Dog Days

When I think about the island my senses are immediately activated. I remember the smells of the marsh, the brackish water, something yummy baking in the oven or fresh crab cakes on the stove. But the overwhelming smell that comes to me is wet dog. Yes, wet dog.

Dogs were an integral part of island life, for the watermen and hunters, and certainly for us. All of my memories seem to include roaming around with a dog, often a wet dog, in tow. When I think about my childhood I think my dogs were my best friends and certainly we led a similar life. We roamed free, were given attention and fed by many, loved to swim and needed to be home by dark. I’m pretty sure all the dogs were big Retrievers or Labradors. I didn’t really think dogs came in other varieties. It was a shock to realize that indeed they did.

Neither the dogs nor I had many rules, just the basics I think. Don’t get hit by a car, don’t drown, don’t tear up other people’s stuff or destroy anything, and of course be home by dark. I only remember breaking these rules when I accidentally set the beach marsh on fire while playing with matches. That was a poor choice and I didn't repeat it. The dogs were pretty well behaved too other than occasionally getting hit. Mom does tells a story of our dogs clearly breaking the rules. Apparently Ms. Teenie’s outside rug was stolen by Missy and Lady and used for tug-o-war. All I can recall of Ms. Teenie is her singing the song “One Day at A Time” constantly and making fried chicken. Now I get to imagine the dogs stealing her rug and ripping it to shreds. Thanks Mom.

Our first island dog was Ginger. I was young so I don’t remember her but I remember the stories of how much my mom loved her. I think when she kicked out the crappy boyfriend Dick (“Dick the prick” as my brother David called him), she was more devastated to see Ginger leave than Dick. Well, and his Porsche. Mom loved driving it super fast on the island road. The juxtaposition of imagining a Porsche parked outside the shack we were living in on Elliott’s Island in the middle of nowhere still makes me smile. It’s a classic example of my mother. In no box or stereotype does she fit.

I remember missing Robin along with Ginger when Dick and his family left. Robin and I shared Ginger the dog. Robin was Dick's son who lived with a devastating heart condition and had to rest a lot. I missed him so much when they left. Thankfully we had puppies to fill the void. Ginger had puppies with one of the Abbot's dogs. We kept two of them, Buddy and Missy. Missy was my dog and Buddy was David's. Missy was hit by a car and died young. I was devastated. I remember Buddy a little more than Missy. He was technically David’s dog but I know we hung out a lot. He was dense and it took a significant amount of physical pressure to get his attention at all. The only real Buddy memory I have is of him getting really sick with heartworm. Veterinary care wasn’t a part of island life so animals often died young of heartworm if a car did not hit them first. Chasing cars was just something most island dogs did. If an animal was suffering you dug a hole and shot them. That’s exactly what mom and Jack made teenage David do when Buddy got so sick. I was horrified.

The dog that we got next was my love and with her are many memories. I named her Missy because I never recovered from the first Missy dying young. The second Missy was my best friend and basically my sole playmate until John arrived on the island. Missy and I went everywhere together. The beach and the water (hence the wet dog smell permeating my memories) were our favorites.

Lady joined us I believe when Missy was a few years old. Lady belonged to a family “from away” on the island that had built a house near my Nana’s. She was a sweet older black lab that I adored. For some reason the family was leaving the island and they had planned to abandon Lady. About a week before they were scheduled to move Lady moved herself to our house and was clear that she had picked us for her new family. She was ridiculously smart.

Lady quickly figured out that Missy needed to believe she was the top dog. Lady ruled the island, but Missy was oblivious. During deer season we would bring home bones from the butcher shop and give them to the dogs. Lady meticulously buried them all over the island and periodically would go dig one up, as she never forgot where they were. For a few weeks my mom kept Lady on a leash after a car had hit her. Mom was mortified to be dragged into everyone’s yard for Lady to look for a bone or more likely to go to the steps of one of the island ladies. Like for example June Mom. She used to leave the dogs fresh cooked sausage or scrapple every morning. Being on a leash didn’t stop Lady from making her rounds. 

The dogs and I were spoiled rotten by the island and thrived in the freedom.  This wet dog smell is way more to me than just a wet dog. It is the smell of magical childhood memories.