We will be driving to Ohio for a couple of days and boarding our greyhound, Argos. The main question on my mind is, by the time we get back, will he still like us?
I know that sounds silly. Argos is our dog. We feed him and pet him and talk to him like he’s a person. We let him—in fact—encourage him to use our back yard as his own personal racetrack and bathroom (much to the detriment of our grass). But sometimes I wonder if he is actually happy with us. After all is said (or barked) and done, would he rather live with somebody else?
I know dogs that have a real phobia about going to the veterinarian. They seem to know what’s coming when they are packed up for a trip to the vet. They shake and howl and try to escape to somewhere safe from hypodermic needles and bad-tasting medicine and the smell of antiseptics.
But to Argos, a trip to his veterinarian is like a five-year-old going to Disneyland. He absolutely loves his vet. Whenever they meet, she greets him by name with such tender familiarity it makes me almost wonder if they have been having rendezvous on the sly, going to the dog park together when I’m not around and hanging out at McDonald’s, eating cheeseburgers. She speaks to him kindly and when she scratches behind his ears, he looks adoringly up at her in a way he never does at me. She feeds little round doggy treats that appear magically in an endless stream from her hand. If she has to get something from the dispensary, he tries to follow her, scratching desperately at the closed door.
In my experience, the people who work with animals, like Argos’ vet, are unusally kind and nurturing and seem to have an almost mystical connection to dogs and cats that have been entrusted to their care. When I see them at work, I also fall under their spell. “They are so nice!” I say to myself. Nicer than I am. I don’t blame Argos for preferring these saintly folks to a bossy taskmaster like me who is stingy with treats and yells at him when he tries to gulp our dinner off the kitchen table.
Argos will be spending three days and nights at a dog “resort”—formerly known as boarding. Dogs are treated to a “suite”, complete with their own radio, heated floors and a lovely window view of grass and trees. They are escorted outside three times a day “to play” and, you know, other business. They are not pestered by cats or annoyed by loud construction noises. Growing up to be a professional racer, living with other greyhounds, Argos likes to pal around with dogs his size. (He suspects very small dogs might be chew toys but is hesitant to test his theory). Whenever he gets the opportunity to play with a Labrador or a standard poodle or especially another greyhound, he leaps and prances like a puppy.
Maybe by the time we collect Argos from the dog resort, he will be so exhausted from having a great time with those nice people and the other dogs that he will be glad for the chance to sleep in his own bed. Disneyland might be fun, but nobody really wants to live there.