An early winter, an old Mocha, and the next great K-9, er, canine
By Rory Ryan
The Highland County Press
“Mocha, how would you like to become a K-9 dog?” I asked our black Labrador retriever, who’s about 120 years old by a comparable human age count. (Yes, I can comprehend the 7-to-1 math ratio. And yes, Mocha is 17.143857 years old. Give or take.)
“I’m already a canine,” Mocha answered. “By the way, toss another log or two on the fire. It’s cold outside and it’s gonna get colder. I saw that on the Pet Channel a little while ago.”
“What the heck is the Pet Channel?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Mocha replied.
“To break it down for you, it’s a television channel devoted to pets; dog-and-pony shows, mostly. Every once in a while, they put on a cat or three, but no one watches. Not even other cats. Unless a cat is chasing a squirrel up a tree. That’s funnier than dogs playing poker in Las Vegas. Just remember, the St. Bernard is a cheater.”
“We’re getting off track, here, Mocha. What I want to know is whether you’d like to be a K-9 unit. They’ve been in the news quite a bit, lately. They make headlines when they’re hired, when they’re retired, when they save someone from death’s door or when they find a meth lab.”
“Am I related to ‘meth Labs?’” Mocha asked with obviously feigned sincerity.
“Of course not. You’re a different kind of Lab. You’re a retriever Lab, with a slick black coat, widely used in North America as a gun dog for hunting or as a guide for a blind person. Or, in your particular circumstance, you’re a Lab that likes to spend as many as 23 hours of a cold winter’s day sleeping by a wood-burning stove in our basement. And by ‘our’ basement, I do not mean ‘your’ basement. Lord knows what you do with the other hour.”
“You never take me hunting,” Mocha replied.
“I can’t carry my gun, my wild game bag and you,” I told her. “You move at about the same pace as a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest – and that’s probably unfair to the one-legged man. Besides, you’re gun-shy and have been since the day you were brought to Adams County 17.143857 years ago and dropped off on our kitchen floor.”
“Well,” Mocha correctly pointed out, “I did see what happened to poor ol’ Pooh about ten year ago.”
“‘Ten year ago?’ Really? When did you start talking in an Appalachian dialect? For that matter, when did you start talking?”
“I’ve lived in Appalachia all my life,” Mocha said. “How else should I talk? And you’re just trying to change the subject, anyway. So what does one of these K-9 dogs really do?”
“A K-9 helps local law enforcement in many ways, from the war on drugs to search-and-rescue missions to areas of public service within the legal jurisdiction of the specific department. I could train you to be a K-9.”
“So that’s what this conversation is all about?” Mocha asked. “You want to teach me to do something that I am not the least bit interested in doing. Frankly, you’re barking up the wrong tree and dogwoods aren’t in bloom. (Sorry, but even us – we – canines like a little dog pun now and again. Just don’t step in it.) For the past 17.143857 years, I’ve been fairly content to have food, water and a warm place to sleep. Furthermore, I am already a K-9. A Canis familiaris if you please.”
“Pam, have you been letting Mocha watch ‘O, Brother Where Art Thou’ again? Please don’t encourage her. She’s talking like George Clooney again.”
“Hey, George, put another log on the fire, already,” Mocha barked in my general direction.
It’s going to be a long winter.
Rory Ryan is publisher and owner of The Highland County Press. He does not own any dogs, including Mocha.