Marley: A Dog Like No Other. John Grogan

ready for this,” she said. “He has some growing up to do.”

      It was beginning to dawn on me what she was getting at. “Are you trying to tell me—”

      “He’s a distraction to the other dogs.”

      “—that you’re—”

      “He’s just too excitable.”

      “—kicking us out of class?”

      “You can always bring him back in another six or eight months.”

      “So you’re kicking us out?”

      “I’ll happily give you a full refund.”

      “You’re kicking us out.”

      “Yes,” she finally said. “I’m kicking you out.”

      Marley lifted his leg and let loose a raging stream of pee, nearly hitting his beloved instructor’s foot.

      Sometimes a man needs to get angry to get serious. The instructor had made me angry. I owned a beautiful, purebred Labrador retriever, a proud member of the breed famous for its ability to guide the blind, rescue disaster victims, assist hunters, and pluck fish from big ocean swells, all with calm intelligence. How dare she write him off after just two lessons? OK, he was a bit on the spirited side, but his intentions were all good.

      I was going to prove to that insufferable stuffed shirt that she could kick us out but Marley was no quitter. He would show her!

      First thing the next morning, Marley was out in the backyard with me. “Nobody kicks the Grogan boys out of obedience school,” I told him. “Untrainable? We’ll see who’s untrainable. Right?” He bounced up and down. “Can we do it, Marley?” He wiggled. “I can’t hear you! Can we do it?” He yelped. “That’s better. Now let’s get to work.”

      We started with the sit command, which I had been practising with him since he was a small puppy. He was already quite good at it. I towered over him and gave him my best alpha-dog scowl.

      “Sit,” I said in a firm but calm voice. He sat. “Good boy!” I praised.

      We repeated the exercise several times. Next we moved to the down command, another one I had been practising with him. He stared intently into my eyes, neck straining forward, anticipating my directive.

      I slowly raised my hand in the air and held it there as he waited for the word. With a sharp downward motion, I snapped my fingers, pointed at the ground and said, “Down!” Marley collapsed in a heap, hitting the ground with a thud. He went down with gusto – as if a mortar shell had just exploded behind him.

      Jenny, sitting on the porch with her coffee, noticed it, too. “Incoming!” she yelled out.

      After several rounds of hit-the-deck, I moved up to the next challenge – come on command. This was a tough one for Marley. The coming part was not the problem; it was waiting in place until we called him. He was so anxious to be plastered against us that he could not sit still while we walked away from him.

      “Sit,” I commanded. He faced me, and I fixed my eyes on his. As we stared at each other, I raised my palm, holding it out in front of me like a crossing guard. “Stay,” I said, and took a step backwards. He froze, staring anxiously, waiting for the slightest sign he could join me. On my fourth step backwards, he could take it no longer and broke free, racing up and tumbling against me. I scolded him and tried it again. And again and again.

      Each time he allowed me to get a little farther away before charging. Eventually I stood fifteen metres across the yard, with my palm out towards him. I stood and waited. He sat, locked in position, his entire body quaking with anticipation. I could see the nervous energy building in him. He was like a volcano ready to blow. But he stayed. I counted to ten. He did not budge. His eyes froze on me. His muscles bulged. OK, enough torture.

      I dropped my hand and yelled, “Marley, come!”

      As he catapulted forward, I squatted down and clapped my hands to encourage him. I thought he might go racing willy-nilly across the yard, but he made a beeline straight for me. Perfect! I thought.

      “C’mon, boy! C’mon!” I coached. He was barrelling right at me. “Slow it down, boy,” I said. He just kept coming. “Slow down!” He had this vacant, crazed look on his face. It was a one-dog stampede. I had time for one final command. “STOP!” I screamed.

      Blam! He plowed into me without breaking stride. I pitched backwards, slamming hard to the ground. When I opened my eyes a few seconds later, he was straddling me with all four paws, lying on my chest and desperately licking my face.

      “How did I do, boss?” my proud puppy seemed to be asking.

      Technically speaking, he had followed orders exactly. After all, I had failed to mention anything about stopping once he got to me.

      “Mission accomplished,” I said with a groan.

      Jenny peered out the kitchen window. “I’m off to work,” she shouted. “When you two are done making out, don’t forget to close the windows. It’s supposed to rain this afternoon.” I gave Linebacker Dog a snack and then showered and headed off myself to my job as a newspaper reporter.

      When I arrived home that night, Jenny was waiting for me at the front door. I could tell she was upset.

      “Go look in the garage,” she said.

      I opened the door into the garage, and the first thing I spotted was Marley, lying on his carpet, looking sad.

      My mind took a photo of the scene. Marley’s snout and front paws were not right. They were dark brown, not their usual light yellow. It took me a few seconds to figure out that they were covered in dried blood. Then my focus zoomed out and I sucked in my breath. We had thought the garage was indestructible, but Marley had destroyed it. Throw rugs were shredded. Paint was clawed off the concrete walls. The ironing board was tipped over, its fabric cover hanging in ribbons.

      Worst of all, the doorway in which I stood looked like it had been attacked with a chipper-shredder. Bits of wood were sprayed in a three-metre semicircle around the door, which had a hole halfway through to the other side. The bottom metre of the doorjamb were missing entirely and nowhere to be found. Blood streaked the walls from where Marley had shredded his paws and muzzle.

      “I don’t believe it,” I said, more amazed than angry.

      “When I came home for lunch, everything was fine,” Jenny said from behind me. “But I could tell it was getting ready to rain.” After she was back at work, an intense storm had moved through, bringing with it sheets of rain and dazzling flashes of lightning. The thunder was so powerful, you could actually feel it thump against your chest.

      While the storm raged, Marley had desperately tried to escape. The storm had sent him into a complete, panic-stricken frenzy. Alone and terrified as the storm came, Marley had decided his best chance at survival was to begin digging his way into the house. When Jenny arrived home a couple of hours later, Marley stood in the middle of the mess he had made.

      But it didn’t take long for Marley to forget the whole incident. Back to his old self, he grabbed a chew toy and bounced around us, looking for a little tug-of-war action. I held him still while Jenny sponged the blood off his fur. Then he watched us, tail wagging, as we cleaned up his handiwork.

      “You don’t have to look so happy about it.” I scowled and brought him inside for the night.

       6

       The Great Escape

      

One