The Secret Life of Scituate Dogs

It is one of the open secrets of the columnizing business that one of the easiest ways to build up a devoted readership is to write about pets.  After all, everyone has one (even if he is just a two-legged garage tinkerer), and most have, or once had, fond feelings for them.  It’s a sure hit.

It would be a simple matter to wow you with tales of how cute my dogs are, but I’m a scientist (as well as reporter, selectman candidate, maritime lawyer, crank, husband and internet guru) and not the kind who takes the easy road to anywhere.  So I devised a sort of experiment.  I would follow one of the dogs around as he “lived a dog’s life” and bring back a report on just what goes on in the secret life of Scituate dogs.

I started the experiment with Katie, a nine year old Newfoundland. This was probably a mistake since Katie rarely moves, and never leaves the house, especially if there’s rain in the forecast.  After a few hours of watching her sleep, I was ready to give in and start attending School Committee meetings for my column material.  Fortunately, we have Dudley the Mutt, who was ready, willing and able to have an adventure in the interest of science.

He set off at a gallop from our front gate, tail tucked between his legs for speed, intoxicated with his newfound freedom.  To my dismay, he never looked back.  I followed at a discreet distance, pen at the ready.

First stop was Bear’s house for a half hour of mud wrestling.  Bear is Dudley’s best friend and the two of them use mud the same way pre-teen girls use makeup - the more the better.  Then across the street to do his business in front of the house where the people don’t like dogs.  It isn’t easy to find just the right spot especially in such a large and neatly trimmed lawn, but after a few go-rounds he manages to identify the boy’s room.  Ah, the pause that refreshes.

He looks bored for just an instant, then starts chasing his tail, bouncing wildly in a circle before falling on his face.  Then it’s off to find fame and fortune.  This is doomed to take a while though, since he has to pee on everything he sees.  Bushes, telephone poles, curbs, fire hydrants, day lilies, even unremarkable patches of grass all get the treatment.  They say that scent marking is a form of communication for dogs.  If so, then Dudley is now a rising star on the canine social circuit. 

Eventually we make it down to the marsh, which we think of as sort of a mall for dogs.  Down at the marsh you can pick up everything a dog needs - ticks and fleas, bad smells, dead things, things that will make you sick if you eat them, and, of course, mud. It’s low tide and the marsh smells especially wonderful.  First we take a big drink of salt water, then eat some grass so that we can throw everything  up later when we get back to the oriental rug.  Say what you want about Dudley’s roaming instinct but, like any dog, he’ll come running back home the minute he needs to throw up. 

When I next catch sight of him, he’s down by the channel caught on the horns of a dilemma.  To the right lies a moldy striper carcass, to the left, a dead seagull.  I can almost feel his anguish.  He can’t possibly carry both, but to leave without one of them would be pure torture.  This will certainly be a test of his problem solving skills.  His head swivels frantically back and forth until finally he hits on it.  Dipping his shoulder he dives onto the dead seagull, wriggling maniacally so as to get the most rotten smell onto himself.  Then he jumps up, grabs the striper carcass and races off.  So much to do and so little time!

Up on Jericho Road he spies his archenemy, the mailman.  Racing up the street, howling, his long black coat flowing in the wind, Dudley is now the minuteDog, warning the dog world,  “The mailman is coming, the mailman is coming.”   Up and down the street, sleeping dogs leap from their beds to defend their houses.  Faced with this display of canine territoriality, the mailman wisely confines himself to delivering the mail, his evil plans postponed to another day.

Having successfully chased off the mailman, Dudley stops to assess the situation.  On the one hand, unleashed bachelor dogs like himself are roaming all over town, entertaining the Dog Officer, leaving little presents for the lawn-mower guys and getting into all sorts of other light-hearted mischief.  On the other hand, the dead striper is at peak funk and if he doesn’t get it home soon, I won’t be able to properly enjoy it.  No contest.  Stopping only to roll in a patch of poison ivy, he races home proudly carrying the day’s prize.

Later, as I scrub the dog bile out of the carpet, I take a minute to reflect.  What great truths has our little experiment uncovered?  What goes on in the secret life of Scituate dogs?  Absolutely nothing.  To dogs, there is no such thing as a secret.  The mind of a dog is as simple, and easy to read as a Yard Sale sign.  So stop trying to figure the dog out.  It’s not worth it.  And don’t forget to tune in next week when I present “101 uses for a Dead Grocery Store”.

John Rodley is a local zoologist who spends all his time trying to outwit an animal that thinks the mailman is Satan.  When he’s not playing in the street, he hangs out in a nice fenced yard at http//www.rodley.com.