I received a gift this Christmas that encourages me to write stories that my children and grandchildren will want to read after I am gone. The platform uses simple writing prompts, such as, “Where did your family go on vacation?” You can call up a lot of memories and stories when you answer a question like that. I even kept a journal, now lost, when our family made a two-week trip to Glacier National Park in the mid-1960s. These are the kinds of stories your family wants to read when you can no longer tell people about your life.
Sometimes I ask a friend or family member, “Do you want to hear an Augie story?” Augie is my dog, a large, male black lab. He was born near Turner, Maine, on May 11, 2021. We acquired him on the Fourth of July, seven and a half weeks after his birthday. He spent his first week with us out at Cape Cod, in Falmouth, where dogs are not allowed on the beaches, or in restaurants. One exception: we like to eat at a Mexican restaurant that welcomes dogs in their sidewalk seating section.
Even though I could not take my pup with me to join my family at Coast Guard beach, or clamming, or dinner out, or shopping, or almost anywhere they went, we did have options. Augie curled up between my legs as we took our kayak out for long paddles down the Quashnet River and onto Waquoit Bay. Puppies spend a lot of time sleeping, and I’ll say the sun, wind, and gentle motion of the boat made an afternoon nap mighty attractive for him. That rested him for walks to stretch our legs. When we stepped out of the boat for a walk on Washburn Island, he proved himself as good a navigator as you could want, off-leash and on the trail. He turned off the trail at the precise location we needed to find the kayak on the other side of the island.
Here is a picture of Augie resting next to the trail at Washburn, with a chewing stick at the ready:
This puppy was so well-behaved as a youngster out at the Cape, I applied the same expectations to our neighborhood environment in Westwood, after we returned from our vacation. I liked to let him out into our unfenced yard so he could explore his new property. We live on a corner lot, with ample traffic, people, and other dogs on both streets. I soon realized that if I let him out in the front yard without a leash, I could reach a point of nervous exhaustion in a matter of minutes. Yet I preserved hope that Augie would not get into some kind of mischief every time I turned my head for a second or two.
I was proud of our new puppy, and I wanted to introduce him to the neighborhood, especially other dog owners and their pets. Augie’s approach to introductions proceeds at a faster pace than mine. He is hyper-social, expects to make friends on sight, and runs outbound if he spots an opportunity to play. If I didn’t watch him every moment, he would get into some sort of minor trouble.
So it was on one of our first days back from the Cape. I had Augie out in front, and made some pleasantry or other to another dog walker. It takes two seconds or so to smile and say, “How old is your dog?” or “What is your dog’s name?” In that time, Augie can run twenty yards down the street. That is just what he did that afternoon, as he chased down a woman in a sun hat and loose, cool clothing who had just passed our driveway at the other end of the yard. He probably thought she had a treat hidden somewhere in her skirt.
You know how sharp a puppy’s teeth are, and how quickly they can damage their target. Well my neighbor was not so happy about the small rip in her summer skirt, to say the least. I looked up just in time to see Augie’s head disappear into her garment, and to see her fend him off, a reaction I’m sure mystified and disappointed him for a moment. My sharp cry of “Augie!!” came too late to prevent a small rip in her skirt, not that he would have spared the dress had I called him before he reached his target. When you have possible treats and a new friend in front of you, why should you listen to that nuisance kill-joy behind you?
The woman turned right around and marched back to where I stood in the yard. She scolded me far better than I could ever have scolded Augie for what he did to her skirt. She said, “I’m a dog owner, too, and you have to keep that dog under control!” I apologized, and tried to mollify her, but she would have none of it. You could tell that if this kind of thing happened a second time, that would be it. She would call Animal Control. When I told the story to my wife, I had to call the lady in a sun hat Miss Gulch. All she lacked was a black bicycle with a wicker basket on the back.
I suppose that was my first lesson in neighborhood etiquette for canines and their owners. I did not think I would run into trouble like that so soon. Three months or so after that incident, I think Miss Gulch waved at me from a distance, but I was not sure it was her. If it was, I had to retract the nickname. The fact that I thought of that nickname indicates my anxieties about Augie’s reputation in the neighborhood, and mine.
The next story does not involve Augie’s tendency to get into trouble at all. I planned an errand during the same summer he arrived, 2021, and I wanted to take him with me. So I put him in the front seat of the car, parked in the shade in front of our garage, then ran inside to visit the bathroom one more time, part of my departure routine. When I returned to the car, a woman stood next to the driver’s side. She upbraided me for leaving Augie in the car on a warm day. To give point to her censure, she added, “The next time this happens, I’m going to call the police.”
I thought, “Oh great, a busybody standing on my own property who tells me what a cruel, thoughtless person I am.” Then I thought, “How the hell does she even know the dog is in the car, or how long he has been there?” Then I remembered, “Yes, across the street stood a small group of women, chatting, as I ran indoors. She must have waited to see how long I would take to return to the car, and positioned herself to catch me when I emerged from the house.” I’m not one to keep quiet in many cases, but her threat to call the police made me reticent in this case. I let her retreat back down the driveway.
So now I’m under surveillance because I own a dog. Big Sister watches me, evaluates me, scolds me. I know that sounds discriminatory, but as I become better acquainted with dog owners in my area, I’ve found that female dog owners are more judgmental. They are less likely to admire his strong build, more likely be on guard about his masculinity. I have thought that no one can be afraid of a lab - they are way too friendly to hurt anyone. Yet they don’t want him to come near, especially if they have their own dogs with them.
The incident in the driveway had nothing to do with Augie’s masculinity, of course. He was still a lightweight at that point. The incident did give me the sense that I was watched. If I leave my dog in the car for a few minutes before I do an errand, that is not any neighbor’s business, until they make it their business. I have not seen the woman on our street since then, thus I wonder if she even lives in the neighborhood. Where she lives does not matter, though she has fewer opportunities to call the police if she decides she does not like my behavior.
Miss Gulch did not threaten to call the police, but in both encounters, I felt that I had been given a chance, but would not be given a second one. Anxieties bury themselves after a while, and as psychologists say, submerged anxieties sometimes come out in our dreams. Our worries as students, about completion of assignments and course requirements, remain with us for a lifetime as we sleep. A few nights ago, I had my first Augie dream. Let me tell you about it.
The setting is Des Moines, Iowa, where I spent my middle and high school years. The people in the dream have no identity, nor do the events appear to have any connection to Westwood, Massachusetts, where we live now. We lived on 42nd Street in Des Moines, at the corner of Woodland and 42nd. In the dream, I am on my bicycle at the other end of the block, toward the high school. I straddle the bicycle, feet on the ground, as I talk with a small group of men, also on bicycles. We must be making a decision, as we all mount up at the same time, and head down the block together, toward my house at the other end.
After we pick up a bit of speed, who appears but Augie, a few months old and before his main growth spurt, trotting along with the group, between us and the curb. He’s a bit in the lead. I think, “What’s he doing here, and what trouble has he been in while I’m out on my bike?” When we reach our driveway on 42nd, Augie turns in and heads toward our carriage house in the back. I turn in to follow him. The driveway is long but not too long, so we have a quick scene shift, to an open, concrete-covered area, where a short driveway gives access to the carriage house from the back alley.
Parked in the short driveway is a medium-size, commercial white truck, with the letters PetNoMore painted in large letters on the side. Now the action happens fast. With no warning or introductions, a person in a white lab coat emerges from the driver’s side, rounds the hood, and approaches Augie and me. I see she has a syringe in her right hand. I have my arm over Augie’s back, in a rather protective pose. I don’t understand yet why the truck is parked in our driveway, nor do I understand the situation. Lab coat woman drops to her knee, thrusts her needle into Augie’s right fore-leg, jiggles it around to make sure the serum enters his body, then disappears.
Throughout this sequence, I don’t recognize a threat. As in military operations, surprise lies at the heart of success. I look at the needle as it jiggles, and think, “There must be some reason for this.” My blank mind goes no further.
Then I start to wonder. Augie appears to have trouble staying awake. His head droops a little. He has strong will and aubundance of energy, so he raises his head back up. The next time his head droops, his eyelids droop as well. Again he raises his head, and opens his eyes. By now I realize my dog is dying in my arms, a strong dose of pentobarbital in his veins. The dream ends as he falls asleep.
This dream occurred the second and last night of a holiday ski trip to Vermont. The day we returned, I drove to Dorchester, where Augie stays with a friend and her dog when we travel. Traffic to and from Dorchester was slow and slower, so I had plenty of time to listen Van Morrison and think. On the return trip, the freeway molasses had thickened to the point where the car is either stopped, or rolling at some immeasurable slow speed. Augie is in the passenger seat next to me. The dream is still so vivid, I reach over to touch and gently press the place on his right fore-leg where the needle went in. I feel grateful he sits next to me.
I look up from my traffic-jam reverie just in time to see the distance between my old Subaru and the back of an Infiniti closing fast. I have not had my foot firmly on the brake! My car hits the Infiniti’s rear bumper at two to three miles an hour. When two vehicles that each weigh two tons or more collide, it feels bad. I can’t believe what I’ve done, as I try hard to pay attention in every traffic jam, to make sure I don’t rear-end the car ahead of me, no matter what the speed.
I’m happy to see no damage to the other car, but the owner detects a couple of scratches on the bumper’s right side. Neither of us wants to negotiate in the left-side breakdown lane, nor do we want to go through insurance. We settle up with the cash in my wallet, which will not go far if she goes to a body shop. It does count as guilt money for me, a small present for her.
So that’s the epilogue for this story about a new puppy, neighborhood disapproval, Freudian dream interpretation, and how not to drive on a crowded freeway. No one will reveal to me who called PetNoMore in Des Moines. I imagine it’s significant the dream occurred in a place I have not lived for fifty years. We have no control over our brains as they rest. We only know that we remember some dreams more vividly than others. The vivid ones usher into our vision the fears and hopes that embed themselves most firmly in our memories.
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