The Saga of Taco Marv

Because of allergies in the family, I didn't grow up with furry pets. For a time I had a boa constrictor named BC. It was an okay pet - huggy and pleasantly cool on hot summer days, but it was slow and never really wanted to play. After I got married, I gave BC to my former high school science teacher and, a short time later, my former pet found a way to slither out of his cage in the school's biology lab and he went missing for a couple of months. When they finally found him curled up in a drawer, he was hungry, but otherwise no worse for wear. Boa constrictors don't demand a lot of attention.

My current pet, Marv the dog, is different. If I sit too long at my desk, he comes over and puts his head on my lap and reminds me that it's time to get out and toss the tennis ball for a while. If I get up before daylight, he insists that we immediately go outside to see how the weather is, if there are any foxes to play with, or raccoons or ghosts to chase by moonlight.

My wife Susan (I got the marriage thing right on the second try) found Marv at the local animal shelter shortly after we moved to San Juan Island. I was out of the country at the time and had warned her to stay away from the shelter until I got back, though I didn't expect that she would. Growing up, she'd never been without a dog and one of the traumas of our whirlwind courtship was that she had to give custody of her jointly-owned, totally undisciplined Airedale to her ex-boyfriend when she accepted my proposal.

The puppy she found at the shelter was a black Lab with paws the size of saucers. His nom de shelter was “Sarge," but the name didn't seem to fit. He got his new name when Susan misread a sign in a TV commercial for “TACOMA  RVs.” Before Susan realized it was an advertisement for recreational vehicles, she'd decided that Taco Marv's was a lousy name for a Mexican restaurant, but Taco Marv was the perfect name for a puppy.

She visited Marv daily while I was 12 time zones away and, in emails and phone calls, she gave me lengthy accounts of their walks and the cute things he'd done. “If you decide you don't like him, we don't have to adopt him,” she'd say in a voice that sounded like I might as well figure on spending the rest of the winter in Armenia if I didn't want a puppy in the house when I came home.

Of course, as soon as he moved in with us he started chewing up everything he could get his teeth on, which I thought was unconscionable. Susan doesn't believe in disciplining pets, but we did enroll, as a family, in an obedience class led by an inexperienced but well-meaning teacher. (It's a small island.)

Despite our ineptitude, Marv loved us in the unbounded way dogs do, and he is smart enough to figure out what we want him to do most of the time. Despite being big, strong and alpha, he is gentle and has a good heart. Every now and then he'll pick up an injured bird in his soft mouth and bring it to us with a look in his eyes that says he hopes we can fix it.

Last summer, Marv and I were walking in our woods when we spotted a deer curled up on the ground. When deer run, Marv usually runs with them, but this one just sat and looked at us. Marv walked over to the doe until they were nose to nose, and looked at her as if to ask what was wrong. Then he looked over his shoulder at me as if to ask if I could help. Apparently the doe had been hit by a car and it had broken her shoulder. (I called the angels over at Wolf Hollow, our local wildlife rescue center, to come check her out.)

For much of the year at this latitude, it is dark when we get up, and dark when we come home from work. We're miles from the nearest street light, so unless there is snow on the ground, on moonless winter mornings the darkness feels dense enough to swim in, and it simply absorbs our shiny black dog as soon as we step outside. It's always a bit of a surprise when his wet nose suddenly brushes my hand while we are walking, or his pale glow collar appears out of the darkness and bounces toward us – as if it was being worn by an invisible dog.

I've never been a dog person; probably never will be, but Marv's not really a dog. He's just part of the household – the mischievous part that barks at people who wear hats and likes to roll in something smelly before we have guests over for dinner. The one that walks right behind our granddaughter, picking up the stray Cheerios and cheese snacks that cover the floor whenever she's around, and the one that likes to go outside at 5:00 A.M. to see what kind of day God is preparing for us.

Marv just came over and laid his big, warm head on my lap. I guess I've been sitting too long. Or maybe he just thinks the word count on this is a little high for a column about a pet.