Back to the Bone

One of those basic-cable lifestyle programs recently ran an episode on a hotel/spa that caters to the dogs of celebrities. Andy Warhol would have loved it. Classical music gets piped into a sleeping chamber lined with rows of plush dog beds. Guests drink from personalized Baccarat crystal water dishes and dine on cubed beef filets with sage gravy. Lab-coated aestheticians administer “paw”dicures.

What I want to know is, will the dogs go to hell, too, after they die? Or will it just be their owners dancing the Frug on fiery coals for all eternity? I also wonder what it’s like to be the concierge of such a joint. Hey, God bless America, and a paycheck is a paycheck, but come on already. I’m all for giving a good dog a reward, but a spa day? They used to eat us, you know.

I understand we all probably have to leave our companion animal under someone else’s watchful eye sometimes. But there are other, not quite as luxurious options available to discerning pet owners who may want to save the spa day for themselves.

My friend Chris is an artist who travels quite a bit. Her fourteen-year-old camel-colored pug shar pei usually rides shotgun in her Jetta wagon. They’ve crossed the country together more than once. Winnie loves her lady, and the adventure of life on the road. But sometimes it’s not feasible for her to tag along, and that’s when she gets checked in at the Bed & Bone out in Buffalo. They call it a doggie hotel, but it’s more of a doggie fun park. They’ve got a swimming hole, a big ball-chasing field, and couches for the dogs to crash out on. You can even arrange to have your pet eased to sleep by the drone of the TV. In short, this is doggie heaven.
I mix with dogs that have, shall we say, more junkyard tastes. For instance, my Siberian husky would never stay anywhere that didn’t serve cat-crap canapés. For the salad course, Dutch likes to gnaw on my ten-year-old rubber tree plant. Follow that with a couple scoops of Purina Large Breed Formula, and you’ve got a meal fit for a king. It doesn’t matter to ol’ Dutchie that I always keep out a bowl of fresh icy water—some days he simply prefers eau de toilette.

You see, dogs are tougher than we doting owners think. Dutch’s predecessor Sammy, a pure white German shepherd (Sam Shepard, get it?) was just about indestructible. He was the size of a palomino. When we inherited him from my parents, he weighed 130 pounds. If you’re a woman, that means you’re a size ten. The remarkable thing is that when we acquired him, he had only three legs, having lost his right rear in a high-speed car chase. He caught the car but couldn’t quite drag it back home. If his prey had been a Mini Cooper, I think he could have done it. My folks drove him 120 miles to the U of M Small Animal Hospital right after the accident for the surgery. He never whimpered. The vets had to amputate his leg at the hip, so we never knew what his total weight would have been.

Even as a tripod, Sammy pulled at his leash like a musk ox. It was a test of endurance to walk him from my mansion near the 35W sound wall to Minnehaha Creek. He was always trying to leap into traffic, jaws snapping eagerly, his tiny walnut brain rattling around in his skull like a bean in a maraca. If he’d knocked the other hind leg off, I’d have had to get him wheels, but I doubt even that would have slowed him down. With his spunk, he would have been perfect for a Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movie. A Wheel for Sammy, starring JoBeth Williams. With Verne Troyer as Sammy.

Sammy never would have slept in a velour-covered bed. When we imagine that dogs appreciate human luxuries, we’re deeply misunderstanding the nature of a dog. Dogs may consent to being dressed in little sequined halter tops and pants with a tail hole, but they’re just humoring us because we feed them and throw them the slobber-soaked tennis ball. But there are certain lines that aren’t meant to be crossed. Dogs have their idea of a good time, and we have ours. If you don’t believe me, liven up your friends’ next cocktail party by licking food off every plate that you can and scouring your rear end across the Persian carpet. Then get back to me.