Berkeley Defined #T

While Berkeley was by all appearances an excellent Golden Retriever, he had some quirks, non-retriever-like quirks.  We had a wonderful outsized Golden prior to Berkeley's time in our home from whom we learned much about the behaviors of the breed.  I wrote about Dundee here.

My earlier post advised you that Berkeley was well-behaved and properly trained.  It was not until we got to the lake place that we discovered the missing element in his training.  The dog had not been broken to leash.  When we first attached the leash to his collar he set his feet and refused to budge.  Using the choke-chain, I literally dragged the dog down the lane two or three yards, his feet cutting furrows into the gravel.  The fault was soon corrected, however, and the dog became an excellent walking companion.

I mentioned earlier that gunfire or firecrackers made the animal frantic.  And lightning?  Forget about it.  The dog would climb into the nearest lap and beg for mercy.  This was particularly annoying when the nearest lap belonged to the nonagenarian occupant of our home.  Mother was not amused; in fact, she could be described as frantic.  You get the picture.  This problem was finally alleviated when we directed the beast to the shower stall which was quite small and confining.  He found comfort and safety there, and eventually he would head to the shower whenever a thunderstorm approached.

Retrievers love the water and keeping them out of it is a challenge.  Of course, that is any retriever other than Berkeley.  He hated the water, could not abide so much as wet feet.  It was a major chore to get him into the lake for a shampoo, and a greater task to keep him in there long enough to rinse the suds out of his fur.  This phobia was abated somewhat by the spawning season of the fish in the lake.  The nature of the sunfish impelled the creature to come near the shore, fan a nest into existence in the sand where the female would lay her eggs.  In turn, the male would fertilize the roe, then stay to guard the nest until the hatchlings arrived.  This little fish swimming guard on his nest was what attracted Berkeley to the water.  He would stand transfixed for the longest time, watching the show.  But eventually it was too much and he felt obligated to take a swipe.  This got his paw wet, and eventually he decided that if he were to wade into the water he might have a better chance of catching a fish.

That was successful to the extent that his big old foot standing in the middle of fish nest was annoying to the fish.  Frantic bumping and nipping at the offending intruder resulted.  Otherwise, Berkeley failed in his attempts to catch the fish, but like all fishermen, he would return another day to engage in his sport.

It should be understood that Berkeley was not the only canine inhabitant of our domicile, as Spot was already a resident when he arrived.  They accommodated one another early on though little love was lost between them.  We had just concluded that each had accepted the other when one afternoon, having let them into the fenced yard, I glanced through the kitchen window just in time to see  that Berkeley had Spot down and was clearly intent on finishing him off.  I hollered, "Berkeley is killing Spot," and ran for the door.  I got to the animals in time to save Spot's life, but not before Berkeley had torn the scalp loose from Spot's head.

Plastered the scalp down, and it reattached, so no lasting harm.  They lived peacefully together several years thereafter until Spot's demise at the age of fifteen.

Berkeley #T

I have written from time to time about some of the dogs in my life, from "my" dog, Jiggs, to our current dachshund, Wiener. But somehow I seem to have neglected Berkeley's story.

Berkeley, though named for the British philosopher Bishop Berkeley, was not a philosopher, or at least he never discussed such things with me.  We did, however, pronounce his name even as the stalwart Brit pronounced his, and thus it was that people, even his vet, when writing his name usually wrote "Barkley."

Ellie carried her lunch, traditionalist, in a brown paper bag.  As Springtime approached and the southern breezes wafted comfort into our surroundings, she would take her little sack outside and sit on the bench near the natatorium to partake of her sustenance.

A dog found her there.  And she shared her lunch with him.  He returned the next day, and that evening Ellie told me she would like for me to meet her lunch companion if I could get free for a couple of minutes.  I saw what was coming.  The next day I met the animal, and that evening he went home with us.

Berkeley, as we soon named him, was one hundred pounds of beautiful golden retriever.  He did not appear to be the typical underfed stray.  He was very well trained, eager to please, and completely house-broken.  We went to some lengths to find the dog's home, even advertising in the newspaper.  We got one response from a lady who told us the creature was not hers, but she had been feeding it in her back yard for a while.  She, too, had tried to find its home.  She did not desire to keep him. Berkeley was now our dog.

Some of Berkeley's behaviors helped us develop a narrative as to why such a beast would be wandering, unclaimed.  We discovered soon enough that gunfire or even firecrackers sent him scurrying, terrified, for cover.  We pictured this.  Berkeley was a retriever, after all, a sporting breed. Someone had acquired the pup, trained and nurtured him.  Then came the day he would be taught to hunt.  And when the time came for gunfire, the hopeful hunter discovered the dog's fatal flaw.  Well, it could have been fatal, but our Nimrod had a bit of a soft spot in his little heart, so he transported the dog to unfamiliar territory, told him he was on his own and released him.  This, we imagine, is how Berkeley became a valued member of our household.

I found the picture of Berkeley, and on the same page of the album I found a picture of Pig and Duck.  Remember the story of the pig that taught the duck to swim?