For the last 21 years, I have lived with at least one Black Labrador Retriever.
From the time I was around 18 years old, I have consumed coffee every day.
Last Saturday I discovered that sometimes java and Black Labs don't mix.
While conducting research on another matter, I came across the Web site for Lorken Farms, located in Fremont, Wisconsin, that hosts a "History of the Labrador Retriever" page. Seems "the breed, originally called a St. John's Dog, was in Newfoundland in the 1700's and imported to England beginning the early 1800's." I also learned that "Labrador Retrievers were recognized in England as a Kennel Club breed in 1903 and first registered by the AKC in the United States of America in 1917." My goodness, I was exhausted reading about those poor dogs swimming back and forth from the U.S. to the UK and then back again. But it made sense: Labs are enthusiastic, and still do like to travel...especially in small blue egg-shaped German-engineered automobiles.
Some of you know Margaret and Walter; others may require a bit more background. Margaret, the Black female Lab residing in this humble abode, is 11 years old, imported at the age of eight weeks to Virginia via Chrysler van from the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Margaret's lineage includes her pater, a chocolate hardworking hunting Lab named Gus, and a short-nosed Lab mother named Stella, a doggie straight out of the pages of Tennessee Williams. Marlon Brando woulda noticed the canine Stella, who should have been named Blanche, as she was very pretty but melodramatic, leaping into mud puddles and splashing about to gain attention any time a stranger cast a glance of kindness on one of her offspring. Margaret inherited her mother's spirit, but methinks she got a tablespoon of brains from her pop. She is smart, and has grown to be chubby and wiggly and sweet. She smiles a lot. She even wags her tail in her sleep. She is one of the kindest animals I have ever known.
Then there's Walt.
Walter's a southern puppyboy, will mark seven years in December, and was spawned from the mating of two young Lab parents into a litter of 13 within the town limits of Occoquan, Virginia. I first noticed the possibility of Walt's existence through an ad in The Washington Post, declaring the availability of Lab pups. We had recently lost our male Lab, the beloved Casey, so the pack was feeling empty. So I motored south of here on a cold late February afternoon to a house located on a hill in the town, and told the fellow who greeted me that I wanted to purchase a Lab, and it had to be male, and it had to be black.
He pulled two pups from a fat sleeping milk-drugged pile. The first had a noggin like an anvil, and was appropriately named "Thunderhead." The other one looked sleepy, and smaller. I picked him up, and he immediately nuzzled my face. "When was he born?" I asked the man. "December 27th," he said. "Wrap this guy up," I told the chap, as it was the same date as my mother's cousin Walter's birthday. Hence the name, and the beginning of our association.
One thing I have discovered about living with Walt is that he is from a special category of Labrador Canis familiaris. From the Latin, it's called goofalis boofalis. Walt is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and his antics are sometimes endearing, sometimes not. Walt is like a computer: 0s and 1s. He is either on or off. No middleware. As soon as the birdies start tweeting in the quiet morning light, he's up and raring to go. As soon as it gets dark, he collapses in a heap. He has a bark that would take paint off the wall, and if there is such a place called hell, I will be stuck there hearing that sound over and over again. But Walt is very affectionate in his goofy way. He knows just how to rest his chin in the nape of your neck when you are sitting on the grass in the front yard, brushing him. And he knows when you need it the most.
So, this past Saturday, I got the hankerin' for some coffee that I didn't make myself. Not that fancy schmancy stuff that costs $5 a cup that tastes like it's been burned but they tell you it's a special blend from South America, or where you hear people ordering this and that with a twist of hot and a squirt of whatever the hell they're talking about. I just wanted a good ol' cup 'a joe. There are two species of just good old cups of java in this vicinity. One, from the Latin, Seven Elevenus, and the other, again from the Latin, Dunkin Donutus. As I grabbed my handbag and keys, I noticed two black furry figures standing in my path.
"If you don't take us with you, we will die here."
Whimpering, fussing, Sarah Bernhardts both of them, paws to their faces,
"We cannot go on. You are so mean to us."
Richard Burton, in the movie The Robe:
"We are in per-ill."
The Countess, in the movie, The Women:
"Bring me a bromide...and put some gin in it."
So I said the words that every Black Lab wants to hear:
"You wanna go for a ride in the car?"
Whooooo-eeeee! Black Lab Liftoff. Out the front door, through the gate, running like pure fools around the Bug three times, then dancing like circus horses on hind legs till the not-so-mean woman opened the passenger side door. Then, as the Bug drove off, they took turns jumping from the back seat to the front seat for the first mile. Can you hear the calliope music? The Clown Car with three fools headed in the direction of coffee.
The Seven Elevenus was too crowded...parking lot packed with too many countrymen with large boats, all taking advantage of the local landings and lovely weather to roar once more about the Potomac. But Hail Caesar. Miles south from here, Dunkin Donutus was crowded, but approachable, as the drive-thru line hosted just a few autos. Cool. As we pulled up to the Order Here sign, a female voice, unnaturally high, and made stranger in pitch by the mechanized microphone system, inquired: "Can I take your order?" Minnie Mouse-ius holding her nose-ius.
There is only one way to describe Walt's reaction.
Gorillius defecatius.
He went apeshit.
He lept from the passenger seat, all 70 pounds landing smack in my lap. Hackles up, he lunged at the sound. Barking, barking, barking through the open window, just inches from the microphone. I'm sure, inside Dunkin Donutus, the fair citizens were quickly purchasing pastries in pairs, so as to cover their ears from the racket.
"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa," Walt barked.
"What are you? You are not human. I want to bite you on the head."
I had to motor the Bug out of line, most definitely, then walk to the window to retrieve my order. The poor woman looked startled.
"Dogs scare me," she said in her squeaky voice.
Really? I wonder why?
Comments