Chief
--by Ben Henneke

Most of you here at St. Simeon’s Senior Citizen Snuggery have seen Chief exploring the property so that you’ve grown accustomed to his pace.

He steps out to his own drummer. He’s just 15 inches high at his haunches, his head rides proudly on a strong neck, his ears flap to the rhythms of his movements, be it a frolic or a dido; a leap or a run. It’s his run that is remarkable.

To bring him into focus, he is a black, miniature poodle, just under 16 pounds in weight, over 15 years in age. That dog age becomes 95 in human years. We nonagenarians at St. Simeon’s know that to be able to run at all is remarkable, but Chief does more, he prances, frisks, caracols, curvets, capers, dances.

He is a quasi-gift from our youngest granddaughter. She will be in Tanzania, Africa much of the year 2003. She believes Chief will be better cared for here. She tries to make us believe that she thought of giving up her dog when she read of how oldsters respond to small pets; she cited senior citizen response to Simone of Saint Simeon, the golden retriever who accompanies Carla, but who is not so cuddly as her Chief.

Such consideration for the aged is a pious fraud, but to our delight, she’s left the dog, its bed, its cold-weather sweater, four sacks of dried food, and a note of the day and month his city license is to be renewed, and the date each month his heart-worm medicine is to be taken.

The black dog you see doing high leg lifts around the cottages, marking the property as his own, is now our Chief.

He seldom barks. He growls only when you try to interrupt his scavenging. He bares his teeth when you surprise him. He’s completely deaf and almost totally blind. He needs soothing words before you get too familiar.

He was house-trained dog-years ago. He stands with his forelegs on the bed and licks any of your exposed parts to signal he needs to go out. If you don’t respond, he raps on the covers until you do. He then rollicks to the outside door. Should you be mazey or slow, he darts back and forth until you finally get to the door.

He can push the door open when he returns if you leave it ajar, if you don’t; he’ll bark. He prefers to be self-sufficient. He takes his food bowl in his teeth and bangs it on the floor when it is suppertime.

Schulz must have had a dog like Chief after whom he patterned Snoopy, in his Peanuts cartoon strip.

Why is Chief worth our time?

He’s an entertainer.

I grew up on Doctor Doolittle and The Adventures of Remi. Those books featured smart little dogs that could do tricks. When I began seeing every circus or vaudeville act I could afford, I found I preferred the one-ring dog-and-pony shows. Remember the performing poodles climbing ladders, jumping through hoops and over hurdles; jumping on and off padded stools?

Chief does the padded stool bit to perfection: up on to any hassock in our apartment with a minimum of effort, and a fixed pose after alighting, waiting for praise and a sweet meat. His tail – looking like a bass drum beater – all the while vibrating engagingly. He leaps over the brace bar holding the chair legs together: his version of a hurdle.

He becomes a boulevardier when he walks on a leash. I think I can see Maurice Chevalier on those occasions, but he can become the gamin. He capers waggishly. He is so sprightly that my eyes cannot differentiate his actions. I wish I had the eyes of Leonardo da Vinci. It is said he could discriminate all aspects of movement. His sixteenth Century drawings of the motion of birds in flight had to wait for the invention of stop-action photography in our time to be verified. Da Vinci’s drawings of wing movement are just as the camera records them.

Frankly, I think Chas Schulz got the idea for Snoopy’s dance in Peanuts, from watching Chief and his flashing paws, and the smiling face. Are Schulz’s drawings of the feet blurring together precise? If so, then Schulz’s eyes were as swift and sure as da Vinci’s, certainly more discerning than mine.

Let me save you from a common error. Don’t sing “Hail to the Chief” when you meet our dog. Chief is just a shortened version of “Mischief,” the name given on his city license.