fur.

For however long, we ate cheese. We talked and laughed and the warmth from the wine, and my dog, allowed for a realization of fulfillment, a capture of tangible moments that I still remember, a year later.

Of course, it didn’t last. Murphy was there, after all. Somewhere between talk of carving turkey and me basking in the perfection of the holiday, my dog startled out of sleep; leapt to his feet, violently jostling my wine glass on the way up. His head whipped this way and that, eyes landing on the unguarded cheese platter, on the fresh block of Dubliner someone had just placed onto the wooden cutting board. Faster than I’d ever seen, he was out of my lap and halfway across the room, our favorite appetizer wedged firmly in his mouth. I could only blink after him, the abrupt shift in mood like a cold, wet slap in the face.

 

He made it to the living room, a few rooms over, before anyone processed what the hell had happened. By the time I realized my dog, the good dog who had been so sweetly sleeping at my feet, had just stolen the entire block of Dubliner, my brothers had already run out of the room. Their voices boomed down the hallway, mingling with the sound of Murphy’s toenails as they dug furrows into the wood floor. I didn’t bother getting up; I sat on the floor, drank some more of my wine, and watched as Murphy raced around the house, tail wagging furiously, obviously enjoying the game of chase.

It would have been easy to run after the dog and yell and reprimand and tell him what good dogs are and are not supposed to do. But, what would have been the point? Not even five minutes before, I had been enjoying him, enjoying us, and it seemed entirely against the holiday to be ungrateful for the comfort and love he continually provided.

The scolding, at least by me, could wait.

Besides, he was only doing what my brothers and I had done our entire lives: Murphy was taking after his mom.

Re-seeing the Dog

Murphy’s been unusually quiet these past few weeks.

I can’t really figure it out. I know he’s not sick, because he scarfs down his food so fast I’ve had to start splitting his meals into quarter cup portions. I can tell he’s not depressed: Murphy wags his tail nonstop, all day long. He wags it when he’s in the car, on his bed, at soccer games, and when he’s in the middle of being scolded. He wags his tail so much I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off. Murphy isn’t unhappy. I get kissed every morning when I roll over to say good morning, and get a warm lapful of sleepy dog right before I put him to bed. He doesn’t think I’m mad at him. He’s not feeling confined or cooped up. I’m positive he’s not lonely.

So what’s going on with my typically unruly dog?

The vet says it’s age.

Murphy will be three and a half the beginning of December, which means he’s permanently out of the puppy stage. He is now officially an adolescent, one that is making a steady progression towards middle age. The antics are slowing down, though won’t completely disappear, because things like tearing up people’s blog critiques is just part of his personality. But he has mellowed out. These days, he’d rather sleep than play, snuggle than wrestle, and lie at my feet instead of try to bowl me over. He’s not a quiet dog, but has developed a quieter aura, and it’s this quietness, the still moments when Murphy just sits and watches, that makes him perfect for therapy work. 

Murphy as a therapy dog. Who would have thought?

Certainly not me. I was introduced to the idea a year ago, through various individuals. The vet recommended applying for a Canine Good Citizen certificate, after seeing Murphy’s non-reaction when a fourteen month old ran over, grabbed his face, and planted a big wet one on his nose. My coworker and the owner of Murphy’s best friend, a Bull Mastiff named Jameson, also suggested getting my dog certified, so he could work with some of our school children. Strangers, when they aren’t running away from the darkness of my dog’s coat, have even asked if he did therapy work. They’ll pet Murphy, who sits still under their hand, offering a slow kiss every so often, and ask what places he visits.

He didn’t visit any place, because for the first two years, Murphy was a behavioral mess. But the more people asked, the more I noticed the qualities that made him perfect for healing work: patience, particularly around kids and seniors; the uncanny ability to sense when someone is sick or upset; the need to touch and be touched. There’s more, of course, that are so often masked by his bad behavior. Murphy watches out for the fourteen-year-old family dog, and refuses to leave her side when she’s having a hard day. He tries, sometimes in frustration, to do the obedience commands right the first time. Murphy accepts whoever he meets, without qualms or hesitation, and he loves. From the bottom of his too-big feet to the tip of his dripping wet nose, he loves everyone.

And, for some odd reason, everyone loves him. 

So, we've been training. The only way Murphy can become a certified therapy dog, or a dog who visits people at the hospital or in nursing homes, is to pass the Canine Good Citizen Test. The requirements, which range everywhere from politely saying hello to a stranger to not freaking out when someone walks by with a gurney, are intense. Murphy, as big as he is, freaks out over everything. A squirrel drops a nut in the woods while he's going to the bathroom? He jumps. Someone starts their motorcycle outside? He scrambles. The baby gate falls over and make a loud clanging noise? He bolts.

The only way Murphy (and, subsequently, me) will pass the CGC Test is if we practice. Constantly. So, I bring him everywhere. We go to the grocery store and spend time at Scottish Highland Games and he's with me on every Starbucks run, for socialization. We practice greeting scary objects, like crutches and skateboards and baby strollers up and down the street, once at the dog park, and whenever he has a puppy play date. Of course, I thought it would be a struggle preparing him. Murphy didn't do well with his initial training; it was going to be a nightmare teaching him the concept of being a "good" dog.

But, be it age or the sheer desire to please, Murphy has taken everything in stride. He behaves. He follows commands and listens to my voice and stops whenever a stranger comes up and asks to pet him, even for just a moment. Murphy sits and waits; lets unfamiliar fingers slide through his fur, over his nose, and through the fringe of his ears. He listens to secrets, and the wishes of little kids, and the hum of words that whisper his way. In these moments when Murphy belongs to the person kneeling in front of him, I notice his demeanor, the cathartic stillness he freely offers, and can't help but wonder if he knows what he's doing. I can't help but wonder when my dog turned into a normal dog. A therapy dog.

A good dog.

And when that stranger leaves, picks themselves up off the street or patch of grass or carpeted rug and moves on, Murphy just watches, and waits. For me. For someone else. And I know: he's been a good dog, all along.

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.

Life as Cheese

Murphy loves cheese.

Really, what dog doesn't? It's cheese. Processed and artery-clogging and downright American, Murphy is obsessed with the little florescent (or, in his case, grayish black) squares that come out of the refrigerator door. Granted, he only gets half a square, and I break it up into little pieces, but I don't really think he cares. He'll do anything I ask of him, like "sit" or "stay" or "leave it," so long as the end reward is a sliver of his favorite treat.

I find his behavior interesting. Before I got Murphy, I'd never seen a dog go gaga for cheese. Sandy, the still-kicking-at-14 family dog, loves it when we slip her a piece of our Kraft Single, but she's never turned into a bouncing, half-crazed mongrel with big, bulging eyes and spit-coated teeth. When I pulled out the cheese box--a broken-topped, square plastic container my mother bought sometime during the 90's--she would run to her food bowl, sit quietly, and wait. I'd take my time; break the cheese in half, walk over to her, and make eye contact before lowering my hand and offering her the treat. She'd refuse to look at the cheese, like she'd been trained, until I gave her the verbal okay. Then she'd reach out, daintily take the cheese, and chew it slowly, as if to savor the unnatural taste.

I was always impressed how she let her polite demeanor slip. Sandy never barked at me. She never begged. And though she probably wanted to employ the snatch-and-gobble approach, much like Murphy, she refrained. The mutt showed perfect manners, because she was a lady and part Lab and being such, was inherently well-behaved.

Murphy is the complete opposite. When it comes to cheese, Murphy doesn't care if he gets yelled at. He doesn't care if he's being pushy or obnoxious. He runs in circles, he jumps at me. He barks, incessantly. If I don't give in to his demands (Mom, I'm not kidding, I want the cheese NOW), he becomes impatient and anxious. He whines. He'll mope. He turns into a single minded, annoying mess.

I ignore him. It's not easy, but I refuse to acknowledge his abhorrent cheese-induced behavior. Murphy can bark and drool and run his big, clumsy body into me as much as he wants, but he's not getting the cheese. He's not getting the cheese until I'm ready to give it to him, and I'm only ready to give it to him after he's settled down and shown me that he's willing to work for the treat.

And work for it, he will.

Mozzarella is the only reason why Murphy knows his commands. "Sit," "stay," "lie down," "wait"...they're all in Murphy's head because I exploited his love for string cheese. Sure, I've thrown in a Kraft Single every once in a while. Some days (like today) I don't have any Mozzarella handy, and I resort to the bright orange squares, but I stay away from them as much as I can. American cheese is expensive. String cheese, in comparison, costs less. It's Murphy's "you worked for it" reward, after he's shown me that yes, he actually does remember his basic obedience.

I don't remember the very first time I broke out the Mozz. I do remember I started using it somewhat frequently the summer I bought Murphy's E-collar, almost two years ago. He escaped from the house one evening and almost got hit by a car. Despite intensive and continual training, my dog hadn't really picked up any understanding of simple commands, like "sit." After discussing options with the vet, I opted for a traffic-cone orange E-collar, most often used in field training or hunting. The E-collar device was expensive, and I felt like a bad dog Mom for resorting to electricity to enforce the commands, but I knew Murphy. The dog means well, but he's really dumb. He runs into walls and trips over his feet and learns either through positive reinforcement or fright. The E-collar was a combination of both: it'd startle him enough to reinforce what he wasn't supposed to do, like leave the yard, while Milkbones reinforced his understanding and follow-through of commands.

Pretty much, Murphy would get a nick every time he bolted, and a cookie every time he listened.

In theory, it should have worked. The day the E-collar arrived, I put it around Murphy's neck, marched him down to the backyard, and presented him with tons of doggy cookies. He listened and followed commands and then, after five minutes, got bored and tuned me out. I nicked him with the hand-held E-collar remote control. He shook his head in annoyance, and then bolted.

It became readily apparent that the Milkbone dog biscuits weren't going to cut it.

After I caught the dog, who had raced into the woods and proceeded to eat God knows what, we went back into the house and sat in front of the fridge. I offered his nose a variety of enticing scents: celery and green beans, stale chicken and some cantaloupe. He was unenthusiastic. I was frustrated.

And then I thought of cheese.

Lie Down

There wasn't any American cheese in the cheese container, but I found a stick of string cheese. I offered it, still-wrapped, to Murphy, who tried to eat it, plastic and all. Finally, I'd found the trigger. I dragged myself off the kitchen floor and Murphy scrambled, jumping and barking and begging all the way back outside. The second we hit the back yard, I broke out the Mozzarella, stripped off a slice, and dangled it above his nose. The dog's butt was on the ground before I even finished the word "sit."


Now, Murphy knows his obedience. He knows tricks. He's still a monster, but at least he listens. Well...he listens some of the time. Only if there's cheese.

Scheduled Sundays

Sunday is my favorite day of the week. I love the relaxing atmosphere: open windows, coffee and an assortment of breakfast items that are leisurely made or eaten until around noon, football games, loose yoga clothes, and once evening hits, the ambiance of candles and oil burners. Murphy gets a break from the treadmill and spends his time sleeping or basking in the sun or watching me weave in and out of rooms, attempting to accomplish one task or another.

He hasn't always been so quiet. As a puppy, he had a list of bad habits: raiding the litter box for "cat truffles," stealing the can of wet cat food, stealing my socks, chewing holes into various undergarments, trying to lick any breakfast item on the kitchen table, tearing up any and all paperwork on the floor, escaping from the house and eating all pieces of animal crap that's on our neighbor's lawn...and so on, and so forth. The gross stuff was endless, and I have no doubt that they were the main reason Murphy was returned to the breeder. No one wants to put up with a problem puppy. No one can relax with a problem puppy unless, of course, you're me.

I am a strict dog owner. I owe a lot of my A-type personality to my no-nonsense upbringing, and although I've mellowed over the years, when it comes to the dog, I like the idea of keeping a very short leash. Since the first few months I brought him home, Murphy has followed the same routine: potty, treadmill, food, sleep. With age comes more freedom, so there are times, like today, when he's allowed to skip his exercise and head straight to breakfast. Other Sundays I've brought him to the dog park, or to a friend's house, or let him lounge beneath my chair at the local Starbucks.

We relax. Me with my Pumpkin Spice latte, and Murphy with his bowl of water, because the strict routine is enforced with intense training. Murphy knows his basic obedience commands (as well as others, like "Go potty" and "bedtime") because I've drilled them into his somewhat non-existent brain. It wasn't exactly the easiest process; Murphy is extremely impulsive. His attention span only lasts a few seconds, and then he's off doing whatever he'd like to do, instead of everything I want him to do. My life as a dog owner has, at times, been frustrating and stressful and overwhelming. But Murphy is food motivated.  Over time, the repetitive nature of "sit" and "stay" have evolved primarily from slipped pieces of cheese, and become permanently ingrained in his head. We've curbed the less desirable behaviors, though they haven't been entirely eliminated. It's been three years and Murphy still eats shit. He still chews on paperwork, and he steals the cat food whenever the opportunity arises.

But he does it less.

He's less prone to push his way out of the house. He doesn't chase the cats as much anymore. Only some of my clothes have holes, and I can guilt trip him out of the kitchen, instead of physically having to remove him. Sometimes, he'll watch out the window, instead of constantly bark. Mostly, he just sleeps.

And while he's sleeping, I drink the last of my Starbucks coffee. I write my blog and listen to the game and soon, I'll light some candles. Dinner will come and Murphy may or may not go on the treadmill. He'll go out and then go to bed and once again, I'll think about how far he's come since he first came home.

It's become routine.