When I first met my husband, a field-trained black lab owned him.
Rebel, an intelligent canine, shared a personality mix of laid-back house dog and determined hunter. This retriever and his favorite human had enjoyed several years of rustic bachelorhood at Meade State Fish Hatchery where Reb mastered responding to both verbal and hands signals. Dog and man led an idyllic life hunting, fishing, and working fishponds located far from town and people.
Once I married his human and joined their crew, Rebel determined I improved both his treat and couch-lounging opportunities. It didn’t take long for the black beast to make room for me in his Labrador heart.
Not long after our wedding, my husband changed jobs and transferred from Meade Lake to Ellis. Moving to town forced Rebel to accept a difficult adjustment to his previously perfect life. He had to trade working fishponds for retrieving evening papers and supervising a garden.
Though he missed the freedom of roaming hatchery grounds where he rousted game birds and helped his favorite human feed and care for fish, Rebel discovered new delights. Our at-the-edge-of-town yard contained a mulberry, pear, and apple trees, which begs the question, “Why would fruit trees offer a bonus in a Labrador retriever’s life?”
This particular dog loved fruit, especially mulberries, pears, and apples—especially once they fell to the ground and fermented a few days. Yes, our pet was a fruit drop lush.
In early summer, I’d find him sleeping soundly amidst mounds of fallen mulberries, his distended belly rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. I laughed to see purple mulberry stains circling his muzzle following his binges. Once he awoke from a boozy snooze, he’d gaze with unfocused eyes and wobble as he rose to greet me. His fruity indulgences didn’t alter this loving dog’s happy personality.
In early fall, if I called and Reb didn’t come running, I’d look for him sleeping off a toot under our pear and apple trees, heavy head weighing down paws. Yeasty, fermented fruit scent permeated the air while low flying, inebriated wasps sipped mushy pulp or circled tipsily above over-ripe yellow and red orbs and Rebel.
To my surprise, the insects never stung when I collected fruit they crawled in and out of. Their tranquility explained our pet’s relaxed state.
I didn’t want to encourage addiction in our beloved retriever, so I’d race him to fallen fruit once I arrived home from work. He mastered a hang-dog look that nearly broke my heart as I tossed his beloved apples and pears into a five-gallon bucket. That gaze tore me apart with guilt for removing him from the freedom of the fish hatchery and transferring him to town. Then I deprived him of his one pleasure that made city-living worthwhile.
Rebel has been gone for decades, and we later moved from the house surrounded by pear and apple trees. Despite time’s passage, the dog days of late summer and slow-moving wasps vividly remind me of a gentle black dog that made room in his heart for a new family member and found a unique way to deal with town life.
Karen Madorin is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan.