Remy

We love our pets. We primp and pamper them, and we grieve when we lose them. If you don’t understand how an adopted child can be loved as well as our own begotten, a dog in the home will teach you that love is far more important than genetics.

A dog is as much a part of a family as a child is. That’s not to claim moral equivalency between a boy and a dog, or to suggest a dog possesses a soul. Almost anyone who assigns equal moral value to an animal and a human can be shown to be inconsistent in that belief, but that doesn’t matter when it comes to loving dogs.

Right now, my best friend in the world is a long, low, and little canine named Remy. People ask if that’s short for Remington. Or Rembrandt. Neither. Try “Remarkable.”

Thanks to a diet almost free from table scraps, this wiener dog has been a constant 12 pounds from youth to her senior years. As for treats, I learned long ago that she doesn’t know whether a hand-fed treat is big or small. The only important thing is that she gets it. The rule is a petite treat for a petite dog. A pill with peanut butter makes her day, which brings me to another rule — fish oil along with a glucosamine tablet every morning. Both contribute to joint health, and the fish oil gives her a soft, pet-able coat. Good for her heart, too. These rules limit her weight, preserve her girlish figure, and keep her moving. Mobility is good for all of us, young or old.

Old age has been kind to Remy, although cataracts almost totally block her vision and her remaining teeth aren’t good. Having taken 17 trips around the sun, she’s equivalent to the ripe old age of 81. (The current formula is 10.5 dog years per human year for the first two years, then four dog years per human year for each year after).

Remy thinks she’s a princess, even without being overfed and with only one small treat per day, but she has learned to be a patient princess, willing to live by my unpredictable schedule.

My first hound was a beagle named Mitzie, a rabbit hound that also excelled in chasing pheasants. We lived in Scandia on Blueberry Hill, and when my mother had more than enough high winds and waist-deep snow, we moved to town. My parents planned to let some other rabbit hunter own Mitzie. To prevent that, I cried my eyes out, hiding from Mom and Dad the fact that my eyes remained mostly dry. Even if my tears were few and faked, my distress was real and my rabbit hunting career would continue through high school.

Hounds should win the Westminster Kennel Club Show every year. Why don’t they? Maybe because hounds — the near-perfect descendent of the canis lupus we humans began domesticating long, long ago — are out of their element in urban New York. There, it’s fashionable to own a designer dog, an accessory to a life rather than essential to a lifestyle..

Me? I like houndy traits, like the floppy ears. These cutest possible ears become wings when a hound is running. Let a hound run. Sometimes that’s all the dog needs.

I like the endless energy. Although all 12 of Remy’s pounds wake up stiff and sore these days, she still has enough spunk to run to the top of the steps when it’s bedtime.

I like the errorless nose. When I let Remy out in the morning and her nostrils pick up the scent of a critter that passed by during the night, she forgets what she’s supposed to be doing.

I like the readiness to chase. Remy was readier to chase at 7 than she is at 17. With her blindness, any chase might be a death chase. She never learned when to quit.

I love the voice. A hound’s soulful howl captivates me. She ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog, but a hound is a dog that sings the blues.

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When “The Everyday Hunter” isn’t hunting, he’s thinking about hunting, talking about hunting, dreaming about hunting, writing about hunting, or wishing he were hunting. If you want to tell Steve exactly where your favorite hunting spot is, contact him through his website, www.EverydayHunter.com. He writes for top outdoor magazines, and won the 2015, 2018, and 2023 national “Pinnacle Award” for outdoor writing.