From the Garret: Archives

Why my dog is keeping me off the bestseller lists

Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World's Worst Dog has been on the bestseller lists for umpteen weeks. My favorite dog book A Dog Year, which tells the story of a neurotic Border collie, had such fabulous sales that its author John Katz is still writing canine chronicles. I have a dog so why can't I write a bestseller about him?

Because I have the terrible misfortune of having a good dog. No one wants to read about our golden retriever Max because he is almost perfect.

For starters, Max was a bargain: we adopted him from our local animal shelter. Our only expenses were his vaccinations and neutering. We also got the benefit of feeling the virtuous glow of taking in a homeless animal.

We trained him in five minutes flat because he will do anything for food. Sit, heel, and stay (well, that was a bit troublesome if he saw the food too soon) were all a cinch for Max as long as there was a doggie treat to be had.

Need to give him a pill? No problem. Just drop it on the floor and he'll scarf it up before you can say, "Whoops!" I found this out as I was peeling the foil off Max's heartworm pill prior to carefully burying it in a bowl of canned dog food. The pill popped out of the foil unexpectedly and I never had to buy canned dog food again.

Max saved our daughter's life. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration but he might have. Max was sitting quietly beside me while my five-year-old ran around in a big open field when suddenly a strange dog came out of nowhere racing straight toward her. Max took off like a shot and made it very clear to that stray dog that he had better leave now, giving me time to scoop up my child.

If Max does something wrong, which is rare but does happen, he goes straight into the powder room all by himself because that's where we always put him as punishment. He tends to do this right as we walk in from being away for a few hours and then we have to scour the house to figure out what he's guilty of. Sometimes we find the crime and sometimes we don't.

His greatest virtue is also his only vice: he's a chow hound. Once I baked two layers of cake for my son's birthday and left them cooling on the (very high) kitchen counter while I picked up the children from school. When I returned half of each layer had disappeared. Max went to the powder room. One Christmas, my parents sent me a wrapped gift which I put under the tree. It turned out to be a box of Godiva chocolates as we discovered only after Max ripped open the box and devoured the contents. He was so sick that we didn't have the heart to put him in the powder room.

On the other hand, he only chews on his own tennis balls and never on anyone's shoes or stuffed animals. He rarely barks and then only with glee that he's going for a walk. He doesn't jump on people; he's always friendly; he loves us without reservation; he's warm and fuzzy and enjoys every moment of his life. In short, he's brought more joy to our family than any number of bestselling books ever could.