Dogs of Our Lives
I did some dog sitting this last week. My neighbor’s extended family needed someone to watch Toby, a two-year-old male Akitadoodle. What’s an Akitadoodle, you ask? This, Waywards reader, is an Akitadoodle:
The breed is a mix of Akita and Poodle.
I wasn’t previously familiar with the former, though I’m sure I’ve seen Akitas around. According to the American Kennel Club, male Akitas average between 100 and 130 pounds and stand a little over two feet tall. The breed is considered somewhat reserved, fairly (yet not excessively) affectionate, moderately playful and trainable, quite protective and unlikely to drool.
The Standard Poodle, on the other hand, tends to be a bit smaller than the Akita. Males average 60 to 70 pounds. Poodles are rather open to new people, seriously affectionate, enthusiastically playful, eager to train, protective in nature and also not predisposed to drooling.
Interestingly, there’s not-insignificant overlap between the breeds.
Taken together, the AKC’s description of breed traits and characteristics reflect Toby’s constitution and demeanor, as best I could tell based on the short amount of time I spent with him. In addition, Toby reminded me just how much I miss not having a dog.
I’ve never been a cat person. I can tolerate them, typically. I might offend a few cat lovers with this, but the attitude of self-important independence and often indifference they exhibit is a real turn off for me. Nobody mistakes felines for ‘man’s best friend,’ as dogs have long been considered. If you’re most keen on cats, that’s cool, but I have to wonder if you’ve ever had the pleasure of raising a puppy into an adult dog accustomed to your personal routine and temperament.
I suppose I can appreciate the anti-authoritarian sensibilities of cats, if you’ll allow me to anthropomorphize with the adjective. There’s a spirit of non-obedience cats often embody that I can sort of respect.
But even the most avid of equal parts dog and cat lover would surely agree there’s an important qualitative difference in the companionship a person can expect if choosing between a dog and a cat.
Dogs deliver a level of devotion that’s unmatched, in the main. They offer the kind of unconditional affection that can make everything in a “World Gone Wrong” or within a wretched stretch of life somehow seem OK. They’re loyal and despite being perhaps a bit instinctually-driven, they commit to their human friends to such a degree the behavior could be described as unselfish. Or, if you prefer, dogs develop a sense of self that organically understands their being as inextricably and necessarily tied to the being of others or another, even or especially if that other is human. Put differently, dogs could be characterized as selfish, but only if we take that to mean whatever self-interest we attribute to them typically entails not only interest in, but also often self-sacrificing concern for, the human beings they bond with.
Granted, the above is to some extent breed dependent, and individual dogs will differ.
Toby showed a nice mix of intelligence and amenability. He was a tad timid, in line with his Akita heritage, I guess. But he never snapped at me or anyone while I was with him.
Although he exhibited differences, the dog reminded me of the labs my family back in Illinois adopted.
About 13 years ago, when I lived in Springfield, I stopped by a local shelter around the holidays to find a dog for my nephew, who was only five or so at the time, and for my sister and mother. I picked out a puppy who seemed almost scared but also unwilling or incapable of biting out of fear — and he remained slightly affable despite the cage and conditions. The young Labrador Retriever (possibly part Pitbull, I was told) already impressive in size, had been named Oreo, presumably because he was all-black save for a white spots on chest, around his nose and on the top of his paws. I took him back to my apartment, where he stayed the night, clandestinely, given that the landlord didn’t permit tenants to have pets in units. Oreo wouldn’t leave my side, but he soon took to family back home.
This horse-like black lab, massive and quick with natural endurance that only faded toward the end of his life, wanted to be by me every second when I visited my mother’s house where he lived for the remainder of his life. He gnawed at everything his first year or two, including people, though only with a relaxed open mouth if it was a person. Virtually every time I returned home from Springfield and later from Carbondale to visit family in Greenville, Illinois, Oreo and I would go for a run — usually a few, peppered with walks in between, if I stayed for several days or more.
His desire to accompany me or, in my absence, my mother, who became quite close to the dog, never wavered. In this respect he behaved similarly to Lucky, a gray Miniature Schnauzer I grew up with.
“The Miniature Schnauzer, the smallest of the three Schnauzer breeds, is a generally healthy, long-lived, and low-shedding companion,” according to the AKC. “Add an outgoing personality, a portable size, and sporty good looks, and you've got an ideal family dog. Stocky, robust little dogs standing 12 to 14 inches, Miniature Schnauzers were bred down from their larger cousins, Standard Schnauzers. The bushy beard and eyebrows give Minis a charming, human-like expression.”
The AKC description above applied to Lucky. He was slightly larger than other dogs of his breed, almost like he was a seriously undersized Schnauzer without the added official designation of ‘Miniature’ status. We got the dog when I was five or six, and he would follow me and my sister, Katy, around everywhere when we were kids. But he wasn’t as eager for constant, direct attention the way Oreo was and other labs are, in my experience. Lucky was a little more self-reliant and, at times, chill. Except for the fact he loved to chase animals — squirrels and cats, mostly — and bark at anyone he didn’t know.
In some sense, he was probably more protective than Oreo, who was comparatively averse to conflict and relatively receptive to strangers.
Lucky’s name also became eponymous as regards the fortuitous life he lived. He survived more than one run-in with an automobile, and lived through several near-death experiences. Lucky made it to 15 or 16 years of age, possibly a year or two older; he died when I was in college at the University of Illinois. I still remember being in my studio apartment at 310 E. White Street in Champaign when I received a phone call from my mom who let me know they put Lucky to sleep after he barely survived being hit by a truck. After the accident, he could barely move and was largely unresponsive. His health had deteriorated appreciably toward the end, and while he might’ve had additional time if not for the fateful contact with that vehicle, his quality of life wouldn’t have been great.
Toby has a thin torso structure, not unlike Lucky. But based on seeing and petting the Akitadoodle, I think he’s even leaner than the late Miniature Schnauzer, and with less body fat. Possibly due to the poodle in him? From what I observed, Toby also didn’t have a big appetite and was picker than both Lucky and Oreo.
But he demonstrated similar devotion. Like the Labrador Retriever, he exhibited a demonstrable eagerness to please, concomitant intellect and aptitude for particular types of training most smaller dogs don’t gravitate toward with the same gusto.
Lucky, for example, didn’t have many tricks in his bag, but in his prime he’d reliably come when called and could consistently catch snacks I’d toss in mid-air, displaying remarkable agility and mouth-eye (or maybe mouth-nose?) coordination at times.
Oreo, in contrast, instinctively understood how to play fetch, albeit imperfectly.
Until he got older, Lucky could run with me in rural areas, not on a leash or in a harness, but by sprinting and then resting (while sniffing around) and then sprinting to catch up again. He could do that for several miles when I was a teenager.
Oreo could run by my side for long distances, and he literally jumped at the opportunity to pick up the pace and almost sprint short-middle distances (e.g. 400 meters) with me. When guided, he would hop over objects or architecture (e.g. horizontal bars) up to my knees before his joints failed him in his later years.
I walked Toby, but I didn’t try to run with him. I’m fairly confident he has the size and physical ability to learn to trot at a jogger’s pace, however.
He played fetch with me momentarily, but the game didn’t retain his interest the way it might most labs.
Using edible snacks as an incentive, I tried to teach Toby tricks. He didn’t grasp the concept of catching a snack in the air, but he learned how to perform a few moves upon instruction. He would sit or jump up for a snack as directed. He started to comprehend how to shake when asked, provided I had him sit first and motioned with my hand, but he clearly preferred to just lift his paw a few inches of the floor for a second as opposed to meeting it with my hand and letting me lightly grasp it.
Coincidentally, Toby the Akitadoodle is not the first dog named Toby that I’ve spent time working on the above with in recent months.
In July 2021, and again in late October and early November of last year, I hung out with this Toby when I visited my sister in Southern Illinois:
As my sister wrote about for a rejected Chicken Soup for the Soul essay on grief we decided to self-publish at Waywards, she and I found the dog featured above in Benld, Illinois, after our mother died on July 9, 2021. Oreo had died only a few months before.
We were told the dog was likely a lab-terrier mix, born on Mother’s Day. Over the summer, while still an immature pup, he acted a lot like Oreo did when I first picked him up from the dog pound more than a decade ago. My sister’s, the Southern Illinois or SoIll Toby has a noticeably smaller build than the family lab that preceded him. It’s also not totally clear if he’s the progeny of a black or brown lab, as his hair is like mine, a dark brown that borders on black. My hope is his moderate size, along with the related genetic contribution from the terrier side of his lineage, will help save his hind legs as he starts to age so he doesn’t have to endure what Oreo did. I’ve also suggested my sister consult a veterinarian about joint-lubricating and mobility-preserving supplements suitable for dogs his size.
When I visited Illinois again this last fall, Toby had grown and gave me the impression he’d matured enough to learn tricks, so I tried teaching him a few. My sister caught part of a short lesson on video. By October of last year, Toby the lab-terrier mix was also big and strong enough to trot with me while I jogged around town. He loved picking up the pace for intervals and thoroughly enjoyed Fartlek-inspired excursions that incorporated occasional bursts of speed. The dog has terrier-like quickness — the kind my Miniature Schnauzer displayed years prior — coupled with small, lean and muscular lab strength conducive to outright speed and power.
Southern California or SoCal Toby, pictured below, is taller than SoIll Toby.
They’re remarkably similar in terms of human comprehension and congeniality. The Midwest born and raised lab-terrier is perhaps livelier and a little more aggressive, but it’s hard to know for certain how much of that has to do with him being just under a year old rather than about two and half, the age of SoCal Toby, who was evidently well trained, as he would not chew any personal belongings. The personal items he ignored are ones SoIll Toby would likely gnaw at or tear apart if given the chance.
Like Lucky and especially Oreo before him, SoIll Toby rarely left my side when I visited my sister last autumn. Similarly, SoCal Toby wanted to remain near me most of the time when I was dog sitting, unless he was playing with my neighbors.
To bust out the familiar cliché, all the aforementioned animals were or are good dogs, the kind whose company you enjoy and the sort you miss when they’re gone.
When self-centered human beings let you down, or the selfish priorities of people take precedence over edifying solidarity, or individuals you were previously close with prioritize egoistic gratification over amative support, or specious social relations culminate in flippant ‘ghosting’ or abandonment, or friends — not to mention those frequently pretentious felines, for that matter — act fickle, without compassion and concern for your wants and needs, well, dogs won’t disappoint.
Their loyalty persists even as the trait is conspicuously absent among our own species. The notion we don’t deserve dogs always struck me as insightful yet simultaneously a bit silly and not quite right. In my estimation, the idea isn’t exactly on the mark because dogs appear innately wired to stick by our side, come what may, even when we feel or act unworthy. In so doing, they reveal the power of deep and abiding love liberated from contingency and unattached to judgments of worth.
We can teach them how to retrieve flying discs, sticks and tennis balls. We can teach them not to urinate or defecate inside houses. We can even teach them to comply with verbal requests on command, especially if edible treats are involved.
But ironically, if not surprisingly, they teach us how to be better, caring and amorous human beings. It makes me wish I had one of my own, but here’s to both SoCal and SoIll Toby for reminding me as of late what we have to learn from our dearest of non-human friends.
Honorable mention: When I was five or six, I got my first dog, Trapper, for my birthday. The black Miniature Schnauzer, smaller than Lucky, was almost always friendly with me, but snapped at family and had an irritable personality overall, probably due to health problems. He didn’t live much longer than a year, and we got Lucky, who became more of a family dog, soon after Trapper died.