The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Once upon a time there lived a dog named Harley. Harley resided at a lovely cobblestone home on a wooded court. To the outsider, Harley resembled a show dog. His features were perfectly appointed and his coat was always milky white and soft. But to the insider, we knew better.

Harley had more lives than I can count on one hand. I have witnessed him jump out of the window in a car exceeding 50 miles per hour, eat freshly fertilized grass and burn off all his paws on a freshly tarred road. Yet, like a keen, embattled soldier, this dog survived. Not only did he survive, he flourished. He lived each day like it was his last and set out each morning on a new destructive mission.

My family got Harley when I was 10 years old. We picked him up at the Wisconsin state line where he was curled up in his bed in an angelic ball. Carefully transporting him into our car, Harley greeted my sister by peeing on her 20 minutes into the ride back home. I guess this was his warning sign to us. This was only the beginning...first my sister's pants and then the whole house. Pure annihilation.

When my parents were researching what dog to get, they thought the Bichon seemed like a reasonable choice. Hypo-allergenic, fluffy, small and sweet.

Either they switched Harley at birth or he was abducted by aliens at some point, because this was not the dog that fit the aforementioned description.

Harley spent 17 joyous years giving my poor father absolute hell. First his dog, then his daughters. My dad just couldn't win.

Everyday a different neighbor would call and tell us that they either found Harley cleaning out their grease pan or dumpster diving in their garage. Harley would go house to house like a traveling garbage collector, taking in his favorite pork and beans and bacon at his leisure.

Harley had even traveled miles when he smelled a giant barbecue going on in a neighboring subdivision. This is not a joke...this dog could literally sniff out a grill in the next county.

Many of my friends have been witness to Harley's antics. When my good friend Patty came to visit me, Harley was in a full body cast from his paw-burning, raw food eating, spastic car jumping episodes. On top of that, the only visible part on him was his eyes which were completely swelled shut from allergies.

The natural response would be to pity him. But to know him is definitely not to pity him. He loved his life. He lived on the edge. I grew up loving and idolizing him despite his craziness.

This "Harley experience" has made me a much wiser dog lover. People go into shelters or others homes expecting dogs to behave much like their model citizen owners. But the truth is that no dog is perfect. In fact, most are as far from perfection as you can get. Sometimes it does have to do with their upbringing or training, but for the most part dogs are just quirky. Some have anxiety, some are mischevious and others are paranoid. And if you're really lucky, they're all three combined.

My family and I laugh now thinking of Harley and revisit stories that never cease to amaze us. Although my dad smiles when he talks about chasing Harley done Golf Hills Drive, I can still remember the grimace and teeth clenching that went on that day and many others. But when he left this world, I can't remember a day my parents were any sadder.

So if your dog is driving you insane, take solace in the fact that you probably couldn't have had a more trying dog than Harley. Laugh at their craziness and appreciate every moment with them because even 17 years wasn't enough.