Country dog, lucky dog!

When Pip and I moved here last summer, the first thing we both noted is that we don’t need to “walk” our dogs anymore. Nope! Living as we do in the middle of nowhere, it’s as easy as opening the door and letting them roam. Mind you, I keep one eye on them as they walk about the property. NYC had many things but not coyotes or bears (the West Village notwithstanding). It also has subways, and often I would take my dogs to work with me, riding on the subway. Well, that is until I saw that my dog Willy looked so stressed out being on the subway, albeit safely tucked into my oversized attaché. I realized that the sounds, the smells and the crowds of people were overwhelming her. I felt awful. When we left NYC and moved to our country home fulltime, I noticed over the course of the long winter we all endured how much younger my partner Pip looked, and Willy appeared younger and happier, too.

Recently, we added a new sweet dog to our family: Patrick Dennis. He’s two years old, a spaniel like Willy—a Cavalier—whom we rescued from a Pennsylvania puppy mill, where he was relied on to be the “stud” dog. But as it turns out, he really didn’t (ahem) perform, so the clock on his time there was ticking. At the rescue service, they were calling him Raider, but when he came to live with us, we changed his name to that of Auntie Mame’s nephew. It just seemed to make perfect sense.

Patrick Dennis arrived smelling like a carton of cigarettes and something rather sour. Even at 11:30 p.m. when he arrived all the way from Pittsburgh via a dear friend who likes to drive, I immediately took him into the shower with me and soaped him up with a favorite dog shampoo. Why do dogs always look so sweet and pathetic when they’re wet (not unlike Audrey Hepburn at the end of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”)?

When Willy (named after the late great model Wilhelmina, who was my boss at my after-school job in high school) cast eyes on him, we watched her perk up in a way we had not seen in two years since our last sweet hound, Bolo, passed away. (Bolo was a dog I loved so much that he is still my Gmail avatar.)

In the brief time Patrick has been with us, Willy has taken over as his pal and guide. We think she is teaching him the ropes of life in the country. Now, this new sweet hound wakes up next to Willy, has a breakfast fit for King Charles and spends the rest of the day being led around the property. I wish I could hear and understand what she might be saying to him. “There’s the guest house. The pool is divine….” I watched as she led him down the path to the old stable, which we have converted to a workspace and guest bedroom suite. (Sidenote: horses are lovely, but not as easy to care for as a dog. Or two.) They each jumped onto the oversized chairs in the shed row, taking turns beating down the oversize pillows (the way Lucille Ball stomped grapes in that vineyard episode). Satisfied with having pummeled each, Willy jumped down with Patrick right behind. Coming back to the main house, they stopped mid-meadow for what appeared to be a rest. Well, a rest that included what looked like the Watusi. How I wish I could roll around in grass like that. Such freedom!

It struck me that dogs in the country lead such a different life than their counterparts in the city. Willy and Patrick are far from the maddening pace and safe and far from any traffic. They will occasionally roll around in some deer drops (yeesh!, that sickeningly sweet smell!), but that can be remedied easily in the outdoor shower during the summer months.

Frequently I have found them at any one of their favorite destinations, taking a much needed nap in the sun, or shade, as befits their wants. Even now as I write this, I am looking at them side by side and deep asleep. As I work on my laptop, seeing them reminds me to breathe deeply, to look out and around at the abundant sky and to be deeply grateful for this new life, this life in the country.