The Dog Who Wasn't

The Dog Who Wasn’t

On a shelf in the library at Glen Cedar School for Children, was a book. The seemingly ordinary paperback was perched directly at eye level. The book’s cover was a white background adorned by a black and white dog wearing, of all things, a pair of glasses! Such a dapper and handsome dog! He smiled out, beckoning me to open the book and share in his adventures. I grabbed the book in my grubby little Grade 1 hands, and brought it to the counter, barely containing my excitement. 

“You can’t read this” Mrs. Wooly the librarian said. “Pick something else”.

So I did. I picked the next best thing, “The Pokey Little puppy”. A captivating story of a pokey little puppy who dug holes under fences and had to go to bed without any strawberry shortcake! 

After mastering the “Pokey Little Puppy” I returned to the library, and made a beeline for the paperback with the dog sporting the glasses. The doggy hero was depicted not only wearing glasses, but also jumping after birds and running with a prize in his mouth. I had enjoyed the naughtiness of the Pokey Little Puppy, but this dog was clearly on another level!

I placed the book on the counter. “You can’t read this” Mrs. Wooly the librarian said. “Pick something else”. 

This time, my selection was Mr. Mugs. He was a Canadian sheepdog who shared his adventures over a series of many books. Mr. Mugs goes bowling. Mr. Mugs goes to school. Mr.Mugs got kidnapped. Mr. Mugs in space. As entertaining as Mr. Mugs’s adventures were, they only served to whet my appetite for heartier fare. I was ready for the chapter book. 

This is when we moved. Far away from Glen Cedar School for Children and the library. Right across the country, we landed in Winnipeg. 

In an effort to survive life in this cold frontier town, I turned my literary attention to the writings of Jack London. Trudging through hip deep snow banks on my way to school, I felt a kinship with Buck. He too knew the hardships of being ripped from your homeland to toil in the land of the unforgiving and never ending winter. Feeling the bite of -40 windchill rip right down to my bones, I knew White Fang was with me. Jack London was my jam! I had found my pack! Pokey Puppies, and Mr. Mugs were wonderful childhood companions, but I was in Grade 5 now. Wise to the ways of the words and on the cusp of adulthood. 

It was in my new school, Pacific Junction, that Mrs Norris, the school librarian, took notice of my reading habits and suggested “Lost in the Barrens”. A tale of survival, two boys pitted against the frozen landscape of Northern Manitoba. I was hooked, and needed more! 

Mrs Norris guided me to the section of the library which housed more of the adventures I craved. She told me the author’s name was Farley Mowat, a Canadian legend and literally giant.

The titles were stacked neatly, and orderly, these were still the days when the Dewey Decimal system reigned supreme. “The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float”. “Never Cry Wolf”. “Owls in the Family”. The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be”. “People of the Deer”. 

Here was a goldmine of classic Canadiana! Adventure awaited. I now understand that it was an unseen force that guided my hand to “The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be”.  As I titled the spine towards me, the cover was revealed. There, in the quiet library, I was struck. Just as Paul on the road to Damascus. Divine destiny. “The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be” had found me once again, and I was ready!

Yellow flashlight beam under the covers way past lights out. Locked in the bathroom after dinner. Textbook open as a cover only, “The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be” but hidden in its pages. I read every moment of the day and night.

The Dog Wouldn’t Be was Mutt. Mutt was simply the most marvelous dog! He climbed ladders and trees! He rode in an old fashioned car with dust goggles and was an absolute unmatched genius with his hunting skills. Mutt and Farley were an absolutely amazing pair, a boy and his dog; both unusual in their gifts. Both unmatched in their love. I would wager that Mutt and Farley’s love for one another was even stronger than Buck and John Throton’s. Certainly less bloody!

Well, I read and reread, and re-re-read “The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be”  more times than I could count. By summer, I had committed the story to head and to heart. 

And that’s when I got sick. A little bit of the “Where the Red Fern Grows” kinda fever took over. I had Dog on the mind. The only cure was a dog of my own. I NEEDED a dog. The thought of going through life without a canine companion by my side seemed impossible. Give me a dog, or give me death!  So I began the long task of wearing my parents down. 

I was single mindedly, doggedly determined to have a Mutt of my own. Leaving the classified section of the Winnipeg Free Press open to ‘Dogs and Puppies’, praying silently (and aloud) in church. I was dropping king sized clues.I let the world know I was in need of a dog, and my need was great! 

I will spare you the excruciating details of how I begged, pleaded, nagged and wore my parents down. It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t pretty. But it was necessary. Needless to say, by the end of the weekend they finally agreed! I could have a dog. It would be a family dog, we all would have to agree, and I would have to share the dog with my brother. I knew what this meant, I was getting a dog of my very own! 

Part Two

My dog was going to be strong like Buck; broad of shoulders, and brave of heart. He was going to be as loyal as Lassie; forever by my side, and ready to sound the alarm should I happen to fall in any open wells. My dog was going to be as brave a beast as White Fang; ripping the throats out of prey and vanquishing my enemies! My dog was going to be as brilliant as the Littlest Hobo; able to take down bank robbers, fly a helicopter and save orphaned lambs. He was going to be as clever as Mutt, and our epic adventures would be worthy for the page, passed along over generations. My dog was going to be all this and more! But most of all, he was going to be MINE!

Except my dog wasn’t a he. As it turned out, he was a she. And she was the most tiny, most fluffy, most adorable little powder puff I had ever seen.

I fell in love the moment I saw her!

My Mom said she needed a name. Everyone would come with a list of names at dinner, and we could decide as a family. I had a list of names ready, there was no need to wait. 

Buck. 

No.

White Fang. 

No.

Lassie. 

No.

Littlest Hobo. 

No.

Mutt. 

No.

Mr. Mugs? 

No.

Pokey Little Puppy?

No.

Daisy. We called her Daisy. Daisy was in fact, the perfect name. 

Daisy and I were inseparable. Though she was small, her heart was mighty and her willingness to please was great. Daisy and I enrolled in Puppy Manner classes at the Air Force base. Classes were easy for a dog who was so clever, and our success in Puppy class ignited our passion to learn. She was my confidant, my most loyal companion,my buddy and my best friend. Just a boy and his tiny fluffy little adorable dog living life for one adventure after another! 

Together, Daisy and I quickly mastered all the basic rudimentary behaviors expected of a small white dog. Sit. Down. Stay. Shake a paw. Fetch. Easy. Each new trick we trained grew our confidence. We took out all the dog training books from the library. Mastered every trick in the book, and onto the next one. When we had exhausted those, and were still in need of more, we turned to literature for inspiration. Daisy learned to pull me on skis through the snow, like Buck. We ran wild through the Assiniboine Forest like White Fang, and then we turned our attention back to the book that began it all. “The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be”.

I had the entire story committed to memory, but took delight in reading it aloud, all 288 pages to Daisy. I shared the pictures with her, and we laughed together over Mutts antics. Mutt could climb ladders, perch on the tallest of trees and even learned to walk along the top of fences! Extraordinary! 

Once our book study was complete, Daisy and I set out to master all the tricks Mutt had accomplished.

First, the ladder. We started small, a six foot wooden ladder set up on the lawn. Daisy placed a paw on the first rung, glancing at me. I gave her a nod. Second paw placed. ”Good girl”. In minutes, she was climbing to the top of the ladder, barking excitedly, tail wagging in delight. We were both grinning with our new accomplishment. 

Daisy quickly took her ladder climbing skills to new heights. My Mom was at work when she received the call from the neighbors. They had hired a crew to put new shingles on their roof. It seemed that when the crew had gone on lunch break, they had left their ladders out. Mom was called to retrieve the poodle off the roof. Two Stories up. 

A few weeks later I was sitting in the shade with my Grandmother. Daisy was busy patrolling the property for squirrels. It was her job to keep the place free of vermin. Passing a tray of lemon squares, my Grandmother paused and shouted “Would you look at that dog!” I turned in my chair, and at first couldn’t tell what all the fuss was about. But there, in a maple leaning out over the river was a white blur, climbing higher and higher! Daisy had mastered tree climbing, a Dog Who Wouldn’t Be indeed!

With her amazing sense of balance, and hatred for squirrels, I suppose it came as no surprise that Daisy easily mastered Mutt’s next trick.The art of walking along the top of a fence. Daisy was small, but must have had springs for legs. She could easily jump to the top of a six foot fence, pull herself up, and strut along the top! I enjoyed watching the neighbors' faces,  shocked expressions as they realized it was a dog trotting happily along the top of the fence. The trick came in very handy when we crossed paths with a less than friendly neighborhood dog!

But life wasn’t all fun and games. There was school too. My new English teacher got it in his head that we should each write a letter to a hero. While most of my heroes were canines,and fictional at best, I figured I would write to the author of “A Dog Who Wouldn’t Be”. How pleased Mr. Farley Mowat would be to hear how his written word had changed my life for the best! How much fun it would be to boast of the exploits of my Daisy, all inspired from his beloved Mutt! More than a homework assignment, this would be an act of giving back. A letter celebrating the extraordinary gift that Mutt and Farley had given to Daisy and I; inspiration! In praise of lives well lived!

I penned the letter, and addressed it to the publishing company’s address listed in the front of “A Dog Who Wouldn’t Be”. Dropping it in the mailbox, I trusted my tribute would find its way to Mr. Mowat. Daisy and I continued on with our life of adventure and never gave the letter a second thought.  

Part Three

As warm spring winds loosened winter’s grip from the prairies, a letter arrived in the mail addressed to Master Roberts, I was unused to such formality. 

Opening the letter revealed only that, a letter. I had been hoping for a check. But as I squinted my eyes, and tilted my head, I was able to decipher the handwriting. 

Dear Master Kevin Roberts,
I hope this letter finds you, though I harbor no expectations of its comprehension by one such as yourself. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to address a matter of utmost importance.

It has come to my attention that you have been laboring under a profound misapprehension regarding my literary work, "A Dog Who Wouldn't Be." Allow me to dispel any lingering delusions: the story is a product of fiction, a figment of my imagination, and bears no semblance to reality. It is a tale woven from the threads of creativity, not the fabric of truth.

Furthermore, I must express my profound disappointment in your misguided fixation on a work of fiction. By wasting your time and energy in pursuit of a nonexistent reality, you have not only squandered precious moments of your own life but have also dishonored the memory of Daisy, whose short existence was certainly not meant to be the subject of such baseless speculation.

I implore you, Master Roberts, to cease all further attempts at correspondence. Your persistent ignorance and unwarranted intrusion into my life have left me with no choice but to sever ties with you indefinitely.

May you find enlightenment in the days ahead, and may you refrain from burdening others with your misguided notions.

Yours regretfully,
Farley Mowat

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Faley Mowat died on May 6, 2014. 

Kev Roberts is still wasting time and energy in pursuit of nonexistent realities.