Portrait by Venture Photography, Greenwich, CT
The idea of the “dog days” of August started with the Romans blaming Sirius, the brightest star in Canis Major (large dog), for hot, sticky weather and sacrificing a brown dog to appease it. Silly Romans.
For a July issue long ago, we did a story with Dick Cryer and his Golden Retriever on the cover. Our distributor said it would never sell. Something about dogs felt sweaty in the summer. But it sold big time. Silly man.
Anyway, my first dog was Charlie—formally, Penny’s Pride of Riverside—who grew to be a big handsome dark-red fellow with a huge head and chest.
We got him from Torchie Flinn, a nationally known breeder, who taught my duck-hunting husband how to make him a proper retriever. First, at her house by the reservoir, she lined up some old Goldens for an audience. Then, into the water she tossed a mallard, whose wings were tied down, and sent a young bitch to bring it to hand. When Charlie’s turn came, he dashed in, got pecked on the nose and backed away, barking. So, Torchie sent the female in again until Charlie, properly humbled, did it right.
He became a brilliant hunting dog.
Charlie was popular with people of all sizes. We had to put a hook-and-eye on the nursery door, because three-year-old Jonathan would climb out of bed at night to take his dog for a walk. One morning, the pair took off again, and we had neighbors on bikes shouting their names until our son appeared sobbing. “I was lost in the ferns!” Charlie could hear us calling but had never left his little master’s side.
Charlie was a lifeguard. When we swam off Willowmere dock, he’d jump into the water, put his big paws on our shoulders and push us back to shore. Once, he swam so far after our Sunfish that we had to pull the 90-pound dog into the cockpit. No easy feat.
Charlie was a therapist. Our Down Syndrome nephew visiting from Cleveland was terrified of dogs but ended up kissing him goodbye—on the lips. We had to explain that a good ear scratch was an ample show of affection.
Charlie was a mother of sorts. He’d gently carry our kittens around in his mouth until they grew too heavy to hold.
Charlie could be mischievous. While the Burkes were away, they had a house fire. We took some of the kids and the sitter to our house, where a fireman interviewed her, leaving his boots on the doorstep. Except when he left, he found only one. Charlie had hidden the other in the bushes.
Then came the day I was sick in bed and got a call from the Greenwich Pound to come pick up my dog, who had been reported running through Ida Brace’s garden. Furious, I retrieved my Retriever and then called her. “Ida, if you ever have my dog arrested again, you’ll never be invited to another party at our house!” (She loved parties.) “Oh, I never would’ve called the police if I’d known it was Charlie,” she said. Within hours, McArdle’s delivered a huge bunch of gladiolas.
But Charlie was a hero, too. One night, we were robbed while Jack and I were on vacation. Unwittingly, the burglars had let Charlie out, and he barked on Bunny Nadel’s kitchen stoop next door until she put on a bathrobe and followed him home. The sitter found them standing at the front door, while the crooks escaped out the back.
In the Sixties, there were very few Goldens in town. Now there are many—rarely trained to be working dogs, which they love—plus lots of designer dogs like Pugles, Cockapoos, Schnoodles, Chorkies and Pomskys. Even Goldendoodles. Hmmm.
In any case, our Charlie had it all. We just called him Charlie, but Jack’s mother called him “a noble beast.”