The Shit No One Tells You About Poodles

The Predator Poodle

I have never presumed to be more intelligent than the flora and fauna that surrounds me on this acreage. I know certain belief systems like to put humans at the top of the brain chain, but, other than some thick and evil human politicians, each species has its own unique intelligence, no greater or less than the other.

I never felt like my training of Hugo meant that I was smarter or of greater intelligence––perhaps the term ‘training’ was a misnomer––and it bothered me when people talked about how smart he was, or his breed is compared to … compared to what? Humans, mostly. The gold standard. Hah. When we so called ‘trained’ we were simply trying to develop a language that both of us understood.

And we did, and that language was not limited to words or vocalizations. It could be cold nose on the little bell at the door to go out for a poop, or a shake of his coat for the same reason. A single bark. It could be my hand under his warm ear and a rub, or his one solitary lick on my nose to let me know this wasn’t a face cleaning lick, this was a kissing lick to say I love you. The most important word in any language.

Our language evolved from day one, the bell, like I said, the games that we made, parades in the house, hide and seek or hide the toy, after dinner, before bed.

Out in the back fields, I’d let him off the leash where we were surrounded by acres of farm land, some with wheat some let fallow, all organic. On one of our outings Hugo caught sight of a wandering lump around the same time I did. He, being just as curious but more agile took off toward the Winnie the Pooh type character. Now I had heard of fishers in our neck of the wood, a vicious version of the cross between a racoon and a very large cat. Their profile was that of a dark monster mink or some kind of rodent. There. That description should leave you with an accurate picture. They had been known to kill small dogs and other house pets and could be quite aggressive. I’d seen one scuttle across my raised garden beds and another cross the road on one of our walks. They were quick and perhaps this waddling thing wasn’t a fisher––perhaps a porcupine or muskrat up from the lake, a mystery to me––and it had its own agenda, did not want to be bothered by a poodle.

I panicked, cursed under my breath at ever thinking letting him off the leash was a good idea, the two animals in question were now heading for the woods, and the woods here are like boreal jungle––jagged dry branches of junipers, some living some dry and dead, as well as deciduous anything that had the word burr or thorn in it, buckthorn, hawthorn and anything-thorn ready to tear you to shreds, or latch on.

That was less my concern than that he just might disappear into the woods and not emerge again, or end up on a distant county road, much busier, more speeders, more big trucks.

I took off after him firing on all pistons across uneven fallow tundra but I was no match to this being who ran for the simple joy of it, whose feet barely touched the ground when he opened up. His was a kind of poetry, a bird in flight but not quite. Absolute speed. Absolute joy.

I had to stop, it was futile, they would be long gone, and earthbound me would still be shouting for Hugo at the top of my lungs. In fact when we got home (yes we did get home) someone called from miles away to ask me if everything was alright, if I’d found Hugo––they’d heard me shouting.

Anyway, shouting stopped and I decided a little reverse psychology might be in order. “Bye” I shouted. “Bye. I’m going.” (over again several times)

He stopped. Thought of his options I imagine. He turned. There was no way he was going to be left on his own out there. Who would he entertain with his wild ear flapping running? Who would he relate to all the way back home, watch out of the corner of his eye, listen for? How much could this invisible bond be stretched?

Anyway “Bye, I’m going” worked and he stopped, looked at the prey, looked at me and came at me with all the zeal that he’d shown for the furry lumbering thing.

Soon, “bye, I’m going,” became our game and soon just a stop, no words, a look at each other about a half kilometre apart, me pretending to change direction or walk backwards and his acute vision catching me, and he’d race madly back towards me.

Our next bit of language, one of many, happened when we were out in that same field and well, we have come across odd things, sometimes a dead animal that may have been dropped from the talons of a falcon or osprey and other times surprised by surprised birds building nests, both birds and us in a bit of shock.

One day Hugo hit the jackpot, a rabbit pelt, dried to the stiffness of a piece of wood, flattened, like a large flag dipped in shellac. The coyotes had obviously gotten all the edible good stuff and left the pelt for nature to freeze dry. Hugo could not resist. At a distance I had no idea what he had in his mouth large and white and partially covering his profile, like a cartoon balloon. I’m not sure why, but I wanted to get it from him. Perhaps I thought he might eat it and make himself sick.

Again, we were way out back and there was no way he was giving up this trophy and no way he would let me near it. He kind of circled at fifty feet but would come no closer.

(I have to mention that I had built an enclosed yard for Hugo, early on, close to the house, where we could play frisbee, monster, enjoy beer o’clock on Sundays and not worry about distractions or getting too close to the road.) Hugo continued to circle me, staying in my orbit as I slowly headed to the house, and then he passed me. I am a little thick so didn’t realize until we got quite close to the house and the yard that this trophy was going into the poodle yard for safe keeping. I gave him space to get to the gate and then voila, mission accomplished. This ended up happening with anything he found out in the back (sadly the odd bunny) or if he found a particularly large or small branch from the mother oak tree on our walk to the lookout on the road. All trophies went to the poodle yard. On the odd rainy day I encouraged bringing them into the house, but that took a lot of encouraging.

Though his trophies were limited to the great outdoors, in the winter when we got home, got the snow off of us, well him, I would then proceed to take off my parka, he would stand close, looking up at me, twinkle in his eye. I always wondered what he was looking at, until the predator made his move. It must have been the faux fur trim on the hood but when I let the parka fall to the floor he would make a leap for it and either pull off the detachable hood or take the whole parka, hold it high to keep from tripping on it and run-march it into the living room, victorious, watching out of the corner of his eye, over his shoulder, to see if I was following. His in-house trophy. He always caught me unaware.

These memories fill me now with delight and sadness, and I try to get them written down before they are gone. They were all part of our ongoing conversation. Making a game out of what was, or finding yourself caught up in a complex game of ‘I dare you’ or responding to a simple request.

This is was our common intelligence, this was our meeting ground for communication. And he was my teacher, he taught me what mattered most and what mattered most was the moment, being in the moment and having as many moments as you could and use them for all that they held because I will forever remain that ten-year-old boy inside who doesn’t want to believe that dogs don’t live as long as humans.