John Grogan - Marley - A Dog Like No Other

A dog like no other

JOHN GROGAN

INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR

To Ruth Howard Grogan,

who taught me the joy of a good story well told.

PrefaceThe Perfect Dog

Chapter 1And Puppy Makes Three

Chapter 2Homeward Bound

Chapter 3Mr Wiggles

Chapter 4Master and Beast

Chapter 5A Battle of Wills

Chapter 6The Great Escape

Chapter 7The Things He Ate

Chapter 8The Dog’s Got to Go

Chapter 9The Final Round

Chapter 10The Audition

Chapter 11Take Two

Chapter 12Jail Break

Chapter 13Dinnertime!

Chapter 14Lightning Strikes

Chapter 15Dog Beach

Chapter 16A Northbound Plane

Chapter 17In the Land of Pencils

Chapter 18Poultry on Parade

Chapter 19The Potty Room

Chapter 20Beating the Odds

Chapter 21Borrowed Time

Chapter 22The Big Meadow

Chapter 23Beneath the Cherry Trees

Chapter 24Lucky

When I was ten years old, my father caved in to my pleas and took me to get my own dog. Together we drove in the family station wagon far into the Michigan countryside.

We stopped at a farm run by a woman and her ancient mother. The farm didn’t grow wheat or corn. It didn’t even have cows or horses. It had just one thing – dogs. Dogs of every size and shape and age and temperament. They had only two things in common: each was a mongrel, and each was free to a good home.

“Now, take your time, son,” Dad said. “Your decision today is going to be with you for many years to come.”

I quickly decided the older dogs were not for me and raced to the puppy cage. “You want to pick one that’s not timid,” my father coached. “Try rattling the cage and see which ones aren’t afraid.”

I grabbed the chain-link gate and yanked on it with a loud clang. There were about a dozen puppies. They reeled backwards, collapsing on top of one another in a squiggling heap of fur. Just one remained. He was gold with a white blaze on his chest, and he charged the gate, yapping fearlessly. He jumped up and excitedly licked my fingers through the fencing. It was love at first sight.

I brought him home in a cardboard box and named him Shaun. He was one of those dogs that give dogs a good name. He mastered every command I taught him and was naturally well behaved. I could drop a crust on the floor and he would not touch it until I said it was OK. When I called, he came. When I told him to stay, he stayed. We could let him out by himself at night, knowing he would be back after making his rounds. We could leave him alone in the house for hours, confident that he wouldn’t have an accident or disturb a thing. He raced cars without chasing them and walked beside me without a leash. He could dive to the bottom of our lake and emerge with rocks so big they sometimes got stuck in his jaws. He loved riding in the car. He’d sit quietly in the backseat beside me on family road trips, happy to gaze out the window as the world zoomed by.

Best of all, I trained Shaun to pull me through the neighbourhood dog-sledge style as I sat on my bicycle. My friends jealously watched as he carefully guided me down the street, never leading me into trouble.

Shaun even had the good manners to back himself into the bushes before squatting to poop. With his rear end hidden away, only his head peered out. Our lawn was safe for bare feet.

Relatives would visit for the weekend and return home determined to buy a dog of their own. They were that impressed with Shaun. Actually, I called him “Saint Shaun”. The saint part was a family joke, but we almost believed it.

Shaun had been born with a curse – no one knew who his parents were. Because his breeding was unknown, he was one of the tens of thousands of unwanted dogs in America. Yet by some stroke of good luck, he became wanted. He came into my life and I came into his. And he gave me the childhood every kid deserves.

Saint Shaun of my childhood. He was a perfect dog. At least that is how I will always remember him. It was Shaun who set the standard by which I would judge all other dogs to come.

1

“Slow down, dingo, or you’re going to miss it,” Jenny scolded. “It should be coming up any second.” Jenny was my wife. That January evening in 1991, we were driving through inky blackness across what had once been Florida swampland. We had been married for a little over a year and decided it was time for another family member. A dog, to be exact. We were on our way to look at a litter of Labrador retrievers.

Our headlights shined on a mailbox. The numbers on the side reflected back at us. This was the place. I turned up a gravel drive that led into a large wooded property. There was a pond in front of the house and a small barn out back. At the door, a woman named Lori greeted us, with a big, calm yellow Labrador retriever by her side.

“This is Lily, the proud mama,” Lori said. Lily’s stomach was still swollen even though she’d given birth five weeks before.

Jenny and I got on our knees, and Lily happily accepted our affection. She was just what we pictured a Lab would be – sweet natured, affectionate, calm and beautiful.

“Where’s the father?” I asked.

“Oh,” the woman said, hesitating for just a fraction of a second. “Sammy Boy? He’s around here somewhere.” She quickly added, “I imagine you’re dying to see the puppies.”

Lori led us through the kitchen into a utility room. The puppies stumbled all over one another as they rushed to check out the strangers.

Jenny gasped. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so cute in my life,” she said.

The litter consisted of five females and four males. Lori was asking $400 for the females and $375 for the males. One of the males seemed particularly smitten with us. He was the goofiest of the group and charged into us. Somersaulting into our laps, he clawed his way up our shirts to lick our faces. He gnawed on our fingers with surprisingly sharp baby teeth and stomped clumsy circles around us on giant paws that were way too big for the rest of his body.

“That one there you can have for three hundred and fifty dollars,” Lori said.

“Aw, honey,” Jenny cooed. “The little guy’s on sale!”