Joey
(written several years ago before Joey crossed the bridge)

By Ed Martley

When I was a little kid, the folks around town called me the Dog Boy. I’m  not sure how they meant that, considering the pack of surly curs that followed in my wake, but I was pleased then as I am now whenever my wife and kids refer to me by that nick-name.

I like dogs, and have owned a lot of them over the decades. By far the most interesting character of that series of hairbags is my present pooch, Joey, a black & tan Doberman. Joey is a handsome brute, trim at 95 pounds of bone, muscle and teeth, yet he has a disposition like St. Francis of Assisi.

One thing I learned because of Joey is what it feels like to be discriminated against. When we walk down the street, people we meet swerve to avoid us. If Joey gets too close, they all take the same defensive posture — they bend slightly forward and clutch their crotches. I guess that shows you what people consider important.

They needn’t worry, though, as Joey pays absolutely no attention to them, unless he thinks they might pet him. And once they do, he is plastered to them like a limpet, hoping to receive a few more strokes. He is delighted when we invite company into the house. He is pleased when we invite a person, or another dog, into the yard. When a stranger is invited into his car, he sits on the back seat and rests his massive head on the visitor’s shoulder. However, there is a protocol for entering Joey’s car. First, you take Joey out, put the stranger in and then let Joey in again.

You notice that I have used the word “invited” several times in the above paragraph. Let me explain. Most dogs have some specific duty they were bred to perform. Huskies, for reasons known only to themselves, love to pull sleds. Some dogs are bred to fight, or to herd sheep. Our German shorthair pointer is bred to find and fetch game birds. She swims like a fish, can catch anything you throw near her and never takes her nose from the ground in her nonstop quest for a quarry.

Joey could not care less about these pursuits. Hook him to a sled and he would fall asleep in the traces. Toss him a bit of food and it’s likely to hit him between the eyes. He will wade, but only until the water touches his tummy. He has no interest whatsoever in birds, although he will get after the occasional squirrel, usually barking up the wrong tree. He tried chasing deer a few times but lost interest when he learned he didn’t have a snowball’s chance of catching them. While Schatze is combing the underbrush for a bird, Joey snoozes in a beam of sunlight or patch of shade, depending on the weather.

Joey, and Dobermans in general, are “Velcro dogs.” They are not happy unless they are plastered against you, as if held by Velcro.

He is also a moocher, a beggar at tables. The other evening during supper, Joey was trying without success to get a handout. He left the table, but returned moments later carrying a squash he had taken from a bowl in the living room. He put the squash on the table, and then looked hopefully at us. I’m not sure, but I think he was trying to make a trade.

We were walking in one of the city’s dog parks recently, and Joey was attacked by a nasty little dog that weighed about 20 pounds. The little dog bounced off him like it would bounce off a stone wall, and Joey didn’t know what to think. The next day, he was attacked by a rat-sized Jack Russell terrier, sending him zipping behind my legs. He doesn’t understand that kind of violence.

So what good is this incredible hulk, you may ask. Well, Joey was bred for something, too. He was bred to take care of me, and my wife and kids and grandkids and my property. That, and being my friend and constant companion, are his main interests in life.

Back to the word “invited.” Simply put, if you are not invited onto our property, or into our car, you may not enter; even the most cretinous of villains would not attempt to filch your camera off the carseat with a Doberman glowering there. If you try to beat knobs on any of our heads, Joey will not allow it. And he doesn’t have to rely on his breathtaking strength or his
marvelous dentition to accomplish this. He uses the “Doberman Stare,” a remarkable attribute of the breed in general. Joey’s stare is riveting, frightening, and intimidates all who are its target. Except his cat, who ignores the stare, swats him on the nose and checks out his food dish.