Dan's Papers - March 14, 2008 - Two Men And Their Dog Named Moo

Last week in this newspaper, my son David wrote about the dog called Moo that we share. We share him in the sense that for part of the week he's my dog. And for part of the week, when I go into the city, he's David's dog. The dog stays in one place, which is at my house. The humans staying in the house differ, depending upon the day.

In any case, after reading about Moo's eating habits during the David Regime, I thought I'd tell you a bit more about this big, dumb dog.

Moo is a Wheaten Terrier. He's big and shaggy like a sheepdog. But he's beige. He's a big hunk of love, but not so smart, and I can say this without hurting his feelings because he is just that.

Moo is called that - I named him - because when I bought him at the breeder's when he was six weeks old, I was given papers that said he was born exactly on the day when the moon appeared larger in the night sky than at any other time in the twentieth or twenty-first centuries. This was in the year 2000.

Moo has the run of the house and also about a half-acre yard that goes up a hill, because it is completely enclosed and he can't run off. He would love to run off, not because he doesn't like it here, but because he considers all humans to be wonderful, and if one shows up he will just as soon run off with that one as stay where he is now.

Going out his dog door or out the slider, he is in his yard. But going out the front door, or I should say sneaking out the front door when humans come in, he is out in the driveway and free to run off. But he will not run off when he is out there. Because what he has in mind to do out there is go for a ride in a car. And all the cars are there.

If you call him, he won't come. He'll just sit down by a car door. Is it THIS car? And he'll wait. If you go out to get him, he'll get up and walk around the other side of the car and sit by that door. You get the picture.

The way to get him in the house is to just leave him out there where the cars are. After 15 minutes, he will have forgotten why he is out there. And now he will figure, correctly, that he's been left there. Can't have that. He'll climb the front steps and sit by the front door. Sometime soon, it will open. And, when it is, relieved, he will come inside to run around, lick you or get petted, sleep or eat. For about the next hour, if the front door opens, he won't leap at the chance. It takes about an hour for him to re-remember why he goes out there.

I do take him for walks along the docks across the street from time to time, always on a leash, of course. He'd cheerfully jump onto somebody's boat in the hopes that they might drive off and take him with them. He just loves to go places. Some days I take him to work.

Two years ago, I built a dining room that juts out from the kitchen and connects up to a library that was at one time a separate small cottage. This dining room has French doors along one wall that open out to the yard. Along the other wall, there is a door that goes out to where the cars are.

It's been two years and Moo has not yet figured that door out.

What he does, immediately, if I put on my hat and coat to get ready to go out to the car, is run to the front door and sit by it, facing me. Take me! Take me!

Before two years ago, if you wanted to go out without him it was a real battle. He's a big dog. He'd sit there and you'd have to kind of shove him aside with your foot. But then he'd run around you and get between you and the front door again. So you'd have to try something else. Sit Moo! Sit! He'd sit. But then immediately he'd get back up. It might take five minutes to work your way around Moo. And then he'd stare at you, sorrowfully. Okay. I won't go. I tried.

It breaks your heart.

Since I built the dining room, however, it's a cinch to go out without him. You get your hat and coat on and look at him, and he is already right there at the front door, panting and wagging the stump of his tail in anticipation. So then you just walk off the other way into the dining room. He just doesn't get it. He just sits there, not letting you out the front door. Then, after you've gone, he stays by the front door for a while and then forgets why he is sitting there.

I've actually looked through a window quietly after going out the dining room door to confirm this. It is what he does.

Well. So that's that. It's time for a nap. Up on the couch he goes. Everything all forgotten.

Of course, when you come through the front door, he's the happiest big guy on the East End to see you. Yay! Whoopie! He'll run circles around the couch. He'll come right at you and battering ram into you. He'll run right past you and skid into the closed front door with a blam! After that, he walks off.

If you come in through the dining room door, you get no welcome whatsoever. He's still in the living room, waiting for you to come out from wherever you went two hours ago to get ready - his opinion - to go out the front door.