Wanted: new dog, English a must

ROBERT GARDNER

For several years, I had the good fortune of sharing my house with a

beagle.

Cassie wasn’t the liveliest dog. She was downright lazy, but that

was part of her charm. Instead of running around fruitlessly

searching for rabbits, she spent her time in a much more productive

manner, at least from my point of view.

She became the perfect conversationalist -- not one of those

exasperating people who always wants to talk about themselves. I have

spent my life having to share dialogues with them. Cassie preferred

to listen. I doubt that I will ever find a more appreciative or

quieter audience for my stories.

Cassie was somewhat of an anomaly for a beagle, a breed that has

three defining characteristics. They love to roam, to bay and to eat.

Cassie, as I’ve established, left vocalizing to others.

Roaming suggests movement, which in turn suggests an expenditure

of energy, so Cassie didn’t roam, but she made up for her lack of two

of the breed’s characteristics with her enthusiastic pursuit of the

third. Food was Cassie’s true love, and there wasn’t a drawer in the

house that she couldn’t open. After she joined the household,

everything edible -- including staples like flour and potatoes -- had

to go in the upper cabinets.

In the morning, if I didn’t get up at what she deemed a suitable

time for breakfast, she’d trot into the bedroom and bat me with her

paw until I got out of bed. When her food was put out, she didn’t

inhale it, but it disappeared as soon as it hit the bowl.

Unfortunately, her appetite was her demise. At Halloween, she got

her teeth on a bag of miniature Milky Ways intended for

trick-or-treaters and ate the entire bag, wrappers and all. I took

her to the vet, but the combination of all that chocolate and plastic

was deadly, and she never made it home.

That was two months ago, and the house has been a pretty empty

place since.

Talking to the air isn’t nearly as satisfying as talking to an

intelligent pair of brown eyes, so I began to search for a new dog. I

was thinking along the lines of a Great Dane or a bloodhound. My

bossy daughter nixed those ideas, reminding me of my misadventures a

few years ago with a Labrador retriever. She was pushing for a

poodle. Somehow, I just couldn’t see myself walking down the street

with a prancing little poodle. Besides, there was the language

barrier. I’m pretty much stuck after “parlez vous.”

Then, two days ago, she came in and announced, “I think I’ve found

a dog.”

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. “A Pomeranian, a Pekinese?”

“A longhaired dachshund,” she said.

I had never heard of such a thing, so I consulted the Ultimate Dog

Book. What a noble-looking animal was the long-haired dachshund, so

off we went to the Irvine Animal Shelter. We got to pen No. 4, and

there he was, a valiant little beast with chestnut-colored locks.

This was a dog to walk with, but I did have one concern.

Leaning down, I said, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

His brows furrowed and his tail wagged uncertainly.

I tried again. “Do you speak English?”

He leaped up and down and gave a bark.

And so Rusty came home with me. He’s spent the first couple of

days becoming familiar with his new digs, but we’ve had time for a

few conversations. There’s a bit of a learning curve. He has a

tendency to want to express his own opinion, and I’ve had to caution

him about that, but he’s catching on.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.