The Dog in the Black Hat

Thinking back to 2003, and the summer we moved to Columbia County, several events are sandwiched together in my mind: meeting the ineffably glamorous figures of Ginny and Albert Callan, the latter a former Courier editor and my husband’s godfather; the subsequent outing of Albert as the man behind “The Man in the Black Hat” with a very public book signing of collected columns in a similarly named book; and finally - predating marriage or kids - the arrival of Winnie, our very first puppy.

Over that first summer, we wrestled with the typical headaches of first-time home ownership. As a transplanted city dweller, I spent many panicked hours trying to get to grips with a septic system, well water, and the finer points of the culinary arts. When Winnie entered the scene, she brought with her a host of unparalleled antics that would soon grace the pages of The Courier in my new column. Sadly, Albert passed away before ‘Green Acres’ hit the newsstand as another Page Five column, but he was certainly present for one of Winnie’s favourite tricks when she paraded before him at dinner with my underwear in her mouth.

This past week, eight years on, we sadly said goodbye to Winnie after a long, proud battle with failing kidneys. Until the end, she wouldn’t turn down a chance to steal unattended food, put the smackdown on her adopted brother Oscar, creep into our verboten bed, or lick the lips of some hapless human victim. To thank her for providing fodder for so many columns, it only seems right to see her off with some memories from one of the earliest.

“The move to country living brought its own set of responsibilities, including Winnie. My husband and I had discussed the pros and cons of owning a dog. On the plus side, we wanted one. On the minus side, the absence of a fenced yard plus my business travel, my husband’s erratic recording schedule, and our lack of training experience seemed to tip the scales in favor of waiting. But, with voodoo and a Siren song, Winnie had my husband sufficiently smitten to make a six-hour drive to Hershey, Pennsylvania, despite the pain of a herniated disc. One month after moving to East Chatham, Winifried Ginger Von Rocketdog tumbled into my birthday sleep, a wiggly seven-week old Boxer with too-large paws. A mere three weeks later, I awoke tear streaked and sleep deprived from the 24 hour bathroom trips, and presented my husband with a meltdown and ultimatum: The dog or me.

Winnie set the bar high to win me over with tests of love and endurance. It started with two pairs of summer kitten-heels (the black and the blue), a couple of stiletto sling-backs (the mock croc and brown suede) and some pretty pink slides. Her appetite for leather knew no bounds. With the nose of a woman at a Filene’s shoe sale, she passed on chunky Steve Maddens and demolished peep-toe Miu Mius, hid Nine Wests but chomped on Etienne Aigner. Ignoring funky Chinese Laundry, she savored new, red suede Christian Louboutin, delicious right out of the box. Twelve pairs in as many weeks was a dagger in my heart, caused temporary blindness, delirium tremors, and shoe separation anxiety.

Our unflappable trainer assured us we had to know Winnie’s whereabouts at all times and encouraged us to emulate the Monks of New Skete with her dog leash knotted to our sides. Unable to cope with a four-foot umbilical cord, I caved in. And, freed from Mama’s apron strings, Winnie’s palate matured. She’d appear, shovel-jaws gummed shut with kitty clumping litter, lips sudsy from miniature green tea guest soaps; full of pride from the stealthy demolition of a two-pound block of cheese, or regretfully vomiting a putrid carcass onto my kitchen floor.

I’m told owning a dog is good preparation for life skills and parenting. A colleague once assessed my dating habits -- and predictable two-year itch -- with a prescription to get a dog. Elsewhere, a colleague claimed all prospective parents should own a dog to learn patience, tolerance, and negotiation skills. Somewhere along the way, I married and let go of a few hang-ups about personal space and prized possessions. I’m a pro at wielding pills, Pepto, and a poop-a-scoop. I’ve even found a Zen acceptance of occasional chewing casualties, (including this month’s unread Architectural Digest), and the delivery of my underwear to guests during dinner. Oscar ate my orange suede Wanted sneakers this weekend and I barely batted an eyelid. Just know I can’t be held responsible for my actions if Winnie ever finds my Jimmy Choo’s…”