Guy the Dog

About five years ago, my parents made an addition to our family. I don't know if it was empty nest syndrome that prompted it or what, but for the first time in probably ten years, they bought a dog. We had been a cat family for as long as I could remember. I remember Ebony, my sister's black cat we had in Alabama. She ran away when we moved from Alabama to Ohio, but legend has it, she found her way back to the house. In fact, through most of my childhood, we had two, if not four, cats in the house. Dogs, on the other hand, were a different subject altogether. I hadn't really had good experiences with canines. My dog Zack was shot and killed when we lived in Alabama by a man who found him sleeping under his pick up truck. Soon after, we acquired an Irish setter named Reagan (I'm not sure or not if the dog was named after the Great Communicator; after all, it was the early '80's.) Being the small lad that I was, I was always a bit spooked when Reagan would come up to me and put her paws right up on my shoulders. It seemed like some bizarre domestic reenactment of Animal Farm was in the works. From then on, I was a bit reticent around dogs. We had some come and go, a beagle, a Westhighland white terrier, and a Papillon, among others, but I never really developed a close bond with any of them. Alas, until I met Guy.

My parents bought him from a breeder in Las Vegas when they were living in Arizona. When I first saw him, I immediately had flashbacks of Reagan and the almost daily ambushes I would receive. However, Guy was a bit (but not much) more gentle than Reagan. He's a standard poodle and serves equally well as a family dog and a guard dog. I guess I should explain that since my mother did some research and discovered that poodles originated either in France or Germany, she and my dad decided to give the dog an appropriate ethnic name. So, Guy is short for "Guillaume" which is the French translation of my dad's (and my) first name. Don't ask; each of the family pets have had unique names. Not that the two cats I have now are any different. I named them "Jerry" and "Kosmo" after characters in my favorite TV show, Seinfeld.

OK, back to Guy. From the first time we met, I knew my little (OK, not so little; my dad kids that he could be mistaken for a miniature horse) buddy was special. He loved, loved, loved taking walks, even in the brutal Arizona summer heat and would follow me all over my parents' house. I even enjoyed playing fetch/catch with him in the backyard of their house. That's gotta be love if I'm willing to toss and wrestle for a slimy tennis ball or raquetball. One habit that I've tried to shake him of is the ol' humping the leg routine. I mean, I understand a guy (no pun intended) has urges, but after awhile, it got pretty old and increasingly awkward. Guy even received special permission to sleep in "my room" during my visits. Usually he would sleep in his cage, or if he was really good, my parents would let him sleep in their room.

When my parents moved to Georgia about three years ago, Guy's affection grew even stronger. Whenever I would be in "my room", he would sit in the hall right outside the room. He still enjoyed his walks and even went into a bit of a manic mode whenever the word "walk" was mentioned, and he also provided an impartial sounding board for whatever was on my mind during our excursions. Last year I was brave enough to bring my two cats to visit my parents. Jerry and Kosmo survived the 12 hour car ride just fine, but I don't think they were ready for such an excitable new playmate. Guy kept an almost constant vigil outside my bedroom door for the boys. Of course, they wouldn't come out, and Guy obediently obeyed his instructions not to enter the room. At night, when Guy would go to sleep in my parents' room, they would roam around a bit, but it was back to the bedroom once Guy was free.

This past week was another trip over to Georgia to see my folks and Guy. As always, he was all kinds of excited to see me, and, trust me, I did have to physically prepare myself for the ambush from a big ol' standard poodle after a 12 hour car ride when I entered my parents' house. My relationship with Guy has restored my belief in the brutally unconditional companionship a good dog can bring. He's one of the added perks I get from visiting my parents, and he definitely makes their house, whether it's in Arizona or Georgia, feel more like a home.