Harold was a gloriously goofy brown Labrador Retriever, who came to stay with us for six months. His owners were building a new house. While the construction was going on, they were living in rental digs that did not allow dogs.
Harold’s parents came every Saturday to take Harold out to the local burger emporium for a hamburger.
It was like Happy Days, if Fonzie had been a dog.
The first time they did this, we worried that Harold would be upset about coming back to the kennel. Nope. Not Harold. He charged in the door, pulling his owners behind him, delighted to be back.
When we were out in the play yards, Harold paid little or no attention to us as long as the person in charge stayed where he or she were supposed to be. That is, in his yard. He violently objected to you being anywhere else except in his yard.
Harold’s usual occupations were (in order of priority):
1. the pursuit of other dogs
2. eating poop
3. stealing stuff he wasn’t supposed to have
4. digging and/or eating dirt
The only thing that would prompt Harold to abandon the activities that gave purpose to his existence, was if you had the temerity to go and visit dogs in another yard. Then he would race up and down the fence line, barking loudly and furiously until you abandoned whatever you were doing and re-entered Harold’s yard. Whereupon he would promptly ignore you and go haring off after a playmate.
Harold’s policy was, whichever other resident was not going to have a personal, private human attendant, it wasn’t going to be him. This was a tribute he demanded. And once Harold started barking no power on heaven or earth could get him to stop until the desired goal was achieved.
He was similarly persistent when it came to other dogs. It was inconceivable to Harold that any dog honoured with Harold’s patronage would decline the offered honour. It was obvious to Harold that the dog must not have realised that Harold was inviting him to play. Harold solved this oversight by poking the other dog repeatedly with his nose, either in the shoulder, or more likely, the butt. The other dog would ignore this as long as he or she could, but eventually the annoyance factor would be too great, and the dog would turn on Harold. Harold, greatly pleased with this result, would gallop off with the other dog in hot pursuit.
It didn’t matter to Harold whether the other dog was annoyed, enraged or just finally resigned to a game with Harold. He was being chased, and that, after all was the point, wasn’t it?
I don’t think he ever took it seriously when another dog growled at him or showed her teeth. A few times we had to step in and rescue Harold when the object of his attentions demonstrated, in no uncertain terms, that she was completely lacking a sense of humour. Harold never really got this. He was the one of the best natured dogs I ever knew, and it was beyond his mental capacity to envision anyone, be it human or another dog, who really didn’t like him, as much as he loved everybody.
One dark cold night, Harold stole up behind me and snatched the wool glove right off my hand.
Alright, it’s not night and it’s not Harold. You got me. This wasn’t the only time I lost a glove to a Bad Dog.
No matter how sternly I admonished him, he would not drop it. He knew perfectly well he was being bad. Knew? Hell, he revelled in it.
The next phase in the “Steal The Glove” game was the chase.
Again, not night, not Harold. As I said, this wasn’t my first (or last) rodeo.
I chased Harold. Becky the Greyhound chased Harold. Babe the Great Dane chased Harold.
Harold could not be caught and would not surrender his treasure.
Finally, in a pitiful attempt to outsmart Harold, I told him to stay, and then called all the other dogs out of the yard. Harold lay down on the ground with his prize and thoughtfully chewed the fingers off while he watched the other dogs trot obediently into the kennel. Then I called the dogs from another yard. It became clear that this was not a drill. We were really going inside. Harold stood up, still with the glove in his mouth.
He knew that biscuits awaited him inside. He also evidently figured out that if he left the yard for the confined space of the aisle leading to the kennel building, I would catch him and wrestle the glove away from him. In a magnificent display of problem solving, Harold swallowed down the glove in one mighty gulp. Then, the dilemma having been resolved to his entire satisfaction, wagging his tail furiously, he galloped up to join me at the door.
The General was beside himself. He was sure Harold would expire overnight. I didn’t share that concern. I figured he would pass the glove from one end or the other, and if not, it would take several days to become a problem. Since his owners were in the city, they could come and take him to the vet.
The next day, no business having resulted from Harold’s digestive tract, we called his owners, apprised them of the situation and suggested they could arrange a visit to the vet on Saturday when they picked Harold up for Hamburger Day.
“Oh well, it’s not the first time he’s done something like this. Once he swallowed a whole frisbee, but he did pass it. Let’s wait and see.”
The next several days were spent anxiously examining Harold’s rear output. Within 48 hours he passed two fingers of the glove, but the glove itself was still missing in action.
Time marched on, and Harold went about his daily pursuits. He was healthy as a horse. In odd moments I would find myself wondering where the glove could be lurking in Harold’s innards.
Then, one morning about two weeks later, there in Harold’s room, unattached to poop, vomit, or any other internal substance, was my orange wool glove.
Maybe Harold had a secret vest pocket he kept it concealed in. Maybe, in the classic prisoner move, he had been secretly removing blocks for the wall of his room, and his treasure had been concealed there. Maybe he had been studying magic in his spare time.
Or maybe it was just another example of Harold’s all-round awesomeness.