Big Finish: For the Dogs

by Darin Bunch

I wasn’t always a dog lover.

Don’t get me wrong, I had nothing against canines — I just wasn’t one of those “dog people.”

Fess up, you know what I mean. Heck, you’re probably one of them. One of those people who bring their pets to outdoor restaurants, feeding them off their plates, dressing them in cute little outfits that cost more than my best pair of Footjoys. One of those people who lets their dogs have the run of the house, who talks to them on speakerphone when you’re out of town.

No offense. That just wasn’t me.

In fact, those were the people my wife and I used to make fun of, roll our eyes at. “Seriously, it’s just a dog,” we used to mock.

Until a puppy named Walter showed up on our doorstep. Well, maybe not a puppy — he’s a part chow, part rottweiler, part German shepherd. ’Bout 85 pounds. I tell people he’s not a dog; he’s a kid wearing a fur coat.

I fell in love. And now I’m one of “them.” And so is my wife. We’re the crazy “dog parents,” stopping at cool pet stores when we’re traveling, bringing treats home from our adventures, finding any excuse to take our pets with us when we leave the house. Christmas cards ...

I know it sounds silly, but it’s true. And if you’re reading this, you fall into one of two categories — those who understand exactly what I’m saying and those who think I’m completely nuts. After all, it’s just a dog.

Maybe so, but the night he got lost on vacation was the moment I knew my life would never be the same.
The most difficult thing about traveling with pets is finding lodging that will accommodate them. It’s become an obsession with my wife and I. Pet restrictions, size limitations — every hotel, motel or resort has different rules, so finding a place to spend the night with dog in tow isn’t exactly the easiest of propositions, even in the age of the Internet.

But we were headed to the Peninsula for an event at the Monterey Bay Aquarium and decided it was time to take Walter on his first big trip, complete with his debut day on the beach. (This, of course, was back when I only had one pet to worry about; I now have three.) Plus, I was going to get in a few holes at Spyglass Hill, so it would be fun for the “whole family,” as we dog-lovers are fond of saying. What could go wrong?

After much research, we found a great little country retreat, Carmel Valley Lodge, which also offered petsitting services during our night on the town.

The only trouble was Walter didn’t like us leaving him behind. Being the clever animal he is — he eluded Animal Control officers in my hometown of Bakersfield, Calif., for months before I befriended him and took him in — he decided staying indoors with the petsitter wasn’t his idea of a vacation. So he pushed open a window with his rather large nose and wiggled his way out, dropping to the ground four feet below.

We returned from Monterey at about 11 p.m., eagerly anticipating much licking and tail-wagging from our furry friend, when the petsitter told us about the Great Escape. Our first thought was that he was on his way back to Bakersfield — 250 miles away — in an Otis-type journey. But the petsitter said he kept returning to the Lodge office front door every hour or so, only to dash back into the darkness before she could grasp his leash, still dragging behind.

So for two hours, we wandered the hotel grounds, calling in a hushed whisper, as not to wake up the nearby neighbors or other guests, for our beloved Walter. And finally, in a moment of Lassie proportions, my wife sat down in the driveway, exhausted, and said to herself: “Puppy, where are you?”

And here he came, running up the road, nearly knocking her over with his love and happiness that “his people” had returned to save him.

Just a dog? I think not. And just one of the many reasons I now know I’ll love him until the day he’s gone. Or I am.

And I’m still on the hunt for great dog-friendly places to stay. If you have a favorite, anywhere, for dogs of any size, let me know at bunch@fgmagazine.com. Thanks in advance, and we’ll see you on the beach. FG