The Duke of Georgetown (Part 2) (19/30)

One man's trash is another dog's treasure.

(link to part 1)

“Alex, he did it again. There’s trash all over my floor."

I would hear this from various fraternity brothers a few times a week as Duke grew up in the Phi house. He has always had a particular affinity for garbage. If I let my guard down, he would sneak off to the nearest unoccupied room with a full trash can and go to town. I know this drove my brothers nuts, but they were generally good sports about it. As the old saying goes, it takes a fraternity house to raise a dog.

A few months prior, I called my parents after signing the adoption papers to share the good news. My dad handled it well; he loves dogs and was excited to have another ‘grandpuppy’ (my sister’s dalmatian, after whom Duke is named, had passed away not long before).

My mom’s reaction, on the other hand, was predictably less positive. She very much did not like dogs. The idea of having one in her house for any period of time was intolerable, let alone every holiday and summer break. And the cat! How was the cat supposed to relax with a smelly dog running around terrorizing it?

I unfortunately happened to share the news with my mom while she was driving, and I distinctly remember her almost sideswiping another car. I don’t blame her — her son adopting a dog while still in school had to be on the list of the top ten things she least wanted to hear. And yet, to her enormous credit, she eventually accepted it. A mother’s love knows no bounds.

When I first brought Duke home, my mom was adamant that he stay out of the living room. There was a beige plastic strip on the floor that separated the Saltillo tile hallway and wood-floored living room; this was to be the geographic border demarcating what was and was not dog-friendly territory.

Once Duke understood this, he developed a strategy. He started by laying down in the hallway a few feet from the border — comfortably within the demilitarized zone. Then, over the course of a few days, he gradually inched closer to the boundary, careful not to make any overzealous moves that might alert the authorities. My dad and I smirked at each other but said nothing.

Next thing we knew, he was laying down in the middle of the living room. My mom would walk by, roll her eyes, and sigh. If you looked closely you could see the edges of her mouth ever so slightly curling up into a smile.

Not all of Duke’s behavior was quite as harmless. His penchant for getting into my housemates’ trash was a problem, and he chewed up more than a few of my roommate’s possessions (sorry, Michael - I still owe you an electric razor). He also had a dangerous tendency to run away whenever he was off-leash. He was getting better on the leash when I was the one walking him, but he could be a pain for the pledges or other kind souls who often helped out.

Duke was incredibly sweet, but it was apparent that he could benefit from some extra obedience training. I decided to take him up to North Carolina for the summer where my sister and brother-in-law had generously offered to host us. This was a godsend. They lived on a lot of land out in the country, and my brother-in-law had previously owned a dog training business.

The Summer of Duke had begun.

Stay tuned! This limited series will wrap up tomorrow with Part 3 of The Duke of Georgetown…