I admit it’s a tad redundant to write an article with such a title, since the whole premise of the blog is just that – it’s all about Lewis.  In fact, I wonder sometimes if this situation has devolved to the point that the title should be “Everything is about Lewis.”

This devolution, if you will, occurred to me one morning during breakfast.  Nothing really new there.  As Lewis is so inclined in the mornings, he likes to lounge about on the deck, directing traffic through his part of the world.  He jumps to his feet at the sight of a stray bird, but something larger, like a family of deer, gets a full-fledged growl and an over-the-top barking jag.  But….walk past the back door with a plate in your hand, and he abandons his post and takes up the “food watch.”  Lying at your feet, he waits patiently for his share.  And that’s when it occurred to me.  The devolution.  He has lured us into his grand plan.  To reward his quiet patience, we start to make him his own eggs, his own waffle… his own.  Let that phrase sink in – his own.  Not scraps, not leftovers, his own meal on his own plate.

I admit to this pet owner no-no, but I offer in my defense that this only happens at breakfast.  For dinner he gets his own food.  But in the spirit of full disclosure, it is warmed in the microwave.  Why?  Because he likes it that way!  After all, it is all about Lewis.

I should feel guilty/silly/weak-willed (take your pick) about such concessions to his highness, but then I remember all of the pet stories on social media. Guess what.  Crazy pet owners abound!   For instance:

• Owners (that term should really be changed to “the owned”) who make sure their dogs have a comfortable place and bed right in front of the fireplace.
• The strangest thing I’ve ever seen are actual beds, miniature four-poster beds for the family dog.
• Then there were the folks who bought a $1000 door with a built-in pet door, because the existing door would not adapt to an add-on.
• My personal favorite – the family dog who gets her own bowl of Frosted Flakes before bedtime each night.

We won’t even begin to talk about the cat owners who dress up their felines to look like everything from an automobile to George Washington.

In light of such, what is a scrambled egg here and there?  Ok, it’s more than an egg here and there.  It’s a full coat brush out every morning.  It’s a hike through the woods to find him just the right size stick to gnaw.  It’s a constant hand on his back as he lies down by your chair, otherwise, he sits up and gives you that St. Bernard look.

And that look is what leads to Frosted Flakes, perfect sticks, and all the rest, because…it really is all about Lewis.

I find myself uttering that phrase a lot lately.  I’m not really sure what it means exactly, or why I say it, but I have decided it is the canine equivalent to the quintessential Southern phrase, “Well, bless his heart.”  It’s a deceptive little phrase.  It can be empathetic or insultory, depending on the user’s intention…and frame of mind.

With Lewis, it’s never a critical pronouncement.  At worst, it’s a neutral statement about the way things are with Lewis around.  Like having to move an end table to get out of the den, because he is spread out on the floor, blocking the main walkway.  Even as I write this, he is lying in the floor behind me (detect a common theme here?), anyway, he’s lying in the doorway, occasionally pushing the door open with his big honking paw so he can see out.  Normally, that’s not a big deal, but it’s 40 degrees outside, and because of Lewis, it’s dang near that inside.  But what can you do….he’s just a big ol’dog.

First thing in the morning when he sees me, it truly touches my heart that he comes barreling across the room, tail wagging, to greet me.  The trouble is, he “touches” my knees, too, rather he crashes into me.  Or worse, he runs into you from behind, causing your knees to buckle.  If this were football, the big fella would be looking at a 15-yard penalty and an automatic first down!  But you know, he’s just a big ol’ dog.

And curiosity might have killed the proverbial cat, but it isn’t doing me any good either.  Curiosity is a powerful force, but when combined with the love of food, it will knock you down, literally.  It’s well nigh impossible to pull the head of a 140-lb. dog out of the refrigerator once he’s convinced there’s something gastronomically interesting behind door number one.  That’s how he is.  He’s just a big ol’ dog.

Lately, I’m beginning to rethink food as being his prime mover.  I’ve caught him sniffing packages from FedEx, USPS, Amazon – he’s not particular.  And he’s (excuse the pun) dogged about it. The Nose as we refer to him sometimes, hangs with the package until he’s satisfied that his mission is over.  Homeland Security would be proud, but in fact, he’s just a big ol’ dog.

If you’re eating, he expects his share.  If it’s raining, he doesn’t care.  It’s your job to dry him off, every time.  If he wants to go outside, then you are obligated to get up and let him out and then back in, out, in, out, in, out…you get the picture.

All these things you do and will continue to do, because he’s just a big ol’ dog.

Bless his heart.

It’s not as adversarial as it sounds, but Lewis’ interaction with the annual jolly visitor is a tad less than jolly.  Lewis’ first Christmas in an admittedly over-decorated house resulted in some very guttural, primal reactions by the big white fellow to the jolly old red fellow.  In the foyer, up on a second story ledge stands one of seven Christmas trees in the house (yes, I know).  Accompanying that tree is a medium-size Santa, staring down at the foyer below.  This red-coated creature peering down from above did not sit well with Lewis, who launched into a barking frenzy previously unmatched by Mr. Not in My House.

Over the course of that first Christmas encounter, Lewis gradually accepted an uneasy truce with the bearded stranger.  Granted that truce came through Lewis’ avoidance of the general area of the foyer where “it” stared at him 24 hours a day, but a truce nonetheless.

Problem solved?  Uh, no.  The next Christmas rolled around, and the big fellow (Santa, not Lewis) came out of his year-long hiding place much to the dismay of the big fellow (Lewis, not Santa).  What made the situation even worse is that Lewis caught Santa at the staging area getting ready for formal placement – meaning, horrors, an eye-level, face-to-face encounter of the howling kind.  One would have thought that an invading army had made its way into the living room.  Howling like a banshee, Lewis assumed the position and was giving no quarter to his old nemesis.  Only intervention from above (me on a ladder) saved Santa from certain demise.

Christmas this year has been somewhat subdued as far as territorial battles between the two big fellows…or so I thought.  Instead, Lewis has moved to more clandestine tactics.  Apparently, while waiting patiently in the decoration staging area, Santa mysteriously disappeared.

At this point it would provide much needed context to reveal that Lewis is a hole-digging dog.  He doesn’t just chase tennis balls, he buries them.  Ditto with toys, sticks, even long sticks.  He calculates the size of the object then digs accordingly.  With long sticks, he even digs trenches.  Suffice to say, if something is missing, it’s buried somewhere in the backyard.

Panic set in when Santa went missing along with Lewis.  An end run through the dining room is the only thing that saved Santa from a dirt nap.  Upon turning the corner, there stood Lewis with Santa in hand, rather in mouth. I swear the look on his face was something akin to “What.”  Thus, Santa was saved once more, ready to decorate another day.  And the truce continues.

There’s only one problem.  Lewis has discovered the reindeer!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good….bite!

This Lewis story actually begins with one of his predecessors.  Her name was Ariel.  She was an Australian Shepherd.  Like Lewis, she was both a rescue dog and too smart for her own good.  She was one of the most humble and loving dogs I have ever known.  Hated thunderstorms and would crawl up in my lap and cover my face with her paws.  I think it was her version of “Don’t look, Ethel!”

This almost picture-perfect dog had one slight issue.  She was the Houdini of the dog world.  She got out of the fence once and was gone for five days.  Not exactly an earth-shaking, nor unique shortcoming in a dog. But the following is.

We had taken Ariel to be boarded while we were scheduled to be out of town for a couple of days.  When we returned, we went to the vet to pick her up, and we were met with a most interesting story…to say the least.  It seems that the staff came in one morning to find all of the dogs out of their pens, running about, willy nilly. To show how smart she was, the staff said that she opened the cages of all the dogs except the mean one she didn’t like. They looked at their CCTV footage to see what happened, and there was Ariel, going from cage to cage, opening the doors.  When we checked out, we saw Ariel’s file on the desk in front of us.  There in big, bold letters were the words, LATCH LIFTER.  Oh, the shame….

Fast forward to Lewis.  Granted he’s never been singled out by the vet as being an outlaw, but I’m not taking any chances.  We keep three latches on all outside gates, one of which is a carabiner through a dead bolt.  Unless Lewis grows opposable thumbs, I think we have the latch (potential) problem solved.

Upon reflection, I doubt Lewis would ever turn to a life of crime as a latch lifter.  Food thief, definitely, but not a latch man.  The reason being, Lewis tends to be a big chicken around other dogs.  Okay, not a chicken, but at least cautious around other dogs.  Sadly, Lewis is skittish in most situations, resulting from his being deaf.  Since he cannot hear, he doesn’t notice people or things until they reach his peripheral vision, which can startle him.  In any event, according to the vet, the felonious side of Lewis is buried WAY deep beneath the sleeping and eating Lewis.

About the only thing Lewis is guilty of is stealing your heart….and well, food.  When he looks up at you with that face and those brown eyes, you find yourself giving him both.

If Lewis could have managed to pass the MCAT  (get it, M…Cat)  HA!, he would have made an astute Surgeon General.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say he can read.  Consider the following:

I’m not a smoker, but I enjoy the occasional cigar on the porch, with a margarita, and a fire in the fireplace. It’s the ultimate relaxation and stress reliever.  The only thing missing to complete this Rockwellian portrait is for a man to have his dog at his feet.  Complete and content.  To that I say….HA.  In fact, a big fat HAAA!

All I have to do is take the wrapper off of a cigar, and “Mr. Got To Be In the Middle of Things” disappears like a kid at bath time.  I mean, come on, at least wait until I light the thing, and it becomes really disgusting.

Once I light the cigar, however, he begins to exhibit the true nature of a Surgeon General.  He walks in my direction, eyes the smoke floating toward his superhero nose, and changes his path to avoid the bad habit (ok, not a completely good habit). And just like that, my dog understands the dangers of second-hand smoke.  Bada boom.

Lewis is a fickle soul, but he would be twice as confusing as the Surgeon General.  Okay, so he is against smoke, even second-hand smoke.  But what about food?  If allowed, he would become the king of the late-night snack.  Wait a minute, I think he already holds that title.  He actually holds every title related to food.  Don’t ever get between Lewis and his food…literally.

Surgeons General are also responsible for the mental health of the citizenry.  Well, hello, this is a cinch for Lewis.  When he wakes up in the morning, he stretches his nearly six-foot frame out on the kitchen floor waiting for someone to pet him.  He then waits for his daily brush out.  And should you bend down to stroke that thick white coat, you discover it has a very calming effect.  Good for your mental health, yes?  Surgeon General material.  We won’t talk about if you leave before he’s finished with you, he will stick out his front leg to trip you.

Conversely, but still in the realm of mental health, this dog will drive you crazier than an outhouse rat (whatever that is…I just like the sound of it).  Exhibit A: after aforementioned brush out, said white largus beastus runs out the door and runs in and out of all the bushes, picking up every loose leaf and twig.  He returns looking like he took a shower in front of a woodchipper!

I will say this for the old boy (OK, he’s only three years old), the rank fits him.  He is every bit the general officer.  He’s definitely a leader, an alpha dog. He is the Omar Bradley, the George Patton, the Norman Schwarzkopf of the dog world.

He might not be a surgeon, but he is every bit the general – leading away from the smoke and charging relentlessly and bravely toward the front….

…of the line where the food is.

I had a boss once who was notorious for shooting from the hip.  Not literally, but none of us were completely sure about that.  If you wanted a knee-jerk reaction, he was your guy.  He was military, Marine actually.  He kept a WWII-era helmet with lettering on his bookshelf that read, “Ready, Fire, Aim.”

Lewis could have been his mascot.  A recent big-guy episode proved to me that this former boss and Lewis might have been separated at birth.  A couple of weeks ago, we had out-of-town family visiting for a few days.  True to form, when they arrived, Lewis performed his innate guardian duties and started barking loud enough that dead people in the next county could hear.

Nothing surprising there.  As I’ve written before, Lewis barks at everything from joggers to stray paper plates.  But that initial security posture with the family soon gave way to his usual hobbies of “What are you eating, give me some,” and sleeping…wherever he decides to plant his big white butt.  The surprise came the next morning when the family guests came downstairs.  And you guessed it, Tubby Boy fired up his vocal cords and serenaded everyone in the house with his version of “Ye gods, there is someone else in my space!”  Somehow Lewis had forgotten them from the day before.  Or did he?

After extensive consideration (ok, for a fleeting second) I have come to the conclusion that Lewis didn’t exactly forget.  He was checking off his safety list.  Wait, what?  St. Pyrenees carry a genetically coded safety list in their head.  That’s why they bark at paper plates and flying plastic bags.  They possess generations of DNA designed to protect.  He was barking first and asking questions later.  Ready, fire, aim.

The neighbors notwithstanding, that’s why I take a fair amount of comfort in his over abundance of barking, because I know that anyone in their right mind wouldn’t dare cross his line, because this 140-pound guardian sounds like he would be in your shorts in a nanosecond.  Those of us who know the real Lewis know better.  He’s a big old teddy bear, but his DNA coding works.

So fair warning to all the flying plastic bags out there (and overnight guests)…ready, bark, aim!

A friend of mine once said tongue in cheek, “Self-awareness is not all it’s cracked up to be.”  My friend never met Lewis, but no better description of that galoot exists than that.  In previous blogs I have described or alluded to his practice of plopping down wherever he wants, his expectation of a tariff on all food consumed in the household, and his inexplicable need to walk through any door first (coming or going).  He exhibits this oblivious nature most, however, when chasing the fauna, specifically chipmunks, that dare cross the perimeter of his kingdom.

Lewis presents the greatest naivete when stalking his “prey,” known in the dog world as the dreaded Diminutive Run-Like-Hellus.  As an observer of this ritual between the Great White Hunter and the Lilliputian leapers, I am amazed at how nimble and flat out fast the little buggers are.  More amazing is how Lewis actually thinks he can catch them or even more preposterous, sneak up on them.

I must admit though, that well placed-planters, BBQ grills, and furniture provide the chipmunks with an unfair advantage.  As they race across the deck with their cheeks ballooned on bird seed, the chipmunks dive into the protective spaces just as Lewis gets to them but has to slam on the brakes before upending flower pots like bowling pins.

Occasionally, he decides that a full-on assault isn’t the answer.  Instead he strikes a statue-like stance and waits for the opportune moment.  And when that moment arrives, he explodes into action as only a 140-pound dog can…. meaning all fury, little success.

The great thing is Lewis has never had any success chasing chipmunks.  No little creature has departed this world by his hand, er, paw.  The second great thing is, Lewis never gives up.  Every day is the same.  The chipmunks come out to gather the bird seed, Lewis gets offended that they have broached his territory, and then we are off to the races.

Lewis is indeed the Great White Hunter, just not a successful one, at least in the traditional sense.  But he is great, because he never gives up.  He never doubts his abilities (regardless).  He always gives it his best effort.

People always say that given time, people start to look like their dogs.  I don’t know if that is true, but I sure would like to BE more like Lewis.

…except for the drooling part.

Where I grew up, people used all manner of sayings to describe how hot the weather was.  “Hot as a two-dollar pistol” was a crowd favorite.  “Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk” was an equally descriptive yet less savory alternative.  And of course, the most popular one (and its variations), “Hot as all…..” well, you get the picture.

My personal favorite (because I made it up) came to me after walking out of nice air-conditioned buildings and being smacked in the face with a humid, 100-degree blast of air.  It occurred to me that it felt just like “a fat dog breathing on you.”  Thus, a saying was born (at least in my mind).

It can’t be just any dog either.  A Chihuahua breathing on you is a nuisance, but if something like a Great Dane breathes directly on you, you instinctively check for skin damage.  How hot is it?  It’s that hot – just like a fat dog breathing on you!!

And then there’s Lewis.

While not fat per se, well, relatively speaking, Lewis can generate some significant joule factors (Look it up.  I had to.).  When Lewis brings his 140 pounds to bear on you, you won’t get burned, but you could walk away with a nice tan that would cost you $150 a night at a beach motel.

And as always with Lewis, food is the prime mover.  So, if he detects you have ANYTHING edible within his scent range, which is considerable, he magically appears with his football-sized head resting on your knee.  And make no mistake, it’s a slobbery football.  And HOT.  He breathes jungle-level heat while slinging slobber everywhere.  How hot is it?  Yeah, that hot.

But there is one thing about this fire-breathing, ever-hungry, white, eating machine…..you get a close-up view of pure happiness and exuberance.   It reminds me of that old dog treat commercial where the dog races to the kitchen repeating every dog’s mantra, “bacon, bacon, bacon.” With Lewis, you get the full spectrum of joy – eyes focused on you (ok, the food), close contact with the big lug, and then the by-products of slobber and heat.

How hot is it?  Hot as a hot summer day.  It’s hot as all…….Lewis!

No, I haven’t lost my mind…well, no more than usual.  I know that Lewis is just a dog, except to family and a handful of devoted fans, but….  When Lewis shows up at an outside venue (rock star talk), people ooh and ahh.  It reminds me of those old newsreels showing an unbelievable number of teenagers jumping up and down, screaming, fainting all for just once glance of the Beatles.  Now that I think about it, other than the color, Lewis has a similar haircut to the Fab Four.

For instance, Lewis recently had the opportunity to board at his usual B&B (that’s Bed & Bark to the non-dog world).  When his stay was over, the staffer walked Lewis into the lobby from the back rooms.  Almost without exception, the crowded lobby ooh’d and ahh’d with a smattering of “Oh wow look at him.”  My guess is it’s that sad, soulful look on his face.  He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a panda bear.

The same thing happens at one of Lewis’ other hangouts (more rock star talk) is Lowe’s.  He loves to walk the aisles and always wants to open his own charge account there.  And I always have to remind him that he has no opposable thumbs, so power tools are a no-no.  Being deaf, his sense of smell is keenly acute, and he loves the scents of home improvement.  Arh, arh, arh as Tim Allen would say.

Someone always stops and asks the inevitable question – “What kind of dog is he?”  Oh, he’s a panda bear.  Oh….wait…what?

Yes, everyone thinks their dog is a rock star, and rightfully so.  Dogs, and pets in general, love us unconditionally, regardless of who or what we are.  Good days, bad days, it doesn’t matter.  They all look forward to any day spent with us.

Our dogs (pets) might not be rock stars, but they all rock!  Lewis especially so!

…yes, the answer is the same as that old joke…..anywhere he wants to!  A disclaimer about this particular blog up front – nothing profound here.  Not profound, nor insightful.  Not even informative.  This is just plain old Lewis being Lewis.  And being Lewis most of the time involves sleeping or napping.  And the snoring, oh my.

Most dogs and cats, well humans too for that matter, have their favorite place to sleep.  Nooo, not Lewis.  Anywhere he gets the notion, down he goes.  And let me tell you, when a 140-pound bull plops, he PLOPS!  That dog has moved more furniture than Two Men and a Truck.  One table in the den takes special abuse.  You learn to grab your coffee cup as the table flies out from under it.

So, herein are some of Lewis’ favorite spots.   New ones actually make themselves known periodically, so stay tuned…

Lewis behind the chairs

Lewis in front of the chairs

Lewis between the chairs

Lewis by the fireplace                         Lewis by the trunk  

Lewis in the kitchen floor                     Lewis by the porch gate I

Lewis by the porch heater                   Lewis next to the wine cooler

Lewis by the back door                        Lewis by the porch gate II

They say that Pyrenees are nocturnal animals, bred to keep watch over livestock at night.  With a dearth of such animals to watch over, Lewis takes that as a Darwinian sign to lounge about all day instead of sleeping soundly in one spot, getting ready for the night shift.

In closing, there is one thing I forgot to mention.  When Lewis gets ready to land that fuselage of a body, in any of the spots above, you best make sure your feet are stowed safely away!