This time of year, he trots in the back door happy as can be, tail wagging, covered in dead grass clippings.
My best friend has been rolling around on the lawn again. Covering himself with grass clippings.
If I don't act fast he'll shake clippings all over the dining room rug, and we'll have to get out the vacuum.
So I yell at him to turn right back around - “Right now, Mr.!” - and shove him out the back door, grabbing the dog brush, or a wet dish towel, to clean him off.
Name's Mitch, a black Labrador Retriever, the breed I've had exclusively for the last 50 years. When I've written about them – and they always do something worth writing about - I called them, “My dog Mitch,” or Jack, or Sam, or Woody, or Jake, “a black Labrador Retriever, the Cadillac of Dogs.”
(At a funeral in Rock Springs last summer, a guy said he'd never agreed with a thing I'd written in this column. Except one thing: the superiority of the Labrador Retriever. Who says there's no common ground?)
When I yell at Mitch he gets a hurt look on his mug and tilts his head, not understanding how his best friend – me – could speak to him that way. A once over with the brush or wet towel feels like punishment to him, for simply bringing that perfect spring day back into the house for us all to enjoy.
I know folks who consider their spouse their best friend, and I'm happy for them. But the way I see it, any guy who calls his wife his best friend has probably never known the joy of owning a black Labrador Retriever. Simple as that.
If you ask me - and once again I notice you didn't - the person you're married to is a whole different proposition when it comes to best friends. Spouses are much more complicated. Dicey. Problematic. Mysterious. Having a spouse for a best friend would be a lot of work, even though she probably wouldn't come back in the house covered in grass clippings.
There's that.
Scratch a dog's belly just right and he will shake his hind leg in pure joy. Don't try that with a spouse.
Our long line of black Labs sounds like characters you'd meet in a dive bar – Cleo, Jake, Woody, Sam, Jack, Mitch. I loved every one of them, and their ashes (except Mitch's) are in tidy containers on a shelf next to my desk. I keep them because, well, what else would I do with my best friends? I told every one of them they were the “best dog in the whole world,” and I meant it.
We're dog people. When we leave the house we leave a television on to keep Mitch company, and turn the channel to Dr. Pol, the veterinarian show. (I've noticed, however, that Mitch never seems to be watching the TV when we return.)
Mitch was a rescue dog, liberated from the Torrington pound. They called him Mitchell because he was apprehended along the highway between Mitchell, Nebraska, and Torrington. The name stuck.
We sent him to dog college in Lingle, where the curriculum usually takes three weeks to complete. But it took Mitch about twice that long to matriculate. Go figure.
First time we took him in for shots, the vet told us, “You've got yourself a good dog here,” and she was right. We don't know how old he is, but the gray hairs on his mug tell us he's around 10, about the time a lot of these wonderful Labradors get cancer.
Mitch is an affection magnet, a love sponge. If I sit in my trusty recliner, or on the old bench out by the UP tracks that go by our place, he sits beside me and rests his head on my thigh.
Not sure how life could get much fuller than that.
And when I go downstairs to crank out another column that guy in Rock Springs probably won't agree with, Mitch plants himself on the daybed nearby and takes a snooze, wanting to be near his best friend.
Me.
See what I mean?
Cadillac of Dogs.
Slam, dunk.
Dave Simpson can be reached at: DaveSimpson145@hotmail.com
