For a twelve year period we owned an Irish wolfhound.  Owned is a misnomer of course, as all who have lived with pets can testify.  My experience has been animals believe they are equals and behave accordingly.  An ancient breed, wolfhounds are gentle, proud, stoic, and confident of their standing.  Our Tiggy or Tig, as we called her, embodied those characteristics and she loved play.

I was attending college—electrical engineering—and worked to pay my way.  This effort required round the clock attention, at least for me.  The intensive schedule was fatiguing, but allowed for late night excursions.  Tig loved stretching her legs and I would take her for runs in the early morning hours.  With no leash to restrain, she would run as fast as legs were able.  She resembled a thoroughbred in full stride at Derby.  I had no chance of keeping pace and she was perpetually ahead of my position.  When we encountered a cross road she would guess on my choice of direction.  I seldom rewarded her prediction, not out of meanness, but because she so loved to double back, fly by, and say with pant, “you still have no chance.”  In winter, snow flew under paw.  In summer cool green softened our way.

During the warm months we encountered a variety of nocturnal creatures.  Raccoon, possum, fox, and skunk.  Tig would engage all with similar vigor.  Her intent was play.  Their intent was survival.  Though she was excited to make new friends, with stern voice I generally persuaded her to avoid bite and blood, but skunk was different.  Black and white and fond of deep grass, there was no exposed fang, no snarl, but in their stead, an odd dance would ensue.  If I were dog looking for playmate the display would look promising, unfortunately, time and again, an explosion of chemical filled the air taking away breath and leaving behind potent aroma on dog’s fur.  This scene replayed itself with regularity and led to many dark-of-night hose downs.  Era was my preference in soap as it broke down protein and seemed to best remove offensive odor.  Cursing while I scrubbed I would explain to Tig that skunk and dog did not pair well.  My words did little to stop her enthusiastic efforts to make new Pepé Le Pew friends.

On one particular late summer evening, when trying to find a new companion, she was blasted yet again.  She furiously rubbed irritated snout on dewy field to quell burn, but it did little.  Finally, pain taught that these furry beasts would never take to her overtures.  From then on, she heeded my calls when we encountered skunk on our late night runs.

As year added year, life’s demands occupied me thoroughly and Tig’s joints prevented her from running as she was once able.  Eventually my faithful K-9 friend succumbed and made way to heaven.  As man is prone to do, I look back and remember those days with fondness and then look forward to rendezvous when again we can run with abandon, and who knows, maybe St. Peter has explained to dog and skunk alike that each can play without fear of the other.