My dog Bork didn't believe in clothes on animals.
If we draped a scarf around Coal's neck, Bork would immediately walk over and rip it off. If we encountered a dog in a sweater or a jacket while out on our walks, we had to restrain Bork lest he pull at their garments. I think he considered clothing an insult to canine dignity and did not allow it on his watch.
Bork was 50 pounds and rough-coated; when he and Coal were young, they sometimes slept outside, even on mild winter nights. (They had dog igloos stuffed with straw and old blankets.) When it got genuinely cold, they'd sleep inside, but when we lived in west Little Rock, we had no dog door, so we'd put them outside when we left the house.
I only remember worrying about them being outside once. During one of the snowy mid-'90s ice storms, Karen and I were trying to get back to the house on precarious ice-coated roads. We were creeping about a mile from home when we encountered a minor accident. A police car with flashing lights was stopped on Chenal Parkway. I tapped my brakes some 50 yards behind him, and we slowly, helplessly slid--it had to take a full minute--smack into that police car as the officers looked on in what I imagined was horror. I was sure I'd be arrested, and at the very least, it would be hours before we got home to let the dogs in.
Instead, the officers laughed, helped push our car away--there was no damage to speak of, no report was even filed--and sent us back home. It took most of an hour to navigate that last mile, but when we got home, Coal and Bork--the big hardy idiots--were larking about in the snow. We made them come in and toweled them off.
I remember once when the concrete walk to our front door iced up, Karen let Coal and Bork out to romp. They hit the ice, their legs splayed and slipped, and they skidded on their doggish butts. They scrambled to their feet, returned to the porch through the snowy grass, and slid down the walk again.
These days, our dogs have wardrobes. They have sweaters and different-weight coats. On cold mornings, we layer them. Temperatures were in the mid-20s this morning, so Savannah and Rikki were double-jacketed. I probably kept them out too long. After our walk, I noticed Savvy was shivering in the dog park, so we cut the fetch session short. I brought her across the street, swaddled her in a plush throw, and set her down in the middle of the bed.
Rikki snuggled up to her sister.
Savannah and Rikki weigh about 10 pounds each, less than 1/10th of what Coal weighed in his glory days. They are both predominantly chihuahua, a breed that doesn't tolerate cold weather well. I am still learning about small dogs, about their quirks and sensitivities, and about the kind of care they need that Coal and Bork would have scoffed at. Coal and Bork were rugged, self-reliant, and occasionally too stubborn for their own good. Savannah and Rikki, while not exactly delicate, are more refined, with vulnerabilities bred into them over centuries by their human overlords. They were made for sofas and pampering. They are relatively high-maintenance creatures.
Coal and Bork were rougher; we didn't need to worry about them getting chilled unless the weather was truly extreme. But I fret more about my girls; I monitor the thermostat, gauge the wind chill, and watch for
the tiniest signs of discomfort. I don't think I love them any more than I loved Coal and Bork or any of the other dogs who shared their lives with us over the years, but I am more acutely tuned to the dangers of their world than I once was.
When I was a kid, we had a cocker spaniel who would disappear for days without causing my parents any anxiety. Every time I leave the house for an hour or more, I check to see where the girls are. I check their bowls for kibble and water.
It's funny how the pendulum of care has swung so far. Back then, our dogs lived as if they'd wandered out of a Jack London story, thick-coated and self-reliant, as attuned to the seasons as Yukon sled dogs. London's dogs, like Buck in "The Call of the Wild," didn't need coddling--they thrived in the rawness of nature, rising to meet its challenges with grit and instinct. Coal and Bork would have fit right into one of his tales, their sturdiness a match for the wilderness, their spirits untouched by the frivolities of modern canine life.
Savannah and Rikki are creatures of a different story altogether. If London's dogs were the rugged heroes of survival, my girls are more like Henry James dogs, swaddled in soft blankets rather than the unforgiving snows of the Klondike. Their world is one of sweaters, fuzzy wraps, and careful attentiveness. I can picture them in one of his novels, nestled by the fire in an elegant drawing room, tangled in cashmere, casting soulful glances toward their human companions. It's a far cry from the snow-covered escapades of Coal and Bork, but it's no less endearing. Both kinds of dogs--London's and James'--remind us of how our canine companions reflect and adapt to the lives we build for them and how they shape us in return.
There's a sweetness to this new chapter. When I zip Savannah in her jacket or pull a fleecy comforter over Rikki's head, I feel a connection to them that's different but just as profound as what I had with Bork and Coal. They depend on me in ways our big dogs never did, and while it might sound like fussy coddling to some, it's become part of how we show affection for each other.
I wonder sometimes what Bork would think of these tiny pampered pups. He'd probably give them a good-natured sniff, nudge at their sweaters disapprovingly, and then decide they weren't worth the effort. But I think he'd respect their place in the family, even if he didn't understand their lifestyle. Bork was always stubborn, but he was also loyal, and I like to think he'd approve of how I've adjusted to meet the needs of this new little pack.