Good food for good dogs (RIP Hal)

Why own a pet? A passage in Boswell’s "Life of Johnson" suggests one reason.

“This reminds me of the ludicrous account which he gave Mr. Langton, of the despicable state of a young Gentleman of good family. ‘Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.’ And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favourite cat, and said, ‘But Hodge shan't be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.’”

The world is a cruel place. There’s so much human suffering that there’s little compassion left over for lesser creatures. Taking in an animal and caring for it is a small way of mitigating the cruelty. This one, at least, will avoid a bullet in the brain.

What’s appealing about cats is their utter lack of gratitude for your charity. In fact, they often seem to think they have rescued you. They will let you feed them, and scratch them, and clean their litter boxes; occasionally they’ll deign to sit on your chest as you try to go to sleep. But spare them your undignified emotional displays.

This state of affairs suited me well for years. But then I married and had a few kids, and suddenly there was talk of a dog. Enter Hal: a purebred English bulldog rejected by the breeder, too ugly and misshapen to show. We got him for the price of his vaccinations. Naturally, his care and feeding fell to the member of the household least disposed to like him. 'Twas ever thus with dads and “family” dogs.

I walked him every morning. We could usually cover his daily half-mile in 30 minutes, depending on how often he decided to stop, planting his feet so that he was as immovable as a fire hydrant. He preferred riding in the minivan to walking; a pleasant enough travel companion if you discount the severe flatulence. He was happy dozing off on the couch with us during movie nights, although the volume of his snoring usually necessitated subtitles. He had a habit of jumping up on beds and urinating on them. We sent him to a trainer, who returned our money after a week. He adored being petted and would gently swat you with his paw if you stopped. (Extended petting would leave your hands black and grimy, as weekly grooming was no match for Hal’s habit of rolling around in our gravel driveway.) He was very good with our children and all children.

When Hal died last week at 8 years old, euthanized after a catastrophic worsening of chronic respiratory problems (and not 12 hours after my wife paid a few thousand dollars in a last-ditch attempt to stabilize him), I felt the wistful sadness one feels at any reminder of the passage of time: my son was a cuddly, chaotic 2 when we got Hal; how different from the athletic pre-adolescent who stoically held back tears when told the news. But I was also surprised to feel the faintest stirring of something else. Was it … grief? “Dogs don’t have souls,” I reminded myself, to no avail. During my time with Hal I’d often complained that he was the last thing our family needed – the extra mess, the extra commotion, the extra worry, in a house already well supplied with each. I thought my heart was at full capacity, but now that he’s gone, I realize he somehow waddled in there and stretched it out without me realizing it. It may be some time before it assumes its previous shape.

I can’t promise this loss will lead me to lavish more affection on our remaining dog, Angus, a former runt now the size of a miniature horse. But I have resolved to make some changes in his diet. “When did this stuff get so complicated?” I often wonder during my frequent trips to the Alpo aisle. Handsome packaging touts a dizzying array of trendy preparations, each backed by “science”: raw (no clear benefit, could be dangerous), grain-free (same), organic (meaningless), vegan (what?), sustainable (who cares?).

Pet food labeling can be insultingly deceptive – see a helpful guide to deciphering it here. If my dog is going to eat us out of house and home, at least let my money go to a brand that doesn’t make me feel like a sucker.

Sundays dog food is reassuringly old-school. Simply labeled boxes containing air-dried, jerky-like slivers in one of three varieties: chicken, beef, or turkey. The idea here is to provide the benefits of “fresh” food without the storage or preparation hassle: you can basically treat it like kibble. Cleveland-based Sundays was founded by a veterinarian and clearly caters to dog obsessives: canine nutrition, well-being, and longevity are the priorities. The downsides to this are cloying references to dogs and “their hoomans” and an overall “fur-baby” conception of pet ownership.

Old Guard Pet Co. has a less sentimental affection for man’s best friend. Founder Maggie Gooding has a Ph.D. in animal nutrition and spent fourteen years in R&D at big pet food companies, where she observed the industry’s gradual infatuation with buzzy, unproven formulations and irrelevant social justice initiatives. Old Guard’s three varieties of dry food seek to get back to basics (the website features extensive but straightforward discussion of why the food contains what it does), while flaunting an unabashed patriotism and slight bias for working dogs.

Hal did not “work,” unless you count his eagerness to eat the rat entrails our cats regularly deposit on the carpet. But he was still a team player. America’s Vet Dogs is a well-managed, reputable charity that trains and places service dogs for veterans, active-duty military, and first responders. I’ve just made a modest donation. I can’t think of a better tribute to a good dog.