Going to the Mattresses

My father was an animal person, particularly with regard to dogs. He was known almost to his dying day for adopting strays. Even strays that were leery of humans would follow him and attach themselves to his "adopted" pack. You would never know how many dogs you would find in the yard or the house. My mother was the daughter of a farmer who grew up with a practical approach to animals, pets or otherwise. They were either a food source or performed a task. She did not have any sentimental illusions even towards the household pets.

The one attitude they both shared was that animals belonged on the floor. No pet of ours was allowed on the furniture. Furniture was expensive. We were a blue collar family. What we had was dear. My parents could not afford to be forgiving towards tears, scratches and hair over everything.

The ultimate test of my ingrained attitude was marrying a cat person. The only thing harder than keeping a cat from climbing the shelves and off of the furniture was to herd it. With Sylvan and Frisky, the cats from our newlywed years, there were several accidents which lead to temper tantrums by me and admonishment from my wife to grow up. Teaching me maturity was one of my wife's early challenges. There is still some debate as to how successful she has been.

Eventually I resigned myself to the inevitable natural tendencies of a feline and learned to live with their crawling and climbing, scratching and shedding.
With Hamilton I was determined to be more strict. I had my heritage to defend. No dog on the couch or bed. No leaning on the table with his front paws. Hamilton would be disciplined. He would accept his boundaries and be happy for it. After all I was the master, the Pack Leader.

To this end I embraced the philosophy of the crate. The crate would be a physical representation of the household rules. And Hamilton would find comfort and solace from its implied limitations on his behavior. To reinforce its intent we would keep it in the living room away from us. Hamilton would have a safe, secure environment to sleep in without us in the room. He would develop confidence and independence. After all his heritage was to be a guard dog, a hunter, a fighter. His was a mix of German Shepherd and Terrier -- stoic, brave warriors.

Then again you can't expect too much from a ten-week old puppy. Each night Hamilton would whimper in his crate full of chew toys, blankets and a separate velour-covered, puppy-sized bed. Sleeping through such pitiful pleading was a challenge. And there was the complication of differentiating the apprehensive whimpering from the I have to go variety.

After three nights of sleep deprivation I consulted with my wife, always the sensible one, and agreed the best approach would be a temporary relocation of the crate to the bedroom where he would be comforted knowing we were nearby. The whimpering was surprisingly loud now. And then there was Gus.

Since Hamilton's arrival our two cats had retreated to the bedroom. This was comfortable territory for Daphne, our shy runt. For Gus it represented a strategic maneuver until he could assess the situation. It was his reign and now it was invaded by this strange sniveling creature that smelled to him like a walking potty box. Now his bedroom refuge was invaded by Hamilton and his crate. Where is a cat to turn?

He decided to assess the situation closer. He surreptitiously approached the crate from the side. The crate was designed to provide intimacy for the dog so it was enclosed on three sides with only the front gate providing an opening for viewing. Coming from the blind side Gus pulled his head around to the front gate. Hamilton must of looked worse than Gus could possibly have imagined. He arched his back. His fur and tail stood on end as if they had been starched.

The hiss initially confused Hamilton. It was probably the first he had ever heard. He cocked his head behind the gate and seemed to be attempting to decipher a foreign language. You could almost visualize Hamilton's brain cells calculating the intent of the tones and modulations of Gus's voice. He tried to sniff Gus with his nose through the gate. The scratch across his nose happened so quickly that Hamilton didn't register the pain initially. Then there was a loud yelp and Hamilton retreated to the back of the crate.

Now the whimpering became louder and we also had Gus all agitated, jumping from bed to table to the top of the crate hissing and clawing. I decided to get dressed and take Hamilton out for a walk. It was 2 A.M.

That weekend was Hamilton's first at our country home. We have a small cottage on a lake near the Delaware Water Gap in western New Jersey. It is our retreat from Manhattan and the pressure cooker of our jobs.

Initially Hamilton was thrilled with his new surroundings. Fresh scents, plenty of room to play and new nooks and crannies to investigate. Then came the night. The bedroom did not have room for the crate so we placed it on the porch which is enclosed with a door to the house that we keep open in the summer. It was a beautiful August night. Nothing stirred, not even a quiet summer breeze. The quiet was soon shattered by Hamilton's load whimpering. Sounds were amplified by the stillness and the calmness of the lake's glimmering surface and we knew his cries were reverberating around the lake.

That's when we gave in. My wife padded out to the porch and opened the crate door. As she turned back a streak of fur broke between her legs through the doorway and into the bedroom. I looked at Hamilton's pleading face and those beguiling brown eyes and knew I was lost. I lifted him up and he snuggled onto the pillows. As my wife got back into bed there he lay between us his eyes already closed.

We had crossed the line. As I looked at the now empty crate I knew there was no turning back. We had breached the historical legacy that had guided my family for generations, two anyway. No longer would any dog in our family be limited to an exclusively terrestrial existence. Hamilton had broken the barrier.

Meanwhile, I noticed Gus was cautiously creeping into the crate.