Swept from the corners of my mind…
Smokes is a five‑year‑old, intact English Setter who comes from a long line of excellent hunting dogs.
English Setters look like Irish Setters, but instead of being redheads they’re white with black splotches. They have long legs, silky hair with feathers on the ears and legs, and a lovely arched tail. They are quite pretty—and functional, because mud just falls off that hair.
Weighing around 65 pounds and built like an athlete, Smokes may very well have the potential to be a legendary bird dog. I wouldn’t know. I only see the other side of his life—the domestic, chaotic, endlessly energetic side.
Smokes belongs to my son, who is also greatly beloved. This is why I ended up with shared custody of a dog who operates at the speed of light. My son works out of province, so there’s a fifty‑fifty custody arrangement. I love my son. I love Smokes. I repeat this to myself often.
I’ve had dogs all my life and tend to gravitate toward the relaxed, phlegmatic types. Sure, Feist the Rat Terrier barks at air and leads the boys on short, loud reconnaissance tours trying to find invisible invaders, but otherwise she lounges like a Victorian aunt on every cushion in the house. Lou, the black shepherd who was brought in because the Newfoundland was aging out, tends to be more serious. Built like either a Greek statue or a pile of spare parts, depending on the angle, Lou is focused and usually relaxed—unless Smokes is around.
Smokes is more energy than all my previous dogs combined. Heck, Smokes has more energy than a winning team of racing huskies.
Despite excellent vet visits and rather expensive dog food, Smokes always looks like he’s training for the Kentucky Derby. He gets as tucked‑up as a racehorse at the end of the season. I feed him. I promise I feed him. He simply burns calories faster than physics should allow.
When he wakes up, he runs half a mile to the next farm (they’re relatives, so no one panics), runs back, tries to steal a mouthful of Lou’s breakfast (resulting in long, annoying growling matches), then heads out for another run. This continues all day.
Smokes races. Smokes dashes. Smokes sprints. Smokes bounces. Smokes springs. Smokes zooms and streaks and gallops and charges. Smokes can jump into a tree to retrieve a ball.
He is addicted to balls. He will bring you anything—ball, sock fragment, random household object—and beg you to throw it. It doesn’t matter where it lands or if it hits him in the face. Joy is joy. Smokes is Tigger… on crack.
When the dogs want inside, the terrier stares cutely at the door. Lou lies down and waits. Smokes, however, launches himself at the kitchen window like a caffeinated jack‑in‑the‑box, scream‑yapping and smearing nose prints everywhere. He somehow droops the skin under his eyes so dramatically that he looks like he’s been beaten in a Dickens novel. He needs in. Desperately. Urgently. Death is imminent.
And then, two minutes later, he needs out again. To run.
He doesn’t roam far—just the yard, the field, the pasture. He snuffles, he scents, he investigates the universe. And yes, he’s intact. In my neighbourhood, most pets are spayed or neutered. (Believe me, I would happily send Smokes for the Big Snip, but his daddy seems to take the offer personally.) Smokes has no idea what to do with his equipment, but he’s very proud of it. His hormones mostly express themselves through wrestling matches with Lou and general Tigger‑on‑crack behaviour.
Being intact, he could have been a chick magnet. Instead, he is a tick magnet.
Thank heavens for Bravecto, because Smokes can collect ticks from a snowbank. They slowly die after biting him, but he carries so many that he always has a few hitchhikers on the edges of his ears, on his legs, under his collar, or in his armpits. And because I have an obsessive streak—especially regarding biting insects—I spend a good portion of my life combing through his fur like a deranged Victorian governess hunting for nits. I average 10–20 small ticks a day.
Smokes doesn’t mind. He’s a cuddler. He likes to sit close on the couch and sprawls across my bed like a manspreading octopus, limbs everywhere. It’s not unusual to wake up with him tucked under my arm, head on my shoulder. Unfortunately, Bravecto doesn’t kill ticks instantly. Some die mid‑crawl. Some wander off before they bite. Which means I am always at risk of hosting a few unwanted guests.
This week alone, I’ve removed ticks from my back, my belly, and—twice in one night—my hair at 2 a.m. I no longer have the ick, but I do have the itch. I don’t enjoy being chewed on. Even mosquitoes don’t get this kind of access. I check my hair and skin so much I move like a Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy.
So if you see me in the grocery store, repeatedly running my hands through my hair and scratching my stomach like a confused bear emerging from hibernation, just blame Smokes. My beloved, bouncing, ball‑obsessed, racehorse‑ribbed, Tigger‑on‑crack co‑parenting responsibility.
He’s sharing the love. And the ticks.
Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column runs every other Wednesday.
