“Wrangler +10”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

We needed a couch. We got a puppy.

It has already become an old story in the Ice household - how I took a shopping trip with Wife 2.0 in 2007, while we were hunting for furniture. Our destination was a store called “Refound Treasures” which was then located in Huntsburg. My spouse had seen a suitable ‘davenport’ advertised at this bargain emporium, one that would replace our beloved green monster, which had come from her mother in Wisconsin. When we arrived, the store was loaded with all sorts of interesting stock. Trinkets, tchotchkes, sports artifacts and household goods. So much to ponder that our mission was temporarily sidetracked by curiosity. It took more than a half hour of browsing to remember our intended purpose. Only then did we realize that the couch we wanted had been sold.

On the way to my truck, a cacophony of barking brightened our mood of defeat. Young puppies were in an outside pen by the store. Their playful clatter provided a welcome distraction. As we paused to look, one of the business owners approached. She explained that a neighbor’s Border Collie had unexpectedly visited their Golden Labrador Retriever, named Liza. The result was a litter of eleven babies. What we saw were five of the group.

Some puppies had longer hair, ostensibly like their father. But one was a black, canine nugget, with what appeared to be a white cross on his chest. Pure Lab. No genetic evidence that his sire had been a different breed. He poked his nose through the fence. My wife uttered words that would live in infamy: “Can I just hold him?”

The store owner obliged, graciously.

Dog magic is potent stuff. It is known to melt even the hardest of human hearts. As the chubby fellow licked and wrestled and yapped and pawed at my spouse, more of her reckless words filled the air. “How much would he cost?” she asked.

“Fifty dollars,” the owner smiled. “And we will take care of all his shots. He is seven weeks old.”

I had been straining to imagine how we would afford a new couch. The idea of buying a pet for a house already populated by three cats and a Pomeranian seemed indefensible. Even foolish. But it was my wife’s silence that spoke loudest. She held the puppy out, for a better view. “What do you think?” she asked. “Isn’t he cuuuuuute?”

My stomach felt like I had swallowed a rock. Of course the little fellow was cute. Damned cute. They are all so damned cute at that age. So. Damned. Cute.

Driving home, my wife snuggled with the dog. “We’ve got a baby!” she sang. “We’ve got a baby!” Her enthusiasm could not be hidden. “So, what do we call him? Spike? Bowser? Muttley? Maybe Doggie McNugget?”

I frowned over the steering wheel. “My brother has a dog named Levi. He’s a Shepherd – Lab mix. Levis are blue jeans. So lets name this guy ‘Wrangler’ because that is another kind of jeans.”

Wife 2.0 ignored my sarcasm. “Wrangler! I actually like that!”

It did not take long to realize that the name fit him well. Our new friend was rambunctious, rowdy and mischievous. He chewed on everything. Pens, pencils, our television remote, rolled newspapers, undergarments with elastic, even the phone line for our home computer.

Aided by my father-in-law “Papa Rick” we went through the typical training routines. He had grown up outside of Milwaukee and knew more about dogs than anyone I had ever met. Plus, he had been a military police officer during the Vietnam era. So questioning his advice would have been insane. Also, quite possibly, unpatriotic.

I did not want to lack patriotism, or be a bad doggie daddy.

Wrangler was always hungry. He out-consumed the Pomeranian despite being slightly smaller. As he grew in size, his appetite also increased. Eventually, my wife brought home a dish of glazed, salt-dough fruit from our local church auction. They were all painted in appropriate colors. She wanted to use them in a teaching exercise. Our ornery pooch gobbled them down while we were busy with household chores. Too soon, he realized his mistake. We had to take him out into the yard. He had just enough energy to void his belly, then lay in the grass. This cycle repeated over and over until he felt better.

My wife fought back tears. I could not help remarking on the event. “Well, this certainly explains the old phrase ‘sick as a dog!’” She wasn’t amused.

Our Black Lab had an oversized head and paws after about six months. He looked gangly and awkward. But his personality drew many fans from the neighborhood. While the Pomeranian yipped and yapped at anyone passing by, Wrangler was content to chase wandering cats. Or sun himself on the lawn.

“He’s a quiet dog,” my spouse observed. “I like that.”

Papa Rick called him a marshmallow. He reckoned that we were too gentle and unconvincing with our training regimen. But on a summer afternoon, as my stepdaughters were playing soccer, a stray mutt entered the yard. It was large and rippled with muscles. A German Shepherd I did not recognize.

Wrangler stood tall. Suddenly, I did not know him or his demeanor. He uttered a low growl while approaching the territorial intruder. His white teeth glistened. No harm would be permitted to the girls. He crouched on his front legs, ready to strike. The stray dog lost its nerve and ran.

My wife was duly impressed. “He’s a hero!”

Eventually, he grew into proper proportions. But the Pom was still ‘Alpha Dog’ despite his enormous disadvantage in size. He led the Black Lab around like a schoolboy. Both pooches enjoyed riding in the truck, though with my wife and stepdaughters, that made for a full load. We enjoyed summer outings to the Thompson Ice Cream Stand, to Trumbull Locker, for smokies, or to the Harpersfield Covered Bridge.

These stories came back from memory as I contemplated that this month, our beloved ‘furkid’ was about to turn ten years old. My wife and girls had moved to their own residence beyond the county line. And the old Pomeranian had crossed the Rainbow Bridge. But Wrangler continued his quest for tasty treats and kitties to chase. He looked a bit chunky and moved with less speed than before. Yet he was still a puppy at heart.

His favorite place remained next to the desk during late-night writing sessions. Somehow, I guessed that his canine spirit helped to offer inspiration. He was my muse with paws and a wagging tail.

I would not have it any other way.

Comments or questions about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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Published weekly in the Geauga Independent