April 17, 2008

They say that you cannot teach an old dog new tricks, but Gus taught me one a few weekends ago. It began with Squeaky, Gus's most favorite toy, a red ball that mimics the sound of wounded and terrified prey. Each morning, after wolfing his breakfast and going outside to leave notes for all the other dogs, Gus likes to return home and accept delivery of Squeaky. He hits me with his most expectant expression; I take the toy from its accustomed place on the counter and give it a toss. Gus then chases and brings Squeaky to bay, gives him several assertively squeaking bites and then takes him to a corner of the sofa where he can guard his prize from the rest of the pack and, whenever the mood takes him, give him another loud and savage throttling.

This works for most of the day, but when Laurie and I are ready to settle in for dinner and a movie, a sudden attack on Squeaky can obscure critical dialogue and shatter any mood the filmmaker has worked diligently to create. Because of this, we try to recover Squeaky before the dinner hour. If Gus is distracted, perhaps out at the kitchen counter waiting for food to fall from the heavens, it's not a problem. But if Squeaky has Gus's attention, you really don't want to just reach in and try to take it away. Gus is not some big, amiable Golden or Lab who will say, "Okay, I guess I was done with that." No, Gus is the smallest yet surliest dog in the pack ready to engage in mortal combat to protect what could be his last meal.

Being firm and strong, or calm and gentle, these have no effect on Gus. Bribery, on the other hand, works like a charm. Half a crunchy biscuit stuck in another toy and tossed well away from Squeaky sends Gus flying off on a new hunt and cleans his teeth besides. Food, as I have said before, trumps everything in Gus's game.

So, a few weeks ago, Gus and I found ourselves having a bachelor weekend, watching movies like "Red Heat," "Die Hard 4," "Kiss of the Dragon" ­ all our Jane Austen-inspired favorites. I was in the kitchen lavishing the final touches on my meal presentation when I heard a bumping, bouncing noise at my feet. I looked down, and there was Gus, with Squeaky. Gus looked at me, then up to the counter where his toys live, pushed Squeaky forward with his nose, and then looked at me again. He made the circuit with his eyes twice more, just to be sure I was getting the message: I didn't have to take another toy stuffed with a treat into the living room to swap for Squeaky; Gus would deliver. And he had. He'd figured out how the trade-in worked, and was willing to expedite the process for me. If I was smart enough to figure it out.