For the Love of Dogs

There are the pets, of course. There's Duke the Laidback and Frisky Rocky. They're three months old and have already put on impressive bulk — Duke is a Cane Corso, and Rocky a Rottweiler, both born to handsome foreigners. Their good looks and doggy eyes mitigate somewhat our misery regarding the misses in their potty training.

Duke walks like a panther; Rocky's gait is a fine Rottweiler's. Duke's bark is already deep and loud, but he squeals like a pig when he fears being left alone. The Rottweiler never barks, merely whines in high pitch when meeting us after we've been away a while. We lay hands on him, and he bites — hard. Duke has stronger jaws, but he seldom trains them on us.

Both exhibit a fine appetite.

Luca is the elder, older than the pups by a year. He's the one the puppies seek for play, piling on him both together, biting him on the ear, the rear, the tail, the legs. The problem for senior Luca is that the pups are taller and heavier. Luca would love to play, but he can't bear the torment; after a minute with them, he uses the speed and agility of the beagle to flee to a safe place.

All talk is regarding them, and their latest antics are all we talk about when we call each other. When one has a runny nose, we panic together. We worry that our obedience training is failing so badly. When clouds gather above and darken, we fret — the dogs can't go out walking with us tonight.

The corners of low tables and legs of chairs are chewed on. The threads in carpets and the meshwork in 3M mats are prised out and torn apart. The hems of curtains have not been spared, and I have holes in many trousers. Three clots from a bite on my palm still show. I hold my hand out to my wife, and she shows me the puncture marks she has gathered.

We've injected an overdose of spice into our life. It's like chewing the chilly and loving its taste, even as the thing sears the tongue.