“What do you mean, he STILL has the dogs?”
That’s what my wife’s friend asked her a few months after we were married. When I’d returned to New York a year earlier after years out west, it was to meet my mate. I’d been accompanied by a pair of Pembroke Welsh Corgi dogs, Benny and Mollie, sparkling with the breed’s trademark charisma. These dogs, I was sure, would be my secret weapon in accomplishing my mission. All I’d need do was put the two cuties on a brace lead, walk into Central Park, and collect phone numbers from young ladies to whom the dogs’ immense charms, if not my own, would be immediately apparent.
The unanticipated fly in the ointment was that the woman I fell in love with was not in love with dogs. She was always gracious about the dogs, both before and after the wedding (“Of course you can keep the dogs on the bed at night. Your choice: them or me. It’s entirely up to you.”), and always helped me tend her new step-dogs as though they were her own. But they had not been, to my chagrin, a selling point in my proposal of marriage.
Hence her friend’s surprise to learn that the dogs had survived the wedding, honeymoon, and first months of marriage. They would continue to live the rest of their lives with us (and, eventually, our three children). But when the second of the two Corgis passed away, almost a decade later, my wife made it clear that the budget for the next family vacation would not need to include a line-item for a boarding kennel or dog sitter.
Fair enough. It was my wife’s turn to enjoy the spontaneity not possible when a canine companion is waiting at home – cross-legged, one hopes – for a walk. And she did. Meantime, I made do with a borderline-unnatural interest in our friends’ dogs. My pace would slacken beside a dog park. My trips to the mall would include a stroll through the pet supply store, where I’d finger the dog leads and chew toys longingly.
After nearly a decade dogless, my wife asked me one day – in what she continually and good-naturedly refers to as the most pronounced “what-was-I-thinking?” moment of her life – if I wanted another dog. “Well, yes,” I answered before she could suggest tabling the question. I guess it was my turn, again. I’d always had good luck with herding/working dogs and admired their intelligence and character; in addition to the Corgis, I’d owned a German Shepherd Dog and a Bouvier des Flandres. So it would be from one of those groups, but a breed that would provide a new experience. And there were family requests to consider if the dog and I were not to land immediately, and permanently, in the dog house. Not big, not small. Not aggressive, not timid. Not a shedder.
That’s how – after scouring dog catalogs and the Internet – I ended up with a breed I’d never heard of before: a Canaan Dog, as in “the land of… .” As an author, I naturally love stories, and this breed has a good one: Originally used as herding dogs by the Israelite shepherds in ancient Israel, then called Canaan, the dogs were abandoned when the Romans enslaved and exiled the Jews. The dogs quickly went feral and remained so for 2,000 years, until returning Jews in the middle of the last century rediscovered and re-domesticated the breed.
About a dozen breeders in the U.S. devote themselves to Canaan Dogs, and I found one of them a few hours away from me. We struck up an acquaintanceship and I waited – where else? – on the wait list. A few months later she emailed me a photo of what looked like gerbils: days-old Canaan Dogs, some all-white, some all-black, and one white with irregularly shaped brindle-colored patches – and the face of a Corgi!
“Oh, Dad, not the cow! Don’t get the cow!” my kids pleaded. Even without that encouragement, “the cow” was the one on which my heart was instantly set. Ten weeks later, the breeder drove up with the dog we’d named Roeé, Hebrew for “my shepherd.” At that age and size (eight pounds), with her pointed ears and curled-up tail, she looked and moved more like a cat than a dog. Now, two years later, all 35 pounds of her are undeniably canine. She’s not too big or small, not too aggressive or timid. But boy does she shed like an elm in autumn. Well, I guess two out of three ain’t bad.
Roeé has never met a squirrel that didn’t justify her setting a land-speed record, nor one that she’s actually caught – not that she takes that as cause for discouragement. She’s never met a person she didn’t love, nor one that could resist the come-hither glance she gives with her great brown eyes. She’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever seen in her species and she knows all her commands, but insists upon giving each one a good, long think before obeying. She’s content to curl up and doze off in my office as I write this and she’ll be happy to accompany me on our daily walk across the field when I’m done.
Hey, Roeé, ready for a walk? I thought so.
Mark Levenson is the author of The Hidden Saint (Level Best Books, 2022), a novel of Jewish fantasy. He blogs at www.marklevensonbooks.com.
