Thoughts on What May Eventually Become of A Holiday Houseguest

Having had him as a house guest for the holiday weekend, I have to say in all fairness that it wasn’t a chore having him around and I enjoyed the very few minutes he calmed down long enough to sit beside me on the couch and enjoy whichever movie I happened to be watching. In short, he wasn’t at all hard to live with and I’m not completely understanding his owner’s general lack of enthusiasm about his existence.

For a dog, I said, he’s not all bad.

I’m often corrected by Owen when referring to Spam as a dog, and this was no exception. “That,” he’ll say, pointing to the guinea-pig sized, inevitably shivering mass of fur huddled against the sofa, “is not a dog.” Looking at Spam I have to agree, much as I’d like to say something in his favor because if for no other reason, going on looks alone he hasn’t got much going for him to begin with and once you move onto other areas like practicality, companionability and basic dog skills such as property protection, he’s got even less.

To begin with, Spam is a Yorkie. Sadly, a Yorkie is not a Chihuahua and not a poodle but something sadly stuck between the two before being run over by a Shiz-Tsu. The result is an animal roughly the size of a guinea pig or an overfed hamster with fur that, if left un-groomed, will convince you George Lucas was thinking “Yorkie” when he created the “Wookie”, he just made it much, much larger to have the correct presence on the screen. Spam is not a dog you cuddle with on the couch. He’s a dog you worry you might accidentally sit on and crush when you flop down on the couch. His social skills extend to yipping hysterically for no other reason than that he can at moments when you least expect it and careening through the yard barking at absolutely nothing. When not sleeping in Parker’s bed, Spam sleeps in a dog kennel the size of my purse and has room left over. This is not a dog you take proudly to the dog park. This is a dog you walk on a leash the consistency of a five year old shoe string and hope nobody you know is watching.

Spam is a dog not well matched to his people and would probably be far better off with a dedicated dog lover who would dress him in little sweaters and carry him around in a purse. In short, someone like me. He does not belong with Owen and his teenaged son, two guys who spend any free time to be found on the racquetball court, on the golf course, or on the ski slopes, not home with a dog on their lap.

“That,” Owen says often, gesturing to Basil, who is generally in the process of ‘killing’ one or another of Spam’s toys, stuffed animals in various states of disrepair, “is a dog.” Granted I’m biased in her favor, but I can’t disagree. Basil is small enough to be portable, not so small you’re going to miss her when you flop down on the couch. She’s perfectly companionable but like her owner appreciates her own ‘space’ from time to time so doesn’t overwhelm your attention. She barks but not without reason and even when she’s overgrown and under-groomed she’s got a certain attractiveness that’s undeniable. Finally and importantly, she is not a wuss. If Basil is shivering it’s because she’s cold. If Spam is shivering it’s because he’s a nervous little Yorkie and that’s what they do.

He’s a dog I have to love, I think, because I get the feeling not too many people do, although Parker is more attached than he’ll admit, having had him for so many years. He’d been a gift from his aunt to his mother and when his mother died he officially became Parker’s dog. Which is good because never having had a ‘real’ dog, i.e. one more like Basil than like your basic hamster, Parker’s less apt to make comparisons. He probably doesn’t remember Roby, the Golden Retriever Owen had in his single days, who finally passed away of old age when Parker was in kindergarten. Roby was a real dog and I know Owen misses him. Much as he talks about how when Parker moves out Spam is going with him and how great it will be not to have a dog, Owen is not one to be dog-less for long. The empty nest syndrome will hit and it won’t take too many weeks or even days for him to realize having your place all to yourself to do whatever you want with isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Not when you could be sharing your space with a dog who weighs more than your average library book.

When I mention this to Owen, he disagrees and lets me know once Parker is gone, he’s sending Spam out the door with him and he’s ‘done with dogs’. I generally don’t pursue the argument because I see the way he is with Basil and how happy he looked in pictures with Roby and I know he’s not done at all. No more than I was in 2005, when I moved out and was animal-less for the first time in my life, vowing to stay that way because, ‘it’s easier and I don’t have time for an animal’.

That lasted a little over six months and four months into it I was determined that if a stray didn’t come into my life soon (all my dogs have been rescues. I’m superstitious about ‘choosing’ a dog because of this, as they’ve all apparently chosen me and been such wonderful companions I don’t want to break my ‘streak’) I’d do something drastic like adopt a cat (Note: as it turned out I later adopted a cat to keep Basil company but that’s another story and sad example of how, when it comes to animals, I have all the resolve of melted butter).

I have never regretted Basil’s companionship or begrudged Gus one moment of his time in my home. There’s something necessary about animal companionship and much as he pretends to the contrary, Owen knows this, too. He might claim to be counting down the very few years until he’s come full circle and is once again the bachelor man in his bachelor house, but I know better. Golf clubs may well be able to ‘sit’ and ‘stay’, but I’ve never known one to greet you at the door at the end of a long day and that’s something I think we all enjoy having. He’ll have another dog, maybe even another Golden Retriever, but definitely there will be a dog in residence.

If for no other reason, I’m thinking, than that Parker’s going to have a heck of a time managing college courses, chasing women and finding time for the golf course, so there’s no way he’d want the added responsibility of a nervous little dog like Spam. Something tells me he’ll be ‘accidentally or not forgotten’ on moving day, left behind with a few dozen pair of dirty socks and a stuffed animal or two from ‘way back when he was a kid’. So Owen’s dreams of completely solo living are, for the most part, destined not to come true.

Unless, of course, Parker falls for a woman who can’t resist yippy little nervous dogs who can be carried in her purse.