“Lassie,” the 1950s television show starred a Collie that had to be the smartest dog in the world, seemingly smarter than any of the humans with whom she interacted (actually, the dog playing Lassie was a male – info for your next trivia night at the bar).  Lassie had to be the smart one, because the humans were always asking her questions like “Where’s Timmy? (usually lying at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft or some such).

Dogs and television – a winning proposition:

This is all to say…Lewis has discovered television.  It took him a while, but he finally noticed the moving pictures on the screen.  He stops dead in his tracks, holds his head up and just stares.  Not for very long mind you.  Lewis is what you might call in human terms ADD.  He has the attention span of half a gnat.  That trait is admirable in a guard dog, always perusing the area for the next intruder.  But it doesn’t translate very well to the art of television watching.  After all, a few seconds doesn’t even allow the big fellow the chance to discern the finer elements of plot development or character dialogue.  He has learned one very important lesson about TV watching, however.  Eating popcorn.  Good Lord that boy can snarf down the popcorn.  Before you contact the ASPCA, we don’t feed him that much popcorn, but he sure does like it, which is sort of redundant in Lewis’ case, since he likes everything.

Everything except the animals on TV.  Animals on the television send Lewis to somewhere near the seventh level of dog mania.  Lewis “no likey” four-legged TV characters in his house, at which point he takes a left turn from reality.  The television we watch hangs on the den wall that borders the outside.  When Lewis sees an animal on TV, he bolts for the door and into the backyard, looking for the bad animals.  He thinks they exist somewhere behind the screen, so he runs back and forth between the yard and the den looking for those four-legged rascals.

What sends Lewis over the edge, however, is a knee-high table with a 55-inch flat panel on the porch (it’s a football thing). Getting ready for football Saturday, I turned the porch TV on while the big fellow looked on.  Unfortunately for Lewis, Marty Smith from ESPN jumped to life on the screen in all his craziness:

Lewis was having none of that.  The fur on his back stood up, and he backed up like he was facing the 300 Spartans.  Then, slowly, he approached the screen….and looked behind it.

So, Lewis doesn’t quite have the television thing down yet…but Good Lord that boy can snarf down the popcorn!

Lewis and his kinfolk were bred originally as shepherding dogs in the upper Pyrenees region, hence the breed name.  Farmers would leave these dogs up in the mountains with herds of goats or flocks of sheep to guard – by themselves!  I’ve since learned that the breed and a few others fall into a functional group known as Livestock Guarding Dogs, or LGDs for short (I’m not kidding.)  The distinction arises between shepherding and guarding.  Emphasis on the latter means the dog doesn’t care so much where the livestock are, so long as they stay within his purview.  The following video discusses all of this in detail.  It’s not the funny clip I usually include, but it does explain the mindset of this furry mountain of a dog we’ve brought into our midst:

And so, we turn now to Lewis.  He is a great herding and guard dog.  His only problem is that the only animals he has to herd and guard are…us.  That’s an admirable trait in a family dog.  He actually has different barks to tell you what great external threat lurks outside our doors.  A sharp, mid-volume, rapid-fire bark means that some minor being (like a stray beer can or plastic grocery bag) has wandered too close to the property for his taste.  A heartier, louder, and quite frankly scarier bark means something is not quite right.  In his case, it usually means the local herd of deer have started their nightly nocturnal tour of the neighborhood.  Then there is the five-alarm bark, characterized by a high-pitched, guttural howl that approximates the sound of a banshee (or what I guess a banshee would sound like).  It usually occurs if a strange car pulls up in the driveway.  At that point, the furry banshee pulls out all of the stops and starts howling, as if to say, “Folks, get the hell up and come out and see what I see!!”  And oddly, when you do just that, when you walk out, look, and pat him on the head (which is waist high). It acts like a reset button, and he stops the barking.

I have to say, all of that guarding behavior is somewhat comforting yet nerve wracking to a homeowner.  In a subdivision.  With an HOA.  With rules.  About dogs.  About dogs barking.  At night.

But Lewis’ herding traits on the other hand, I could forego.  I mean, I don’t even look like a sheep or a goat.  Maybe a cow, probably a jackass, but any event I have a pretty good sense of direction and don’t need to be sideswiped in one direction or the other.  When we come home from being out, Lewis insists on being the first one in the door.  I could be magnanimous and say he was going in first to protect us, but I’ll be honest and admit that Lewis is a hog about certain things.   He blocks us and goes into the house first, because he thinks he should!  And the refrigerator, ugh.  When that door opens, here he comes, prying the door open with that nose.  And heaven forbid that you actually take something out of the refrigerator and take it to the counter.  He proceeds to block your path and looks up with those pale brown eyes with the look that says, “I’ll take my share up front.”  Same thing goes for the morning hello, head rub, car ride, even a simple walk across the room.  Whatever your purpose, expect a body block by Mr. LGD.

It’s a baa-d habit he has.

Ok, I have avoided the subject long enough. Lewis has a particular, peculiar, and persistent talent that he will share with anyone who gets close to him.  And I don’t mean emotionally.  I mean geographically and in fairly close proximity.

The embarrassing truth is…. Lewis slobbers. He slobbers like a beer keg that has lost its tap.

I remember watching the old movie, Beethoven (the dog, not the composer).  I remember all of the slobber or drooling scenes where the St. Bernard ran through the house not only wrecking everything in his path but leaving a trail of drool within a five-foot radius.

Even the words describing this “talent” are semi-disgusting. I mean think about it – slobbbbber and drooool.  Both of them mimic the slow, disgusting, stalactite drip emanating from this big bubba’s mouth.  Even the more scientific, formal term is not much better, “Hey, buddy, your *&^% dog just salivated all over me.”  See?

It’s not that I didn’t expect it.  I used to dog-sit a boxer puppy (in age, certainly not size).  Boxers also drool, because they belong to a classification of dogs known as brachycephalic dogs, meaning their nose is all squshed in (yeah well, I’m making it a word), which causes them to snore and drool along with some other socially unacceptable habits.  The owners of this boxer had it figured out, however.   Golf towels.  They hung from the collar perfectly.

That solution wouldn’t work for Lewis.  He would immediately try to chew up the towel and probably strangle himself in the process.  Besides, Lewis isn’t that breed of dog.  He doesn’t have a scientific excuse.  He’s just a big old slobber bucket.  He gets his salivary talents from the St. Bernard side of his family.  But why, why couldn’t he have inherited the rum cask and all that instead?  I’d even settle for a beer bottle and a church key (ask an old geezer type like me what that is).

While we don’t employ golf towels, we do go through enough hand towels to carpet a small house every week.  We have it down to an art.  We each have a slobber towel.  I have two – I was a boy scout after all.  Anyone who visits receives their own official slobber towel.  You don’t dare wander inside Lewis’ lair without adequate protection.  This stuff is like industrial glue.  I have no way to prove it, but I personally think that they put this stuff in a can and sell it as Fix-a-Flat.  It will make quick work of your best suit pants, too.

The Beethoven movie proved prophetic in one last, unfortunate way.  I thought it was just story telling when I first saw it onscreen.  But it’s true.  Oh, my is it true.  I call it the arcing slobber bomb.  My first personal experience with this phenomenon unfolded in slow motion.  Lewis came in from the yard after running around like a cray cray dog.   And as usual, he shook his head from side to side violently.  And then it happened.  Drool from his floppy, slobbery jowls broke loose and looped with precision up over his artic white shoulders and hit me right upside the head.  AAACK!!  I felt like Lucy in a Charlie Brown Christmas when Snoopy kisses her.  Dog germs, dog germs!

But this was Lewis.  We took him for better or worse – although this was a long way from the better part, it was still our Lewis.  What’s a few slobber bombs among friends?

Bar towel!

Postscript:   From the “Truth is Stranger than Fiction” department….As I finished this blog, Lewis came over to my desk to offer his assistance.  Being head high to the desktop enables his supervision of all things pertinent to his curiosity.  Once satisfied, he trots off to his next station, and I begin to put things away and shut off the computer.  As I picked up the mousepad, I discovered that he had struck again – Lewis had slimed me.

Ok, Lewis didn’t really get to go on vacation with us last week.  For him, it was more like boarding school.  As with anything related to this gargantuan growler, much thought goes into any decision related to his whereabouts.  You just can’t leave this guy on anyone’s doorstep.  First of all, he might chew the doorstep clean off, and second, he doesn’t do well with change and could make a break for it:

But in all fairness to Lewis, we went through the checklist of what-ifs to see if he was travel eligible.  The immediate problem was where in the world to put him during the five-hour drive.  He obviously takes up a lot of real estate, which would negate taking any luggage for the humans, or cooler (an adult refreshment must!), and most importantly, a 50-lb bag of dog food.  Yes, they make U-Haul trailers, but that scenario seems completely contrary to the concept of vacation.

Next issue in the queue, how would Lewis do in a beach environment?  I honestly didn’t consider this one until I got to the beach.  I then thought about all of the trash Lewis’ coat drags into the house – mulch, sticks, leaves, and of course, dirt.  It was a short leap in logic to change yard trash in the equation to ugh, sand.  One romp on the beach and into the water would transform him from nice doggy to a FEMA sandbag.

Finally, where to stay.  We have always stayed in the same place for years, so we are rather partial to it.  Their no pets policy is an immediate obstacle, however.  But anything for Lewis you know.  We could change to another location if we could get permission for one extra hairy guest.  I can see how those conversations go:

Me:  Do you take pets:

Agent:  No

Me:  But he’s really a nice dog and well behaved (ok, a white lie). Couldn’t you…

Agent:  NO!

Me to second agent:  Do you take pets?

Second agent:  Yes.

Me:  Great!  Any restrictions?

Second agent: No more than three dogs. (This is where I hold my breath, like watching the drawing of lottery numbers on TV) ….and then the dreaded words come out – no more than 40 pounds each (dang it, the same luck I have at the lottery drawing).

Me:  I have only one dog, but would it be possible to combine all that weight into one pup?

Second agent:  No.

Me:  But he’s really a nice dog and well behaved (ok, another white lie). Couldn’t you…

Second agent:  NO!

Sorry, Lew Lew, you have to stay here.  Daycare we call it, but for a week-long stay, we call it boarding school.  And to be honest, he loves it there, and they certainly love him.  He’s a star there, appearing on their website:

As much as he loves it there, after a week, he’s ready to go home.  We pick him up, and it’s obvious he knows it’s a jailbreak!  As one of his BFFs on the staff brings him in from the back, he busts through the doors in all his 140-pound stardom, stops at us to make sure this was no joke, and then proceeds to stiff arm (stiff paw?) the front door like a furry Heisman trophy.  Straight to the car and up the ramp.  I know I heard him say, “Home, James.”  And off we go, together again.  As we pull into the driveway, he jumps up, ready to dismount.

And with vacation week over and boarding school behind him, Lewis prances through the gate and into the house.

As I turned to get out of the car, I must admit I was so glad to be back home together with my dog.  And then it hit me, a dog hair rested squarely across my nose in front of both eyes.

Elvis was back in the building.

Footnote:  Many, many thanks to Patton Chapel Animal Clinic for always taking care of our beloved Lewis, and all of our family animals for 35 years.  They are the best!

Probably few people still alive remember the comic movies in the early part of the last century starring a jalopy full of bumbling badge wearers called the Keystone Cops.  Lewis could have played the group’s mascot…not that Lewis mimics their antics, but with the greatest of ease, he has the ability to turn the rest of us, specifically his owners (HA!  not really an accurate concept) into the most foolish looking, befuddled humans in his orbit.

Lewis recently played a starring role (gee, something different) as a keystone canine.  We were headed to some friends’ lake house for the weekend, which meant Lewis was headed to “daycare.”   We’re just not comfortable leaving him with the keys to his kingdom yet.  After all, his paws are much too large to operate the remote control for the television.

Make no mistake, this dog is smart, too smart for my own good.  We loaded his majesty into the car like we usually do, via a large ramp much like livestock use, and off to the vet we went.  When we pulled into the parking lot, you could feel the tension in the back of the car.  Lewis had decided that he was comfortable where he was and NOT getting out of the car.  Thus arose our first dilemma – how to get a mountain-sized dog out of the car who wanted nothing to do with any such plan.

The first approach, pulling hard on the collar, might as well have been a string of yarn.  Second approach, the push/pull maneuver, where one of us climbs up in the car to push his big butt while one of us pulls and PLEADS with Lewis to PLEASE get out of the car.  Nah.

Third approach, the old stand-by, food!  We always keep Lewis’ favorite treats close at hand for emergency situations.   This was one.  Nah.  WHAT!!  At this point, we realize we are in serious trouble.  When he turns down food, we are approaching DEFCON 1.  Finally, with both of us standing face to face with Lewis, we ask him once again to hop out of the car.   Okay, sure.  Sheesh.

Thus arose our second dilemma – how to get a mountain-sized dog who gets out of the car and proceeds to flop down on the ground to get up and walk into the vet’s office.  First approach, repeating the previous three approaches that were as effective as they were the first time around.

And then it happened, we turned into Keystone Cops, while Lewis chuckled to himself (I swear I saw him grin.)  As he lay on the ground, I straddled the brute with his leash attached to him…and me!  At that moment he stood up, reversed field, and walked back through my legs, leaving me with the leash attached to my wrist, wrapped around my leg, and my back to Lewis who was pulling my arm back through my legs.  The only thing absent was the old jalopy and the Silver Screen.  Au contraire, we had the next best thing – a major highway, six lanes of front-row seats to the Keystone buffoons.  At that point, one of the staffers came out, and Lewis trotted in behind her.  He loves the staff at the vet, and they love him.  But us, us he mocks.

But I know he loves us, too.  Or maybe it’s the food.  Nah, he loves us, is loyal to us, and always wants to stay where we are.

I just wish he would stop grinning so much.

The above expression describes any number of homemade remedies to cure too much of a good thing.  And that’s exactly the situation with Lewis.  WAY too much of a good thing – way too much stubbornness for a dog that big, way too much “puppyness” for his size, and last but not least, WAY too much hair.  Reminds me of the old Blake Edwards’ movie, “Switch” (skip to 1:08 if you have the same patience level as I do):

“I can’t think with all this hair.”  Words to live by.  I should have expected as much.  I mean after all, his breed is known for not only surviving but thriving in the frigid night air of the Pyrenees Mountains.  Nowhere did the breed standard mention anything about guarding herds of camels in the Sahara….or the 90-degree heat of Alabama for that matter.  I don’t know if it has to do with the heat here or it’s just who or what Lewis is.  Regardless, because of his hirsutism, Lewis is always with us, even when he is not with us.  His hair is, as they say, ubiquitous.

Let me be frank.  Lewis sheds….a lot.  He sheds anywhere, everywhere, all the time.  Little remnants of Lewis float across the hardwood floors like tumbleweeds in a grade B western.  And it’s not just the hair.  Lewis thinks he is one of those agility trial dogs as he runs crazy in and out of the azaleas, picking up loose leaves, branches, and vines like a magnet.  I see no need here to expound further upon the effect of a 140-pound dog on a defenseless plant.

Following are the many places Lewis has been without ever having moved:

• My sandwich. Because Lewis’ middle name is food, anytime something to eat hits the counter, he magically appears, bringing his shedding cortege with him.  He looks like Pigpen and his dirt cloud from the Peanuts comic strip. (Side note:  If you have eaten dinner at our house, please disregard this paragraph.  It’s false.  It’s not true I tell you, It’s poetic license.)
• My computer keyboard. Thank God he doesn’t like to walk across the desktop like those cat videos.
• My dashboard. I drive a large SUV and carry around this large a** dog in the back with all of the seats folded down so he can wander around and wave to the people, okay bark at them.  But is it really too much to ask for Lewis II to stay in the back with Lewis I where it came from?
• My vacuum cleaner. This is the piece de resistance.  Because of the tumbleweeds, vacuuming is a daily, sometimes hourly task.  It’s a central vacuum system, which means several times a week, I have to go down to the garage and empty the canister, setting free what could easily pass for a small chihuahua. I’ve even thought about declaring my vacuum cleaner to be a 501c charitable organization for dog rescue.

And before you say it, his royal highness receives a brush out every morning.  He looks beautiful…for five minutes.  He then proceeds to his azalea slalom course.

It’s not his fault really.  What else can you expect from an animal that has no opposable thumbs?  And as the schmaltzy saying goes, he asks for so little and gives so much…HAIR!  Pfft with that saying.  He asks for food all the time and a dozen other things.  But it’s ok.  He’s Lewis after all.  And we’d do anything for him like all dog owners do.  It’s ok, you can admit it.