I don’t know what it is about our yard, but I’m beginning to think that the lost dogs of America (Local Union # K9) talk to each other,  I can hear it now – two lost dogs are walking through the woods when one of them stops cold and says to the other one, “There it is!  It’s the house where those people live.  “What people?” the other dog says.  “You know, the people who give food, water, and treats to those of us who have wandered outside our boundary lines.”  Our what?  We’re lost. If we hang around their yard, they will call and find our parents.”

Well, maybe lost dogs don’t have that much of an extended conversation, but a bunch of them (a technical term) find their way to our house, more than a dozen in the last few years.  Boxers Terriers, Bulldogs, Poodles, Ridgebacks, Border Collies, and just this week, Dachshunds, two of them.  Pretty smart dogs, so I figure they saw the Golden Corral sign out back.

But none of that is the point of the story.  I learned something new about Lewis from these two Dachshunds.  When their family showed up to collect them, we had to walk through the house to find them. They are very small dogs and can hide anywhere.  Not so with Lewis….

You can’t lose Lewis.

Even if he could somehow hide that svelte 140-pound body of his, all you would have to do is follow the trail of sticks, fur, nasty tennis balls, and slobber.  And that doesn’t even count the likelihood that the white rascal will come around the corner, freeze those light brown eyes on you, and stare at you as if to say, “I’m about to chase you down like a….like a….well, like a dog!  Of course, the easiest way to flush him out is with food.  Let the refrigerator light come on, and he is drawn to it like a bug to the light.  Trying to sneak food around him adds another dimension to the concept of “You can’t lose Lewis…even though you’d like to occasionally!”

All of the dogs that have found their way to our house were eventually returned to their homes.  A couple of the dogs we called to report had owners who were at that moment driving frantically around the neighborhood trying to find them. I suppose all pet owners have lost a pet at some time or the other.  It’s a sick feeling, helpless, hopeless, and all the other bad adjectives you could attach to that phrase.

You can’t lose Lewis around the house, but I always hope and pray he never becomes a lost dog.  He’s served his time in that world.  That’s why at our house we go out of the way to make sure animals find their way home.  No pet should experience that fear.

You can’t lose Lewis is not only a punchline….it’s also a prayer.

It’s the universal dog signal for “What the…?”  They stare at you, tilt their head to one side or the other, and you can almost hear them thinking “Wha…”

From the first day of domesticated dogs, owners have asked the age-old question, “I wonder what he’s thinking.”  Of course, sometimes, like when a dog chews up his bed and makes it snow Styrofoam and feathers, then it’s “What was he thinking?”

Correct them, scold, them, ask them a question, read the Wall Street Journal to them, doesn’t matter, you get this…

Except Lewis.  In the two years since he has ruled over his kingdom here, not once have I ever seen him tilt his head in bewilderment.  I figure this is a result of one or a combination of the following:

• Lewis is never bewildered. He doesn’t tilt his head, he stares.  At the television, at you begging him to do this or that.  Why should he tilt his head?  He knows the score, and he’s ahead in this game.
• He is concentrating. He doesn’t need to tilt his head and wonder.  He’s confident enough to figure it out on this own thank you very much.
• Which brings us to my favorite. Lewis just doesn’t give a (reference Rhett Butler here).

Any one of the above explanations could apply.  The baseline in all three is that Lewis is smart.  Very few dogs are not smart.  They all amaze me.  The fact that they tilt their heads to begin with shows that they are progressing through the maze of rational thought.  When Lewis stares, I’m not sure he is progressing through rational thought so much as he is asking himself two questions: first, do I care about this, and second, do I want to do this? All of which makes me even more curious.  For instance, when I walk through the back part of the house and he runs through the front part of the house to cut me off, what is he thinking.  When he chews a stick into a million pieces, what is he thinking.  When he stares at animals on television but not people…what…well, you get the picture.

I never know what he is thinking, but I know what I think!   I think in this one aspect, he is like all dogs lucky enough to be rescued – he’s happy.  When you walk up to him and he belly flops that 140 pounds on the floor, sticks his legs up in the air and stares at you with those eyes, I finally know what he is thinking.  Pet me, feed me, love me.  It’s the universal thought among dogs, especially rescue dogs.  They want to be loved, but even more than that, they want to love.  Lewis is a big galoot, but he’s also a big white ball of love and loyalty.  I think that is what he is thinking most of the time.

Stars Wars, the epic movie collection, is now many years removed from its inaugural episode, but I still remember the first reviews of that movie in 1977.  One reviewer referred to it as a modern-day morality play – good vs. evil.  It was simple, good guys vs. bad guys.  Then in a later episode, we were faced with that ominous, shockingly guttural statement to Luke Skywalker, “I am your father.”  Suddenly the universe was no longer black and white but rather a cloudy gray.  How could the baby-faced hero be any way related to the villain of all movie villains.  Say it ain’t so…but it was.

I love this big hunk of dog.  He’s goofy, lovable, playful, and loyal.  But Lewis has a dark side.  I hesitate to reveal this truth to his many fans who will echo the sentiment of “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”   But it is so, and I was reminded of it recently.

Lewis has issues with food.  No, not the snarfing kind (although he has those, too), but the “get near my food and I will snap at you” kind.  Who knew Lewis likes coconut cake? It was the last of my birthday cake, and Lewis was counter surfing to snarf (there it is again) any leftovers.  I innocently reached down to move the chair out of his way, and then it happened.  Darth Vader emerged.  You could almost see it in his eyes, and if I couldn’t understand that, his snapping at my hand was a more discernible clue.

The rescue organization (Two by Two – they are great by the way) had told us that he has certain issues sharing food.  We had experienced that once or twice, but with that big old hunk of lovable dog, it’s easy to forget the Darth Vader in him.  It wasn’t particularly vicious, but it was a little disturbing.  And not to be one of those indulgent parents, but it wasn’t his fault.  For the first eight months of his life, there was no food, no water, other than what he could find lying around.  Then he had to compete with other abandoned animals for each little bit.  It really wasn’t his fault.

Just like humans, a dog’s personality is a product of their environment and experiences.  That is even more true with rescue dogs.  They endure so much before they make it to your doorstep, but crossing over that doorstep doesn’t erase the memories, at least not immediately.  Adopting a rescue dog is a high calling and a privilege.  When I think about this 140-pound goober as a small, white puppy lying by the side of the road, cold, and hungry, then yes, he deserves a little leeway.

Perhaps in time, his memory of “I am your father,” will be replaced with the more hopeful reminder, “I am your father, now.”

Remember the Great White Shark in the movie Jaws?  Not Bruce THE shark, but the first shark caught in the movie.  Inside the monster, they found all matter of well, matter.  All kinds of fish, seaweed, ocean trash, even a car tag.  That would be Lewis, the Great White Dog.  Maybe not a car tag (yet), but close.  It makes me wonder if he has been reading the Far Side:

That boy can chew up an anvil.  And while he needs no roughage (whole different and rather unpleasant story), he has a habit of chewing things down to a molecular consistency.  When we first met The Great White, he was busy playing with a gallon milk jug while we spoke to his foster parents.  He seemed so happy, we continued the practice of tossing empty plastic jugs in his direction, whereupon he pounced on them and skittered them along in front of him like a hockey puck.  All was plastic bliss until one day we discovered what happens to things that are chewed to a state of being unrecognizable in either this world or the next. (Please refer to the parenthetical comment above pertaining to a whole different and rather unpleasant story.)

So, no more plastic jugs.  Not to be outdone, Lewis quickly changed his level of entertainment, coming down a few rungs to playing with then destroying pine boughs. A recent storm had littered the yard with remnants of pine branches.   Never one to miss an opportunity to chew, Lewis commenced going bonkers with his newfound green playthings.  It was entertaining to watch, as he took the pine bough in his mouth, tossed it up in the air, and watched it float down again.  Until it was time.  Time for the pulverizer.  Then no more pine bough.

Of course, when you strip a pine branch of its greenery, you have a whole new toy – a stick!  You know the worst thing about having a stick as a chew toy?  It’s easily transportable into the house, where it becomes so much woodchips and sawdust.  His preferred evergreen delicacy is the pine cone.  We’ve learned not to bother his majesty when he is in mid-cone.

In all honesty, Lewis has not turned his carnivorous ways toward the furniture yet, knock on…. wood (sorry).  If he could drag it around, it might be a different story.

Bruce, the Great White terrorized a small seacoast town.  Lewis the Great White only terrorizes milk jugs and pine trees…and us occasionally.  The difference is, the shark has a big fin to warn you.  Lewis on the other hand surfaces at will, grabs his pinecone, and proceeds to redecorate your house in early woodchip.

How did Lewis come to be in our lives?  We knew the back half of that question.  We had lost our beloved Scout and wanted another rescue dog in the family.  When we saw the picture below on the Two by Two Rescue (TBTR) website, we had found our dog.  Unfortunately, another family had already applied for adoption, but it turned out Lewis is a little skittish around children, so we were up next.  (In one of the many coincidences in Lewis’ life, the mother in that family was a former colleague of mine with whom I had worked.)  We applied, and Lewis had a new home!  But what about the Coke bottle!  I’ll get to that in a minute.

But as Lewis grew more comfortable in his new home, and well, just grew period, we kept wondering about his early life.  We had heard he belonged to a man who hoarded dogs, some 40 of them, and would take pot shots at them, but we could never confirm that information.

Enter Heather Wyatt and the WONDERFUL volunteers at TBTR.  We called Heather, the Adoption Manager for the organization to see if she had any information on Lewis and his puppyhood.   Did she ever!  TBTR received a call from a lady in a small town just outside of Birmingham.  She said there was a group of dogs living in the area who were apparently wandering around harassing this man’s chickens (I’m sure Lewis wasn’t involved in such behavior.)  The lady reported that the man said if he sees the dogs again, he would shoot them. (Aha, a thread from the original story we had heard).  To prevent the animals from being shot, several of the TBTR volunteers jumped in their cars and headed out.  They drove to the address they had been given but only discovered what looked to be an abandoned home and another home with no signs of occupants except for a few lights on.  The Coke bottle, what about the Coke bottle!!  I’ll get to that in a minute.

TBTR decided to give it one more chance.  It was turning dark, but they were determined to save the dogs if they could.  They pressed on, driving around the neighborhood.  They suddenly spotted this white dog lying by the side of the road.  Their hearts sank at the prospect that they were too late for this little one who perhaps had been run over.  They stopped the car and walked up to the little fellow, hoping but fearing the worst.  As they came closer, they could see it was a white dog.  It was Lewis.

As they bent down to check on him, he jumped up and ran away.  They followed him to an old barn, where they found numerous other abandoned animals living there for shelter, including Lewis who had run to a momma dog with another puppy.  (I guess you could say Lewis helped to save all of the other animals!)  The volunteers gathered them all up and took them back to foster homes eventually.  THE COKE BOTTLE?  It’s coming I promise.

This discussion, this blog, this dog would not be possible were it not for the fabulous volunteers at Two by Two Rescue.  They rescue all kinds of animals – cats and dogs, even horses.  And of course, Lewis.  I urge you to consider TBTR as one of your charity choices.  Your Lewis might be out there waiting for them to rescue him or her.  Hey, the Co….okay, okay.  Here’s the story of the Coke bottle….

After getting all of the animals in their cars, the TBTR folks loaded up and headed back to town.  Tired and thirsty after chasing animals all over the countryside, they stopped at a convenience store to get something to drink.  Ms. Wyatt chose her usual, a Coca-Cola.  It just so happened that at that time, the Coca-Cola company was running a promotion in which they printed people’s names on the bottles.  She opened the door to the cooler and pulled out a bottle.  She looked at the name on the bottle and turned toward the big white puppy sitting in the car and said, “That’s it.  That’s your name.  Lewis!

I might as well say it right up front.  Otherwise it will continue to go unspoken.  2XL dogs can kill you.  No, I don’t mean the Cujo kind of thing.  I mean the “I’m not aware of what my 140-pound furball body can do to my human companions” kind of thing.  It’s actually no laughing matter.  An estimated 76,000 serious falls requiring a trip to the ER are caused by pets each year.  And that doesn’t even count the non-ER falls.  Perhaps 2XL dogs should come with a Surgeon General’s warning like cigarettes do.  “Beware: This bubba can hurt you.”

Lewis definitely falls (no pun intended) within this non-malevolent yet risky 2XL category.  For instance, during short trips to the store or some such place, we leave Lewis to hang out in the yard or on the porch.  Upon our return, and after the obligatory, “Oh look, those people came back” greetings, Lewis naturally assumes he should be the first one inside the door to the house, as if he had a key…or opposable thumbs for that matter.

I’m not sure where he comes up with such assumptions, but he exhibits them on quite a regular basis.  I try to tell myself that in his mind, he is executing his duty of protection, making sure no ill-meaning leaves or paper plates lurk in the shadows waiting to attack us.  He is so intent on being the first one in that door, he will knock you down to claim that right, even though he is not the keeper of the keys…yet.  And once the door is open, God forbid that I am able to withdraw the key from the lock before he kicks it open like Seal Team 6.

Then there is the problem of just plain mobility.  Of course, he wants to walk right in step with you, which would be fine if he walked parallel with you.  Instead, he walks one or two steps ahead of you and abruptly turns sharply in front of you and stops.  It reminds me of the maneuver police use when chasing a runaway car.  They nudge the other car’s bumper until it swings perpendicular in front of them.  Bad guy caught.  But hey, I’m not the bad guy.  I’m the one that gives you food and water!  Let me pass, you big galloot!

Those are what I would call the active risks to the owner’s wellbeing.  The other type, surprise, are the passive risks.  Those are the ones that 2XL dogs pose just by their very existence.   This cartoon states the case quite succinctly:

I’ve known a few 2XL dogs in my time but never owned one until Lewis.  Every dog, even the smallest ones, have their own personality and quirks if you will.  The problem is, with a 2XL dog, those quirks become BIG quirks.  I knew an owner who had trouble feeding his huge Great Dane, because they just don’t make dog bowls that big.  The owner’s solution – he dumped a 50-lb bag of dog food in a new, clean trashcan, and just took the lid off when it was time to feed the gargantuan.  Another Great Dane I met had a curious yet unsettling habit of walking over to you and staring at your crotch…enough said about that.

Those quirks aren’t perilous, but make no mistake, 2XL dogs can hurt you.  Either by falling or by having to pay for dog food by the trash can load!  This photograph shows Lewis blocking the only pathway into our den.  Poor furniture placement perhaps, but it wasn’t a problem until 2XL dog parked his big ole butt in the way!

At 140 pounds, Lewis can pack away the food, but the “me first” thing is a killer!

Next week:  We finally learn the details of Lewis’ early life, rescue, and how he got his name!

Ebenezer Scrooge (the pre-ghosts Scrooge that is) seemed oblivious, even obstinate regarding the Christmas spirit.  Lewis certainly qualifies as being oblivious and defines the concept of obstinate, so he could very well be Scrooge McDog.  Scrooge’s mean spirit, however, is not part of the big fella’s make-up.  I have to admit though, some of his results are the same.

Pet owners face a perennial problem with the arrival of the holiday season – how to protect the family Christmas tree from the family dog.  Some pet owners are more successful at that herculean task than others:

We here at the Himalayan’s household have been worrying about this seasonal, seminal issue since October.  Actually, it started last Christmas when Lewis dutifully, and loudly, cornered a knee-high Santa we had placed in the foyer.  We rescued the man in red just before he became, well, the man dead!

But one thing we discovered about Lewis – he never bothered the Christmas tree (trees really, six of them, but that’s another story).   No confusing them with real trees, using them as his personal privy.  No fights to the death with the towering evergreen (ok, ever plastic) monsters.  His first Christmas with us last year proved Lewis to be the perfect gentleman.

Then the ghost of Christmas Present arrived this year.  Still no disasters, no tussles with trees, no incessant barking at the big guy, the other big guy, the one in red that is.  We have discovered, however, that his Scrooge streak surfaces in the same manner as he reacts to the television – he pays no attention to it, until he sees animals.  Such was the fate that met one of the ornaments on the tree this year.  Much to the ornament’s bad luck…it was an animal ornament, an owl to be specific (I’ll spare you all of the possible “hoo” puns).  Lewis discovered the owl, and suddenly the ornament became a ghost of Christmas Past.

It was a sad sight really, pieces of owl here, pieces of owl there.  Owl, owl everywhere.  The gentlemanly façade was broken, and the Scrooge emerged.  A few house rules have arisen as a result:

1. Keep a closer eye on Lewis!
2. No hanging of animal ornaments lower than “Lewis height.”
3. Keep a closer eye on Lewis!!

I offer the following before and after photos as evidence of the plight of the owl:

Not to be an indulgent parent, but Lewis was just being a dog after all.  Had he taken down the whole tree as in the video above, we would be having a different conversation. Lewis might have a little Scrooge in him, but I believe it is the post-ghost Scrooge.

You can look at that face and tell he has a merry soul, a heart that says, “Merry Christmas.”  So, if Scrooge were a dog, it wouldn’t be Lewis.

First off, Lewis apologizes for being so lazy during the holidays.  He explained to me the effect that the tryptophan in turkey has on him, although he also said that some later studies say all of that sleepiness talk was a myth…he’s just lazy after stuffing himself on, well…stuffing.

Which brings me to the subject of this post-holiday blog:  Countersurfing.  I first heard the term from a work colleague who raises, shows (and polices) three Weimaraners.  The term refers to when a taller breed of dog stands on its hind legs to survey the kitchen counter for what might resemble food.  After all, the owner might completely forget that they own a dog and not feed him or her who without opposable thumbs could never work the can opener.  So up they go, looking, sniffing, countersurfing.

It’s a similar tactic for the Bumpus hounds:

Countersurfing is one of those rare instances when having a 140-pound dog works to your advantage (scaring the hell out of an intruder also comes to mind).  Gravity plays an important4 part in this concept of countersurfing.  Isaac Newton’s contribution to the world of science also contributed to the preservation of the family meal.  You just can’t throw 140 pounds around like an apple falling from a tree.

Nonetheless, as the Bumpus hounds demonstrated, a determined dog will find a way to separate you from your food.  In Lewis’ case, it’s the possession of a panda bear face looking straight (as in the same level as your face) at you with those eyes….brown and soulful.

I hate it when he does that!

His other method is what I call a modified countersurf.  He is so tall, he simply lays his muzzle on the edge of the counter just to make sure you were vigilant in moving food away from the edge.  He rarely resorts to this method, because of that look.  Have I mentioned his brown and soulful eyes?

I hate it when he does that.

As the 140-pound description certainly implies, he is quite successful as a mooching pooch.  I’ve only seen Lewis countersurf one time, right after we adopted him.  I wondered why he never did it again after that.  Then I realized, he doesn’t need to go to all that trouble.  All he needs to do is look at us with those brown and soulful eyes.

I hate it when he does that!

We sometimes try to sneak eat when he is out in the yard, or even ignore him (HA!).  But when it comes down to it, I share with him, thinking about a time in the future when I will wish he was sitting beside me again, looking at me with those brown, soulful eyes….

I love it when he does that.

No, Lewis isn’t a male stripper.  Then again, he does run around without clothes, so I suppose he meets the technical definition.   Alas, he does in reality have a bad habit.  Of course, Lewis has lots of bad habits, but his aggressive interaction with Chip and Dale stands out among his character faults.  He chases them, chipmunks that is.  And unfortunately, he’s pretty good at it. Thankfully being good at something doesn’t necessarily mean being successful at it.  (Just ask anyone who fishes…or any parent).   That’s the case with Lewis and his escapades with Chip and Dale. Just like the cartoon version, the local chipmunks manage to outwit the great white dog on a daily basis.  Not only is he Pluto to their Chip and Dale, he manages to be Goofy as well.

After observing this vaudeville act for some time now, I have come to several conclusions:

• Chipmunks are extremely quick and agile. No great revelation there.  But what a little ball of fur running for its life can do to the psyche (maybe psycho is a better word), of a 140-pound dog is fairly awe inspiring.  Chip and/or Dale can launch this dog into frenzied action like waving a slab of bologna at him.
• Equally impressive is how fast the big fellow is. He can go from 0-60 in microseconds.  The only trouble is, chipmunks can launch in milliseconds.  Result?  Constant failure.
• Which leads to the next point. This is one stubborn dog.  Not only does he persist with Chip and Dale, he’s just as likely to give you that blank-eyed look when you’re pleading with him to get out of the rain, at 11:30 at night.

I have to admit, however, that Lewis’ failure to parlay with the chipmunks isn’t all his fault.  As animal folks, we have altered the terrain a bit to favor Chip and Dale’s escape.  From well-placed patio furniture to a covered grill to flower pots, it’s all an orchestrated move to assist the local chipmunks in executing their getaway from Lewis the Stubborn.   They run for cover while Lewis darts back and forth …in vain. The result leaves Lewis looking like the losing player at  his own arcade version of Whack-a-Mole.

I applaud the chipmunks actually.  They never lose and they keep Lewis in shape, just not sure what shape that is.  All I know is, it means I don’t have to run with him….but just like Chip and Dale, I often have to run away from him when he gallops at me at full speed like a jailbreak.

There it was, sitting in the middle of the floor, this brown blob.  (NO, it wasn’t that!).  It was a tennis ball.  It used to be regulation yellow, but now it was gnarly brown.  Why?  It had gone through the Lewis Treatment.

The Lewis Treatment consists primarily of taking whatever suits his majesty and burying it in the dirt, or more to his liking the mud.

For some inexplicable reason, dogs love mud.

All kinds of evidence point to the existence of the Lewis treatment.  First and foremost are the holes in the yard.  And might I say, a 140-pound dog can excavate a fair amount of Zoysia and substrata!  And of course, it can’t be just one.  Nooo.  The big fellow prefers his territory to look like an artillery practice field.  Such terrain does make it easier to practice chipping and putting (if I chipped and putted, but I digress).  And lawn mowers absolutely love the pock-marked look.  It gives the surviving grass that home haircut look.

The funniest evidence, however, is coming home from running errands or a similar outing and Lewis meets us at the gate all happy and slobbery but with one little difference – a muddy nose.  It sticks out like a red clown nose only it’s brown, but it’s just as goofy.  Suddenly it’s emergency inventory time.  What has mega-dog purloined now and processed it with….the Lewis Treatment?  It matters not to whom the object belongs – once obtained, most assuredly buried.

The problem with this eclectic burying is that while some objects are impervious to time and soil, others are not.  Imagine if you will, coming across that time-honored dog treat, the pig’s ear, after it’s been in the ground for a month.  It reminds me of what I’ve only read about the Body Farm in Tennessee (I’ll spare you the details.  You’ll have to Google it.).  Suffice to say, it’s not pretty.  The tennis balls just turn brown.  Pig’s ears turn, well, disgusting.

The problem (as if there were only one in this whole matter) is that Lewis forgets what and where he has buried things.  I don’t know enough about a dog’s memory capacities to be certain, but I wonder if when Lewis comes across one of his buried treasures, it’s like Christmas morning.  “Oh look!!  A pig’s ear.  Just what I wanted!  Merry Christmas to me!”

And now to the ultimate issue.  Once Lewis remembers and retrieves, he BRINGS THIS &^%$ INSIDE!  The only thing worse than finding a partially decomposed pig’s ear outside is finding one inside.  As a result, I’ve learned to step gingerly on dark rugs, or camouflage as I now refer to them.  So now, in addition to the twice-daily floor cleaning, we conduct an under-the-furniture, disgusting objects search.  That search is accompanied by much prayer that goes something like, “Please Lord, don’t let me find anything under here….that’s over a month old.”

During all this burying/retrieval process, we’ve learned something.  The Lewis Treatment has more than one meaning.  It also describes how we feel about this lovable lug when he bounces in from the back yard with a brown tennis ball in his mouth, drops it in our lap with a look that says, “Look what I found!”