A New Respect for the Foo-Foo Dog

While lying in the grass of the Public Garden this weekend, I witnessed an event that both surprised and forever changed my opinion of knee-high, well-groomed canines. Ben and I had been lulled into a pseudo-sleep by the 80-degree weather and the mediocre performance of a street keyboard player. When I heard the familiar jingling of a dog collar, I – naturally – looked up.


Scurrying along the cement path was a white, fluffy, Bichon Frise, taking ten steps to every one taken by the middle-aged woman walking him. The woman's interest in the outing was clearly far less than her fluffy companion’s; she read a paperback as the small marshmallow dog, whom she called Winston, tugged at his leash, tail wagging furiously.


I have an ever-changing opinion on small, mostly indoor, and – frankly – foo-foo dogs. I think they're cute and serve as loyal companions, but I generally write them off as Louis Vutton purse-sized accessories. Winston, however, was a lion among puppies.


As he crossed the grassy knoll in front of me, Winston's hundred-mile-an-hour paced abruptly halted. He froze, front paw raised, black beady eyes staring intently. Ahead of him, a grey squirrel sniffed its way along the grass. The woman stopped, rolled her eyes, and went back to her romance novel.


Winston crouched. When the prey (aka: killer squirrel) looked away, he crept forward, but remained motionless when the vermin raised its head. He was the stealthiest marshmallow I have ever seen. His cover was almost compromised every time the not-so-stealthy woman moved forward or turned the page, but she was still holding his leash so he had no choice but to deal with the circumstances.


Finally, after ten suspenseful minutes of patient stalking, Winston was spotted. As the enemy broke for the nearest tree, he knew this would be his only shot. Apparently, the woman knew it too because as Winston took off full speed toward his prey, she instinctively released his leash. Winston raced across the grass, wind in his face, the scent of squirrel in his nose, and his leash trailing along helplessly behind him.


Despite his valiant, brave, and skilled efforts, the vermin scrambled up the tree before Winston could get reach it. The white knight sat at the base of the trunk, staring upward, until the woman walked over, picked up his leash, and the two passively continued on.


"He hasn't caught one yet," the woman said, returning once again to her book. She hadn't walked more than three steps before Winston crouched, the undaunted predator on the prowl once again.