The Real Deal
These days it seems if you want to sell a product, all you need to do is slap the image of a dog on it. So an authentic—historic, even—dog-inspired label, such as Pointer Brand, stands out from the pack.
The Pointer in the Pointer Brand logo isn’t some imaginary dog conjured by Madison Avenue types to capture hunters’ imaginations. He’s Carolina Bill, the favorite birddog of Landon Clayton King. Legend has it, Bill was “very intense” and “showed excellent style and character” on point—making him the perfect inspiration for a line of tough and durable working clothes.
King founded the L. C. King Manufacturing Company in Bristol, Tenn., in 1913. He reasoned that if he could raise championship birddogs, he could produce championship bib overalls, coveralls, carpenter jeans, hunting apparel and denim chore coats. It’s a leap but there’s no denying this classic, affordable outdoor wear is well-suited to dog-centric activities. The indigo shop apron, for example, is a perfect match for grooming sessions.
Pointer Brand is seriously old school. Having survived two floods and a fire, it still operates out of its original location, with great-grandson Jack King now in charge. The clothes are sold mostly in mom-and-pop shops—as well as in über hip specialty stores, including Hand-Eye Supply in Portland, Ore. They do have a website, but they still take phone orders by hand.
The best part of the website is Pointer Brand People, an online bulletin board with photos of customers sporting the denim, duck cloth and hickory-stripe apparel, frequently with their dogs. Customers who send in photos receive either a free Pointer Brand cap or T-shirt.
We’ve got the goods …
Mounted Custom Fishing Lure Boxes
Adirondack Pet Bed
Dog's Life: Lifestyle
Can a board game teach your kids about the animal rescue industry? Petsapalooza CEO Carianne Burnley designed Fur- Ever Home: The Animal Rescue Game to increase awareness of the challenges shelters face and dispel some myths about the animals who end up in rescue. Each player runs a shelter in Straytown, where they try to place cats and dogs in their “Fur-Ever Homes.”
Players face many of the same decisions and challenges real shelters deal with every day: hiring staff, fundraising, treating sick animals and overcrowding. Burnley says children who play the game are often surprised to learn that customers sometimes return the pets they’ve adopted. “It’s making children ask questions.”
Just like real shelters, Straytown shelters have a wide array of dogs and cats available. Although some pets are harder to adopt out because of their age, breed or behavior issues, there are plenty of puppies, kittens, purebreds and Canine Good Citizens. Burnley says, “I wanted to help people understand there are great dogs in rescue.”
For each game they sell, Petsapalooza is donating $5 to one of over 70 rescue organizations across the United States.
A new team takes the field.
We can hardly wait for that hallowed winter Sunday when, along with millions of other Americans, we crowd around our television and cheer as our favorites run, tackle and tumble toward a hard-won touchdown. During a break in the action, we may also flip the channel to the Super Bowl.
Animal Planet’s Puppy Bowl trotted onto the Discovery Channel’s Super Bowl Sunday lineup in 2004, offering three action-packed hours of outrageously adorable puppies frolicking on a miniature football field. Though it was originally added to the day’s broadcast schedule just for fun, it has become a record-setter.
“The idea was supposed to be ‘Who’s going to watch anything but the big game?’” says Melinda Toporoff, executive producer for Animal Planet. “It almost started as a joke, like the Yule log on your TV screen. But it’s turned into a cult hit.”
Last year, more than 8 million people tuned in, making Puppy Bowl IV the highest rated program in its series and Animal Planet’s top-rated adult-viewed telecast of the year. It’s hard to resist a screen full of lovable pups cavorting in a 10-by-19-foot stadium constructed in the studios of the Discovery Channel, Animal Planet’s parent company, in Silver Spring,Md. So what if they occasionally drop the ball—or any of the dozens of toys that litter the field? So what if they occasionally cause a foul —isn’t that what the referee and his cleaning products are for? And when the players need a nap, cue the Bissell Kitty Half-Time Show and its stage full of cuddly kittens beneath disco lights.
“We wanted to play up the whole concept of the spectacle that is the Super Bowl,” explains Rob Burk, executive producer for Discovery Studios. That includes drafting all types of athletes.
One of the few facts Toporoff and Burk would divulge about the monumental Puppy Bowl V, to be broadcast Sunday, February 1, is that all players will be from shelters in the Washington, D.C., area (many of the previous bowls’ contestants were from private homes). Adoptions, which have been encouraged throughout the series, will be a major theme this year.
Staffers worked with Petfinder.com to reach out to the shelter community for likely prospects. Forty-one puppies made the cut and packed the locker room (a production facility conference space) for the two-day filming early last October. As usual, humane association and shelter personnel were present.
“We kept them well fed and hydrated,” Toporoff said of the team members. “We want them to rest, but they’re pups and love to play.” And when they do, each move is narrated by Harry Kalas, famed broadcaster for the NFL and the Philadelphia Phillies.
The game is over too soon, but is frequently rebroadcast to the delight of fans, some of whom hold Puppy Bowl parties and blog about the experience. And who, this year more than ever, might be inspired to visit a shelter to find their own most valuable players.
Love Is a Dog exhibit
Artist Dan Adams packs a lot of dog energy and expressiveness into his compact oil paintings.
Dog's Life: Work of Dogs
Reader submitted photos
The mystery writer talks fictional and real-life rescue dogs.
With the help of her downstairs neighbor, Mr. Contreras, V.I. shares her life with two dogs: Peppy, a Golden Retriever, and Mitch, a half- Golden; each came to her via a case and each has a distinct personality, but both help her unwind from her complicated life. After a road trip promoting her book, Paretsky took time to tell us more about the dogs in her own life.
Bark: Why did you decide to add dogs to V.I.’s story? And why Goldens (or in Mitch’s case, a half-Golden)?
Sara Paretsky: I grew up not liking dogs, and then married into a family of insane dog-lovers. My husband and his three sons were in between dogs when we married and I thought we would stay that way, but the lobbying was intense. When English friends were looking for someone to baby-sit their Golden, Capo, while they went to the UK for a year, I agreed — I thought, One year, I can do this; by then, my stepsons will be leaving home and we’ll all be dog-free.
When we took on Capo, we didn’t know that she had already been in five different homes. She was the sweetest dog in the world, so why home number one gave her up, let alone homes two through five, I’ll never know — unless it was because she was on a mission from the Great Dog in the Sky to convert me.
Tim, our second son, is a great athlete, and Capo was seriously fat. He started running and swimming with her, and within two months, she was a sleek, bright-eyed animal. Tim was her best friend; she slept with him, waited for him to come home from work and basically left me alone, which was great with me. When our friends returned from England, they saw how much healthier she was with us, and how happy, and they let Tim and my husband keep her. I didn’t mind — I just ignored her. In those days I was a marketing manager and was gone most of the day, anyway.And then, two years later, Tim moved out. Capo was desolate. She curled up outside his bedroom door and wouldn’t move, except for brief trips outdoors to relieve herself. She stopped eating. I thought she would die. I still didn’t like dogs — I didn’t like touching them — but I couldn’t let her die, so every evening when I got home from work, I would curl up on the floor next to her with my arms around her. She didn’t know I didn’t enjoy this, she just felt comforted. And after three or four days, she started eating again. And then attached herself to me. When I was ill, she slept next to me, not leaving my side even to eat. When I went swimming, she herded me to shore where she could keep a closer eye on me. When she died at 15, I was inconsolable.
B: It was great that V.I. essentially rescued Peppy; what made you decide to introduce her that way?
SP: Good friends of mine had had a Golden named Peppy, and I used to make fun of them for their adoration of their dog. After Capo converted me, I was so ashamed that I had to give V.I. a rescued Golden named Peppy. And since we had sort of rescued Capo, I decided to introduce V.I.’s Peppy in the same way.
B: Do you feel that adding the dogs changed V. I., or the way she views the world?
SP: For V.I., having dogs in her life means she has to think much more about rooted personal relations than she did before. She has responsibilities that she has to think about every day, but she also has a source of comfort. One of the challenges for me as a writer is not to get bogged down in details, and I realize as I’m writing that I spend a lot of space on the details of how V.I. looks after her dogs.
B: How many of V.I.’s interactions with her dogs come from your experience?
SP: Our first Golden, Capo, was perfectly trained. She responded to both voice and hand commands, and we never needed to have her on a leash, but she did live to swim — the first time she saw Lake Superior, she jumped from a 20-foot cliff into the water. We didn’t know until then that our perfect dog needed to be on leash when she was near water! V.I.’s Peppy is like Capo. Mitch is more like our current (third) Golden, Callie. She, too, is very sweet, but she is incredibly high energy, and even though we have been working for seven of her seven-and-a-half years, and she stays and sits and lies down like a champ, she will not heel. And she gets wild fits where she roars around — we just have to stay out of her way until they pass.
B: Tell us more about Callie, your “senior C-dog.”
SP: That’s a funny one. I set up a solo corporation about 15 years ago, when we had our second Golden, Cardhu. I wanted the name to reflect me, my husband and the dog. My husband’s name is Courtenay; he served in the Royal Navy during WWII. Roosevelt’s code name for Churchill was “seadog,” because Churchill had been First Lord of the Admiralty at one point. So my husband was a seadog, or a C Dog, and my corporation is called Sara & Two C-Dogs, Inc. When Cardhu died from bone cancer, we were so distraught that we thought we would never have another dog. But after four years, we couldn’t stand it, and we got Callie. Because of our adored Capo, we stick with Goldens. And because my company is Sara & Two C-Dogs, their names start with C. Courtenay vetoed Chernobyl, so I chose Calliope, Callie for short, because she’s a merry-go-round.
B: Just for fun, how would you compare V.I. with Peppy and Mitch — any personality traits in common?
SP: V.I. is definitely more like Mitch — high energy, hard to control. Maybe that’s why she enjoys Peppy’s company more.
A painter’s view of family and friends.
In one of his earliest paintings, simply titled Woman with Dog, the painter of private French life Pierre Bonnard caught his sister Andrée as she solemnly leaned down to touch the family pet; in response, the dog knowingly raised a paw to “shake.” In this gentle, sweet scene, the figures turn inward; at the bottom, near the center of the composition, hand and paw come together, forming a triangle within the frame of the painting. Despite the apparent unity of the scene, the dog’s attention strays; his eye, a beady brown spot of paint, looks into a world beyond the frame. The dual nature of this scene—domesticated dog with a wandering eye—recurred in varying forms throughout the artist’s career. Photographs taken at family gatherings and sketches drawn in private moments at home tell us that dogs were a primary presence in Bonnard’s everyday life. They were companions in his daily walks, and he wrote of them in his letters. A memorable photograph taken by the noted photographer André Ostier shows an aged Bonnard tenderly cradling his Dachshund on his lap. In this picture, Bonnard stares solemnly at the camera and the dog looks away—as in his paintings, intimacy and isolation exist side by side.
The year after he painted Woman with Dog, Bonnard set out on his own eccentric path to domesticity when he met Maria Boursin, the woman who called herself Marthe de Méligny. The two became lovers, living together for 32 years before marrying in 1925, the year the artist bought a house in Le Cannet in the south of France. Over the course of their lives, whether in a Parisian apartment at the foot ofMontmartre or at their house, Le Bosquet, in the Midi, Bonnard followed Marthe from room to room, sketching her as she bathed, dressed and ate.He later synthesized these sketches into major paintings—some were of Marthe and their Dachshund at table, others were scenes of Marthe in her bath with the dog nearby. In these works, the model and muse dissolves in light and fuses with the interior space. In contrast, the dog gazes outward, a dark and witty presence in an otherwise harmonious scene.
In 1913, Bonnard began a series of etchings for Dingo, the classic tale of a wild Australian dog by Octave Mirbeau, a popular Parisian writer and critic.Uncorrupted by social institutions, the maverick pup tried, and usually failed, to adapt to French civilization.At about the same time as Bonnard began these illustrations, a dignified Dachshund, the very opposite of the raffish Dingo, found a place in his paintings.
In Dressing Table with Mirror, for example, painted in the year he began the Dingo etchings, Bonnard abandoned the freewheeling stray in favor of his own little pet. Here the dog is triply trapped, enclosed once by the actual frame of the painting, next by the frame of a mirror and finally by a small square red rug. For all its apparent normality and pretty color, Dressing Table with Mirror presents an uncomfortable scene. In the foreground are ordinary objects: a brush, a soap dish, a vase of flowers, bottles of perfume and a large oval bowl, emblems ofMarthe’s private world. In contrast, in the reflected scene above the table, the dog tensely crouches at the bottom of a bed;Marthe sits at the other end, a decapitated nude. One can only wonder at the brutality suggested by that view. Yet table, objects, mirror and nude blend together in soft shades of blue, orange, lavender, white and cream. A solid dark form of the Dachshund, squarely centered inside the mirror’s frame, strikes a dark, dissonant note in a tranquil sea of pastels. But there is a contradiction here. This pup is funny, too. Out of place, incongruous, he solemnly shares a bed with his mistress.
In the 1890s, Bonnard belonged to a brotherhood of adventurous artists; they called themselves the Nabis (the Hebrew and Arabic word for prophet). Each member of the group had a nickname; Bonnard was punningly called the “japonard.” Captivated by the flat planes of color and intimate interiors he found in Japanese woodblock prints, the artist liberally borrowed these forms and conventions for his own work. In prints, Japanese artists often signed their names against a rectangular block of color—the signature carefully set apart from the scene. In Dressing Table with Mirror, the dog on his rectangular red cloth mimics the form of these signs.
In one dining room scene, Woman with a Basket of Fruit, a pannier bursting with overripe apples, pears and bananas rests on a snowy white cloth and dominates the composition. At the top,Marthe, a remote figure behind the basket, rests her head on one hand as she dreamily looks off into space. Her head echoes the shape of the basket, her blouse blends into the tablecloth, and her red collar and cuffs repeat the apple red of the fruit. Though she is physically one with the scene, her gaze reveals that her mind is wandering afield. Below, her canine companion, a profile head without a body, pokes his nose hopefully upward—a silhouette against the white cloth. Though the tip of the dog’s nose aligns neatly with Marthe’s nostril above, there is no eye contact between the two; the dog’s eye, like that of a pharaoh, stares unblinkingly outward. This could be a quick snapshot of ordinary life, an unremarkable moment with Marthe and her dog. It is as well a funny correspondence of noses. But viewed in another way, the scene echoes with loneliness. The figures catch separate scents, those that evoke longing for different worlds beyond a limiting frame.
Though there is no clear equation of dog with artist in this dining room scene, a correspondence occurs, as it did in the Dressing Table with Mirror, in some later works picturing Marthe in the bathroom at Le Bosquet. The strangest and perhaps the most magnificent of these bathtub paintings was also one of Bonnard’s last works. He began Nude in Bathtub in 1941 and worked on the painting long after Marthe died in January 1942. Even four years after his wife’s death and a year before his own, the artist continued to add touches to the work. In this scene,Marthe lies entombed, floating in a narrow oval tub that, in turn, floats in the shifting space of the room. Intense, prismatic colors describe a grid of tiles on the walls and floor; these colors—orange, yellow, blue and magenta— bleed from the background and define Marthe’s body. Hazy brushstrokes fuse her with the ambiguous space of the room. Dead center in the foreground, the incongruous Dachshund intrudes. A tight little body with his head raised up, the dog is framed by a square of dappled pink rug, a restatement of the Japanese signature. In this scene, he is neither a comic wiener dog and prankish pup nor a loyal companion and placid presence. The Dachshund, like the artist always sketching, intrudes on Marthe’s privacy, a jarring note in a lyrical scene. Perhaps here the dog, as elsewhere, really is Bonnard standing watch.
Jon Provost and his Collie co-star.
He was the favorite boy of America's favorite dog. For Jon Provost—“Timmy” on the “Lassie” television show—50 years later, life is still very much about dogs.
“When I was 10, 11, 12, Lassie and I would travel around the country for parades and special events. In every city, we visited children’s hospitals,” Provost said. Lassie’s trainer, Rudd Weatherwax, insisted that Lassie be allowed to visit ailing children at their hospital bedsides, something unheard of at the time.
“Rudd had a saying: Every child should have a dog and every dog should have a child. He just knew that the thrill of meeting Lassie would do a child good,” Provost said. Those visits also had a profound impact on Provost. He feels that the special bond he had with Lassie taught him empathy for animals, ingraining in him the conviction that caretakers must always be loving guardians.
His mother took him on his first audition after reading about a “cattle call” for children in a Hedda Hopper newspaper column. He made his film acting debut in 1953 at age three in So Big, a film starring Jane Wyman and Sterling Hayden, based on Edna Ferber’s Pulitzer Prize–winning novel about the struggles of a widow trying to support herself and her son. A year later, his film parents were Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly in The Country Girl.
An interesting chapter in his new book focuses on his relationship with Lassie’s trainer, the late Weatherwax. A hard-working, hard-drinking, old-school sort, Weatherwax was also something of a grandfather figure for Provost.When the series’ initial boy, Tommy Rettig, who played Jeff Martin, left the show, Weatherwax insisted on checking out Provost’s rapport with Lassie before any filming. The boy-dog chemistry was quickly confirmed.
“One thing that Rudd really instilled in me was respect for animals. On sets you see animal trainers of all sorts.Rudd always trained his dogs with lots of love,” Provost said.Weatherwax’s Lassies (now raised by his descendants) were all males; a primary Lassie usually had five or six backups for long shots or special stunts.
After earning 100 “Lassie points” for good behavior on the set, Provost was given his own Collie. The dog, whom Provost promptly named “Rudd,” grew up running through orange groves near the Provosts’ home in Pomona.When a move to Beverly Hills meant Rudd was limited to an average-size backyard, a family decision focused on what was best for the dog.
“We’d take Rudd on summer visits to my grandmother’s.After a few summers on 120 acres in Arkansas, Rudd retired from Hollywood to chase rabbits there. He got the true Lassie life in the end,” Provost said.
Although the philologist and fantasy writer J.R.R. Tolkien did not himself keep a dog, he put several memorable canines into his books. Indeed, a dog is the “start” of the most recent of his stories to have been published, Roverandom (1998). In 1925, Tolkien and his family were on a seaside holiday when his middle son, Michael, lost a beloved toy dog on the beach. To console him, Tolkien invented a story in which a real dog, named Rover--no points for an original name!--annoys a wandering wizard, is turned into a toy as punishment and goes on adventures to the moon and under the sea. On his travels he meets two other Rovers, a moon-dog and a mer-dog, while he himself is renamed Roverandom, because he doesn’t know where he is going to next.
One never doubts that Rover/Roverandom is a dog, or rather a puppy, young, impetuous, prone to mischief. When we first meet him he is playing with a ball; by page two he has bitten the old wizard’s trousers. Even when given wings or webbed feet he remains true to his canine nature, and he reacts just as a dog would when he is on his way to the moon on the back of the seagull Mew and sees a dark island below:
Over the water and up to them came the sound of a tremendous barking, a noise made up of all the different kinds and sizes of barks there are: yaps and yelps, and yammers and yowls, growling and grizzling, whickering and whining, snickering and snarling, mumping and moaning, and the most enormous baying, like a giant bloodhound in the backyard of an ogre. All Rover’s fur round his neck suddenly became very real again, and stood up stiff as bristles; and he thought he would like to go down and quarrel with all the dogs there at once--until he remembered how small he was.
“That’s the Isle of Dogs,” said Mew, “or rather the Isle of Lost Dogs, where all the lost dogs go that are deserving of lucky. It isn’t a bad place, I’m told, for dogs; and they can make as much noise as they like without anyone telling them to be quiet or throwing anything at them. They have a beautiful concert, all barking together their favourite noises, whenever the moon shines bright. They tell me there are bone-trees there, too, with fruit like juicy meat-bones that drops off the trees when it’s ripe.”
Of course there really is an Isle of Dogs, without the bone-trees: a tongue of land the projects into the River Thames in southeast London. Its name, on which Tolkien is playing, may have come from Henry VIII of Elizabeth I having kept hounds at that place when in residence across the river in Greenwich.
A rather different dog, Garm, appears in Tolkien’s mock-medieval tale Farmer Giles of Ham, first published in 1949. Garm is Welsh for “shout” or “cry,” and is also recorded as a dialect word in Cornwall meaning “scold, vociferate loudly.” The name suits Farmer Giles’ dog very well. Dogs, Tolkien writes, “had to be content with short names in the vernacular: the Book-latin was reserved for their betters. Garm could not talk even dog-latin; but he could use the vulgar tongue (as could most dogs of his day) either to bully or to brag or to wheedle in. Bullying was for beggars and trespassers, bragging for other dogs, and wheedling for his master. Garm was both proud and afraid of Giles, who could bully and brag better than he could.”
Garm is a coward in other respects too, a selfish animal more interested in saving his own skin than in protecting his master’s, and as such is an ironic opposite to the Garm (or Garmr) of Norse mythology, the powerful dog who guards the gates of Hel. But Giles’ Garm is not so afraid of his master that he won’t sneak out of the kitchen at night without permission and roam the fields looking for rabbits. Unluckily for Garm, one night he comes upon a giant, and on a longer expedition runs into the tail of a dragon. Giles deals with both menaces, with no help from man’s best friend: In the face of danger Garm runs away, or hides. Nevertheless, when Giles becomes lord of his land, Garm also rises to a higher station: Though he does not deserve it, he is given “a gold collar, and while he lived roamed at his will, a proud and happy dog, insufferable to his fellows; for he expected all other dogs to accord him the respect due to the terror and splendour of his master.” In contrast, dogs make only brief appearances in Tolkien’s most famous book, The Hobbit (1937) and The Lord of the Rings (1954-55). In the former, very much in the realm of children’s fairy-tale, the shape-changer Beorn has “several large long-bodied grey dogs” among his servants--”the dogs could stand on their hind-legs when they wished, and carry things with their fore-feet”--while in The Lord of the Rings Frodo and his friends encounter three huge “wolvish-looking dlogs,” Grip, Fang and Wolf, who belong to Farmer Maggot. But the lack of canine characters in these works, set in the Third Age of Middle-earth, is more than made up for by the greatest of Tolkien’s dogs, Huan, the wolfhound of Valinor, who plays an important role in a key tale of the First Age. Huan means “great dog, hound” in one of Tolkien’s invented Elvish languages.
He first appears in the “Tale of Tinuviel,” one of Tolkien’s early “Silmarillion” legends published in The Book of the Lost Tales, Part Two (1984). There Huan, Captain of Dogs, is the sworn enemy of Tevildo, Prince of Cats, and in their enmity is reflected the rivalry of all cast and dogs. In those days long ago, many dogs had chosen to dwell with Men and guard them, while cats, led by Tevildo, were inclined toward the dark lord, Melko. “Did ever any of these” dogs who were foes of evil “viewTevildo or any of this thanes or subjects, then there there was a great baying and a mighty chase.” With guile and strength Huan defeats Tevildo but sets him free. “Little to Huan’s liking was it that Tevildo lived still, but now no longer did he fear the cats, and that tribe has fled before the dogs ever since, and the dogs hold them still in scorn since the humbling of Tevildo in the woods nigh Angamandi; and Huan has not done any greater deed. Indeed afterward Melko heard all and he cursed Tevildo and his folk and banished them, nor have they since that had had lord or master or any friend, and their voices wail and screech for their hearts are very lonely and bitter and full of loss, yet there is only darkness therein and no kindliness.”
This tale over the years evolved into the version published in The Silmarillion (1977), in which it is told that Huan was born in the Blessed Realm far in the West of the world, and raised by Orome the hunter, one of Valar, or angelic powers. Therefore he was of a special breed: “Nothing could escape the sight and scent of Huan, nor could any enchantment stay him, and he slept not, neither by night nor day.” He understood human speech, and was permitted himself to speak with words three times before he died. It was decreed moreover that he should not meet death until he encountered “the mightiest wolf that would ever walk the world.” He aided the Elf-maiden Luthien Tinuviel and the mortal man she loved, Beren, in their quest to wrest a great jewel from the crown of evil Morgoth, and at last he fought to the death Carcharoth, the Wolf of Angband: “No battle of wolf and hound has been like it, for in the baying of Huan was heard the voice of the horns of Orome and the wrath of Valar, but in the howls of Carcharoth was the hate of Morgoth and malice crueller than teeth of steel.”
One of the results of the fame Tolkien enjoyed from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings was that readers asked his permission to name their pets after characters. To one of them he replied that Bilbo, after Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, seemed a good animal name, and indeed, his own brother had given the hobbit’s full name to his dog, a young animal of “variable behaviour.” The dog was called Bilbo when good and Baggins when bad--he knew the implication of each.
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