10.12.10: Dog stories | New York Social Diary

Dog stories

Bob Fribourg, Nadine Kalachnikoff, Effie Fribourg, Lars Bolander

Bryant Park 7:45 pm, just before the thunderstorm moved in. Photo: JH.

October 12, 2010. A warm sunny day in New York although the whiff of autumn in the air made it feel a little cooler than it was. Followed by a thunder storm and buckets of rain in the early evening.

Schools were closed in my neighborhood. There were a lot of families out with their children in the park by the river. It was a good day for the children to be with their parents, and the dogs to be with their masters/owners.

Dog stories. I live with dogs. It has been like that most of my life except in college and then in my twenties when I was distracted by the process called young adulthood. Fortunately, considering the circumstances of my “process” I did not have dogs or children. Or: fortunately for dogs and children, I did not have any during that time.


Rexy and me, North Stamford, Ct., 1976.

My first dog was a mutt named Brownie. She had been acquired somewhere around the time I was born because I’ve seen pictures of myself with Brownie when I was a wee one. She was around all through childhood. Brownie was a sweet, docile lady. In memory of those early days, I associate Brownie’s disposition with that of my mother: comforting. Mother, mind you, was less than comforting, far less, once the boy hit puberty and all kinds of red flags called adolescence appeared. Brownie, however, was steadfast until one day I noticed she wasn’t around. When I asked where she was, I got the news. They’d put her to sleep.

When I was in my early thirties, I was living a single life very conveniently, and had several cats, all acquired by circumstances of taking in a stray or homeless feline. But no dogs. I had had cats when I was a kid too. Some people say they don’t like cats. That is because they never owned one or two, or many. The only thing disagreeable about cats (to some people) is they are not interested in your ego. Ever. But they are sweet companions, smart and often very amusing.

They particularly adept in their ability to steer clear of trouble. And they know a jerk when they see one. Something the whole world could learn. But alas ...

In 1975 when I had a business in Pound Ridge, New York, one of the staff called in late one morning because a beautiful stray dog had shown up at her door. Because she couldn’t keep it she called the ‘SPCA to come get it and they were late in showing up. I told her to come on in and I’d go wait for the truck.

She told me he was a beauty but very grungy looking. She’d locked him in her garage while waiting for the ‘SPCA. When I got to her house, there he was standing on hind legs looking out the garage door window, and barking. This great big dog with the mane like a chow, the body of a shepherd and the color of a lion. My friend was right: he was beautiful.

Rex in Brentwood, 1979. On the lower left is little Tiger, my first adopted shih-tzu. Tiger was 8.

But here’s the part where you might think I’m nuts. The moment I laid eyes on him looking through the garage door window, barking with his head cocked to one side, as if to say: help me, I thought: “it’s my father. I have to take him.”

That’s what I thought; no kidding. “It’s my father.” Just came; stuck in my craw out of nowhere. I don’t go around thinking these things, and I never had before, and never have since; but I was positive. My father had died about a year before (he was 74). I did not have lingering grief or sadness about his death. He had been ill for a long time, and he had had a tough life that he spread around liberally among his families. Nevertheless, this dog was giving me the message: save me. Really.

And so, I waited for the ASPCA to arrive, which it eventually did, and I told the driver I’d decided to take the dog. The man helped me collar the boy (he was dirty, collarless and almost mangy). I took him right to a vet and a groomer. The vet told me he must have been a junkyard dog because his neck was bloody and scarred from what must have been a chain. And that he wasn’t more than a year old.

Current housemates/living companions: Madame (Missy) and little Byron waiting for Jenny (not shown).

Bathed and groomed, Rexy was a handsome guy. When he came home to where I was living with five cats, he made himself comfortable right away. The cats, after their initial arched-back hissing, came around and all fell in love with Rexy Rexido. So did everyone else. He was a giant love dog. On the coldest winter nights, he loved going out and sleeping on the ice! I’d make him come in before I went to bed, but he especially loved the cold.

He was a big dog with a very happy disposition. I could leave him outside when I was away from the house, and he stayed close by, as if knowing that was his job. Once a close friend, a woman Rexy knew very well -- and liked -- came by to visit, arriving before I got home. When she got out of the car, she was greeted effusively by Rex. Until she put her hand the doorknob of the front door to see if it would open. Suddenly he growled, and showed his teeth. Whoa. It surprised my friend. But she removed her hand immediately, and assured him there was no problem, whereupon Rex returned to his sunny disposish.

And let's not forget the Magnificent Oliver, friend of JH, alumnus of ARF in East Hampton.

When I moved to California four years later, Rexy moved too, along with the cats. Several months into my new life there, I had to find a new rental and had to board Rex until I could find a place that would have a dog his size. A former neighbor, a very kindly woman, offered to take him temporarily. She was a widow, her children had grown up and moved away, and she liked the idea of some friendly company.

I’d visit him every few days and take him down to the beach in Santa Monica, where in late afternoon after it had cleared of sun-bathers, he could run. He loved the beach, and knew as soon as we turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, where he was going. Once out of the car, he tore off across the sand to the water’s edge.


	William Secord’s The American Dog At Home. Click to order or purchase immediately at Archivia (993 Lexington Avenue, 212.570.9565).

Rexy was in his temporary home for ten months before I could find something permanent for all of us. When I went to tell his caretaker, she was very upset. She told me she didn’t want me to take him away; she had grown very fond of him. She was good to him, and I knew he liked her.

I think he would have preferred returning to live with me but I felt guilty taking him away from her. He stayed. I stopped visiting him after that. I wanted him to forget me, to enjoy the good life he now had.

What provoked all this dog-story business? Over the weekend I was looking through William Secord’s The American Dog At Home with “Dog Portraits By Christine Merrill.”

I was reminded also of a new advertiser, Garry Gross, a photographic portraitist of dogs. We love our dogs (most of us, that is; there are those who do not, but that’s for another time). We honor and adore our dogs. And from them, we are given that back in spades, every day, day in day out. Some of us even memorialize these loved ones with portraits, as you can see. I never had a portrait of Rexy, or any of my dogs or cats. Although there were always snapshots, thankfully.

Some of the scenes from William Secord's The American Dog at Home; Dog Portraits by Christine Merrill: