Good Dog Henry (self-described as being a direct descendant of the Dire Wolves of the European forests) has one job and one job only. He guards my door. That’s why I feed him.
He first came to live with me while I was staying in a small cabin up near the Summit. My son, Victor, saved him from being adopted by yuppies at the dog pound, and brought him to the Remount where Good Dog Henry proved that he’s adept at chasing cows through fences.
So, I’ve been fostering this potlicker for some years now.
We think he was whelped in a methlab single-wide somewhere in the depths of the Piney Woods of East Texas. And that trailer caught fire. We deduce this because Good Dog Henry is deathly afraid of fire, smoke or steam.
He crouches outside the bathroom door when I take a shower, certain in his canine heart that I will be consumed in the conflagration, and that he will be left to scrounge for himself.
Descended from wolves my ass!!!
Nevertheless, Good Dog Henry is the best doorbell or porch security system that any man could ask for. He barks at anything or anyone that approaches my door. Mailman, neighbor, visitor, pizza guy...he lets me know when anyone is on our perimeter.
And he barks at a lot of stuff that really ain’t there.
Vampire zombies, Jewish space-laser intergalactic terrorists, ghost grizzlies, undead proselytizers, juju men and political canvassers from the Other Side...he barks at them all. And I throw open the door. And there’s nothing there.
Still, I pet his head, give him a Milk Bone medium size original flavor cookie and tell him, “Good dog”!
Its important to know what is not coming to get us.
I think that Good Dog Henry is trying to teach us an important political lesson. He may be saying, “The thing that scares the crap outa you, the thing that you believe is on your doorstep and ready to eat your liver, may not really be there.”
He may be saying, “Relax. Get a belly scratch. You’re not gonna die today.” And maybe that is the wisdom of the wolf, learned in the dark forest of Europe when the worst never showed up.
It's a crapshoot, really. The odds slightly in your favor. So double down on survival. Bet the house that what is on your porch – if anything is actually there – has not come to kill you. What do you have to lose?
Every time that I hear or read that life as I know it will end uncomfortably, through the political machinations of goofballs or the bleak conjectures of the witchdoctors, I have to remind myself of the other night.
I was reading in bed and Good Dog Henry jumped up out of a sound sleep and attacked the front door, barking and snarling and gnashing his teeth. I bookmarked my Eliot and shuffled to the door, cursing that first idiot who ever let a wolf live inside with him.
Outside the wind blew and the snowflakes swirled, but the doorstep was empty. Not really a false alarm, but there wasn’t anyone or anything there this time. And nothing really dangerous out there in the dark headed my way.
But its always a good idea to check. It never hurts to stay on your toes and pay attention to the wolves.
Selah.
