His full name was Caleb Fox Martin Wilcox Swank Son of Third Dog Out of Lisa. He was my partner’s and my first dog. The absolute first for him, since he grew up with dog stories told by his grandfather, who had pointers. Caleb was no pointer. He was a mixed-breed city dog, born a few blocks from our Southeast apartment on Capitol Hill in DC. In retrospect, we knew nothing about raising a dog. We worked all day and often came home to scenes of mayhem. Chewed rugs and furniture, house plants strewn all over the floor, any sort of food gone and forgotten. His specialty came through the slot in the door. It was chewed, punctured, open and slobbered on. Caleb HATED the postman, but he loved to attack the mail.
One thing we managed to teach Caleb, (supposedly “dog” in Hebrew) was that he must never, EVER, cross a curb without a ‘Go” command. To that he was faithful. One night, John (my partner) and Caleb witnessed a shakedown/robbery across the street. Seeing it, John yelled “Police Police! ” and ran toward the perpetrators, confident the large dog by his side would scare them away. I heard the commotion as did others, and as we all came outside, the attackers fled. Caleb, it must be said, sat patiently by the the curb on the original side of the street, waiting for his “Go.”
Caleb loved to play ball. In most cities, there are not many places to play ball with dogs. We were reduced to the strip of grass surrounding the Old Soldiers Home and a few grassy median strips. I kid you not. We played catch on median strips. True to his training, if the ball strayed into the road, Caleb would put on the brakes and stop and sit at the curb. It was a sight to behold. Pedestrians and sometimes motorists stopped to watch.
Bonnie, the dog we had when our kids were growing up, had a different life. She was a border terrier as seen on the PBS series, “All Creatures Great and Small.” A patient and tender dog, she grew up in a Maryland suburb, three miles from the District line. As we learned, terriers chase low prey, and even “go to ground.” They do not look up, and and even if they did, a ball in the air is worthless.
We lived near a community pool parking lot, built on a downhill slope. Blacktop, it was perfect for a dog who loved to chase balls that were kicked not thrown. Trouble was, you had to kick them. OK for a soccer ball, but tricky for a tennis ball on blacktop. It required shoes and a certain amount of flair. Bonnie was not reliable a retriever, so you also needed an excessive supply of used tennis balls.
Then there was our beloved Toby, a large loving dog who resembled a Wheaton Terrier. Ball playing was not her focus, but she helped us transition to an empty nest and retirement. She played ball with us, but only because we suggested it. She deserves her own story, and one day I’ll try to write it.
Moxie, our present dog, a mixed breed who is mostly Boston Terrier, has schooled us in her form of dog ball. For her, it’s all about the one in her mouth and the next one thrown. To amuse and exercise her, I throw a variety of things. Balls, round discs, and various strong plastic toys. She catches one, and holds it in her mouth as she runs for the next thing being thrown. Then, she enjoys the ultimate fun of batting the thing thrown with the thing in her mouth.
This exercise is done daily in the back yard, which has several obstacles. I give it my best, but often the toys/balls land in trees, the roof, and Lake Iona. To this day, one of Moxie’s toys rests on our neighbor’s roof. And who knew Boston Terriers can swim after balls in a lake?
The joy of playing catch with dogs is pure delight. Not a small thing, but it’s a perfect pursuit, once your dog teaches you how. And we’ve been honored to learn.
Floridawoman 