missing
Dynasty
shoulder pads. I decided I would take a peek inside our medicine cabinet to try and discover what wonderful medication my father was using to poison his wife’s mind. I didn’t know how it was happening, but my dog-resistant mum appeared to be succumbing to the inevitable power of the dog-loving DNA I had glimpsed from time to time when she was around Patch.
Twenty-four hours passed and no one had come forward toclaim a little black dog. I knew this not from my father, but from my mother, who quickly gained notoriety with the kennel staff at the pound for her persistent and anxious phone calls inquiring after the puppy who got her head stuck in the school railings. They should have waited a full week to make sure there wasn’t someone out there hunting for a lost Lab mix, but after five days of my mother’s badgering, they could stand it no more. The lost puppy was signed over to my mum and rode to her new home content on Mum’s lap as my father drove, a huge grin plastered on his face.
My father named her Bess after a famous black horse, Black Bess, the trusty steed of one Dick Turpin, arguably the most notorious highwayman in English folklore. Mother had been correct about her breed after all: black Labrador with a hint of something else, a dash of hound, a smidgen of terrier.
These days, I could have swabbed a little DNA from the inside of Bess’s cheek, submitted it to a laboratory, and discovered with roughly 90 percent accuracy which different breeds contributed to her genetic mix. I have read that this knowledge can give an owner valuable insight into a dog’s behavior or predisposition to certain diseases and anomalies but to be honest, most of the owners I know who have forked over the cash for this simple test do so out of curiosity, to discover their pet’s ancestry.
On only one occasion have I been truly impressed by the power of this genetic tool. A client visited me with what appeared to be a pit bull that had a lameness problem. The dog was fantastic, your typical friendly, rough-and-tumble “pitty” who would not hurt a fly, let alone a human, let alone a child’s face.
“Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for pit bulls,” said the owner. “Many of the households in the neighborhood have small childrenand a number of the parents got together to complain about my dog, saying the breed couldn’t be trusted, that it was only a matter of time before one of their kids was attacked.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You could say that about any dog in the wrong hands.”
“Yeah,” said the owner, “I’m telling you, if you put her in a ring with a rabbit my money would be on the rabbit! But I didn’t want them coming back at me, so I decided to try something I wouldn’t have ordinarily considered—genetically testing my dog to discover what she’s made of. And here’s the thing. She may look like a pit bull and she may act like a pit bull, but according to her DNA test she’s actually a cross between a mastiff and, of all things, a Dalmation. You should have seen the neighbors’ faces when I showed them the official report.”
But I digress, because back then, all you had to do was trust the experience of your veterinarian, and as far as Ryan James could tell, Bess was simply a Lab mix, the “mix” component open to interpretation.
“One good thing going for a Heinz fifty-seven,” James would later inform me, “is the benefit of hybrid vigor.”
“Hopefully,” said James, “Bess will have all the good breed traits and dodge all the bad. Part of the fun of having a mix is not knowing exactly what you’re going to get.”
Where there was ambiguity when it came to heritage, nothing was more indisputable than the puddles of urine and tiny poops abandoned in bizarre locations and the lost sleep due to nocturnal puppy whimpering. By the time my mushy, sleep-deprived brain was remembering not to walk around the house in bare feet, it was time for Mum and
Dynasty
shoulder pads. I decided I would take a peek inside our medicine cabinet to try and discover what wonderful medication my father was using to poison his wife’s mind. I didn’t know how it was happening, but my dog-resistant mum appeared to be succumbing to the inevitable power of the dog-loving DNA I had glimpsed from time to time when she was around Patch.
Twenty-four hours passed and no one had come forward toclaim a little black dog. I knew this not from my father, but from my mother, who quickly gained notoriety with the kennel staff at the pound for her persistent and anxious phone calls inquiring after the puppy who got her head stuck in the school railings. They should have waited a full week to make sure there wasn’t someone out there hunting for a lost Lab mix, but after five days of my mother’s badgering, they could stand it no more. The lost puppy was signed over to my mum and rode to her new home content on Mum’s lap as my father drove, a huge grin plastered on his face.
My father named her Bess after a famous black horse, Black Bess, the trusty steed of one Dick Turpin, arguably the most notorious highwayman in English folklore. Mother had been correct about her breed after all: black Labrador with a hint of something else, a dash of hound, a smidgen of terrier.
These days, I could have swabbed a little DNA from the inside of Bess’s cheek, submitted it to a laboratory, and discovered with roughly 90 percent accuracy which different breeds contributed to her genetic mix. I have read that this knowledge can give an owner valuable insight into a dog’s behavior or predisposition to certain diseases and anomalies but to be honest, most of the owners I know who have forked over the cash for this simple test do so out of curiosity, to discover their pet’s ancestry.
On only one occasion have I been truly impressed by the power of this genetic tool. A client visited me with what appeared to be a pit bull that had a lameness problem. The dog was fantastic, your typical friendly, rough-and-tumble “pitty” who would not hurt a fly, let alone a human, let alone a child’s face.
“Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for pit bulls,” said the owner. “Many of the households in the neighborhood have small childrenand a number of the parents got together to complain about my dog, saying the breed couldn’t be trusted, that it was only a matter of time before one of their kids was attacked.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You could say that about any dog in the wrong hands.”
“Yeah,” said the owner, “I’m telling you, if you put her in a ring with a rabbit my money would be on the rabbit! But I didn’t want them coming back at me, so I decided to try something I wouldn’t have ordinarily considered—genetically testing my dog to discover what she’s made of. And here’s the thing. She may look like a pit bull and she may act like a pit bull, but according to her DNA test she’s actually a cross between a mastiff and, of all things, a Dalmation. You should have seen the neighbors’ faces when I showed them the official report.”
But I digress, because back then, all you had to do was trust the experience of your veterinarian, and as far as Ryan James could tell, Bess was simply a Lab mix, the “mix” component open to interpretation.
“One good thing going for a Heinz fifty-seven,” James would later inform me, “is the benefit of hybrid vigor.”
“Hopefully,” said James, “Bess will have all the good breed traits and dodge all the bad. Part of the fun of having a mix is not knowing exactly what you’re going to get.”
Where there was ambiguity when it came to heritage, nothing was more indisputable than the puddles of urine and tiny poops abandoned in bizarre locations and the lost sleep due to nocturnal puppy whimpering. By the time my mushy, sleep-deprived brain was remembering not to walk around the house in bare feet, it was time for Mum and
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