The Westminster Dog Show may have just concluded with Monty, a giant schnauzer, the overall winner, but every day is dog-show day here.
For as long as I can remember, the Star office has been welcoming to dogs. Over the years, we’ve had big dogs, small dogs; black dogs, white dogs. At present we seem to have gone — as with so many Airbnb interiors — with a light-colored palette. O’en, a white retriever, could pass for a yeti; Marty, a poodle -bichon mix, is white, too, except when he is not and in need of a visit to a North Fork pet spa. Marty likes me. O’en does not.
O’en hangs around the second-floor newsroom, generally flat on the ancient carpet, snoozing and shedding. Lately, I’ve brought a Shop-Vac in to keep the amount of fur under control but it’s mostly a losing battle. I don’t give O’en snacks and I tell him to hit the bricks when he noses into the office kitchen, which is probably why he appears not to care for my company. But he has a studied aloof quality in general and moves about the office like a ghost.
My man Marty is no apparition. Come to think of it, I am not sure that I have ever seen him asleep at work. Marty divides his time between the ad department on the first floor and production on the second. From his usual spot at the top of the stairs leading to the Star driveway, he exhibits what to me is one of his endearing qualities, barking at anyone who walks by who appears to be younger than about 50. Hilariously, Marty especially hates teenage boys; I think it’s because of their sneakers.
What I really appreciate about Marty is that he craves scratching and when I need a break I can stop by his domain for some dog time. Like a truck backing up he offers up his hind quarters for attention. I suspect he would stand being pampered this way for an entire day. In fact, when I get up and move on, he barks and snaps at my feet the way he deals with teenagers. It is as if he is saying, “Don’t you dare.”
“It’s okay, Marty,” I say. “I’ll be back.” And I will.