THE MICHIGAN DOGMAN

 

At a lakeside table last July, a stray border collie obsessed over barking at us, its fur a scruffy patchwork of charcoal and ash. A ragged thing, it kept its distance but ignored shouts from my family to leave. Every time I looked up from my sandwich and potato chips, its dark gold eyes met mine. Dogs always had an attraction to me, but never this intense. The canine backed off when shooed, only to circle back.

Hotdog or hamburger, it turned its nose from every piece of food tossed its way, barking with a desperation deeper than hunger. My grandmother started to worry, which itself was worrisome. She was a mean old lady who never fretted, more apt to fly off the handle than grow alarmed. It was strange to see her lose her appetite, fidget in her purse, and dart eyes away from the collie. Still, she kept to the conversation. My mother spoke of a favorite pillow with a difficult stain, and Grandma shared her best practices.

Grandpa commented dryly on how quiet the dog was, and how they should take it home. Grandma scowled at him, an expression steeped in resignation, though it was unclear if she heard much of anything he said these days. She merely assumed his antics in these later years.

“What I was saying with the pillows,” Grandma continued above the noise, “is I had one with piss stains from our damn dog, Princess. Princess pissed on it, and no matter what I did, that stain would not come out. I bet I washed that pillow fifteen times with different sprays and detergents. Nothing worked on that pillow for months on end.”

My grandfather perked up but spoke in a low, quiet tone, obscured further by the barks. He often liked to play with her dull hearing. “Do they sell pillows at the store?”

My grandmother turned to him and angrily hollered, “What!”

He raised his voice. “Do they sell pillows at the store?”

“Yes!”

“Oh.” Grandpa returned to his sandwich.

Grandma ignored him. “But then I tried that All and boy, did that get the stain out. Any time Princess goes and pisses a pillow, or the davenport or what-have-you, it really comes clean.”

Barking nonstop, and closer again, my mother became agitated how no one could enjoy themselves. “Someone needs to do something about that dog.”

That’s when my grandmother stopped playing avoidance with the animal. She turned to it from the table and clapped her hands. The dog yipped, rearing back. She clapped more times, and the dog scurried for the woods, tail between legs.

My mom asked where she learned that trick.

“That ain’t a trick for dogs,” Grandma said...