A Column for the Dogs

By Tony Moorby October 21, 2021

Can you believe the Moorby canine compound has expanded, yet again?

The profoundly ugly, now five-year-old, French Bulldog, Kevin, has not one but two new buddies. Two more Frenchies - fawn ones. Only slightly less expensive than Kevin (who was vastly overpriced in the first place!).

They arrived as close to grandson Aiden’s birthday as nature would allow and bank balances would bear. On a per pound basis Plutonium 239 would come cheaper!

Upon their arrival (yes, I was there), Gus and Stuart appeared to be two tiny, rumpled blankets with folds that disappeared into the next county. They looked like those bookend shoes that people have bronzed for posterity, though why I can’t imagine.

Though I don’t get it, the pure joy on Aiden’s face when he first saw his birthday surprise, was as infectious as his shrieks of delight, followed by rolling on the floor with the puppies awkwardly vying for attention.

Aiden is as attracted to dogs – any dogs – as I am not. A while ago we went to Cars and Coffee in Nashville and while I was mooching around all that magnificent metal, Aiden was scouting the equivalent of Canines and Coffee. He always asks permission to approach other peoples’ dogs who seem to quickly recognize his easy affection, expressed as openly on a Labrador as on a Lamborghini.

As the new arrivals were acquainting themselves with their new surroundings, their exhilaration was expressed (literally) at the wrong end of the dogs. Case closed! As far as I was concerned this was an immediate reminder why dogs belong in caves, not houses. This is how your affection is repaid – thanks a bunch. 

Kevin, all the while, has one of those “What the…!” expressions as those famously bulging eyes test tension and gravity. He doesn’t have a tail (naturally, not docked), not even a nub, so it’s hard to tell whether he’s ecstatic or horrified.

Bella, the other dog denison in the household, who you may remember from previous jottings, bestows as much affection on me as I do on her, stood apart and aloof at these crazy goings on, with her signature bad-mooded growl at the least incursion upon her personal space.

My son-in-law, Mike, is an Iron Man and a triathlete, having competed in events all over the country and who seems to spend his life, when not embracing the family, bent over training equipment, cycling, running and swimming. He’s as hard as nails; that is until dogs are involved. He becomes a melting, blithering, simpering soul in their presence and employs a language completely disassociated with his frame and stature. I sometimes envy his good-natured approach to tripping over dogs, letting them outside, letting them inside, throwing things ad nauseam and always aware of their place. His antennae are as sensitive as his charges. My envy doesn’t last that long!

While the puppies are being spoiled by all and sundry, present company accepted, the rest of the Moorby menagerie goes on. Robby’s Retriever, a slender, elegant rendition of the breed (see, I can throw a compliment every now and then) is as loopy and daft as a brush. She prefers to recline in a children’s paddling pool rather than grace the yard as guardian – a throwback to the breed’s waterdog beginnings.

 Cujo, er sorry, Charlie the giant wuss, is now accompanied by Cash, Olivia’s boyfriend’s lummox of a black Lab whose favorite pastime is to out laze his roommate, as they both lollygag about until it’s time for a walk, when all the pent-up energy goes frenetically wild, affording the owners more exercise than the dogs.

As curmudgeonly as I may seem, these moments of what make a family tick bring a smile in times of all the madness around.


Last modified on Thursday, 21 October 2021 19:46