 y golden retriever Gambit has something he would like to say. A search dog whose training began when he was just ten weeks old, he—like search dog Puzzle and service dog Jake Piper before him—was aware very early that he would be communicating with me in his dog way, showing me things he knew and I did not, and that my part of the deal was to pay attention and decode. I’ve been lucky in Gambit, whose communication signals have always been very big, very clear, and very consistent. Also insistent. This boy, like Puzzle, does not give up easily if I’m missing the mark.
In the field this is an asset, and I’m grateful for it, but there are times at home that Gambit has something on his mind—something he wants, is curious about, or has preference for—that I have no clear idea how to decode. Because frankly, homeboy Gambit is a little odd. Crate-trained in puppyhood and also trained to “tuck” himself under chairs and airplane seats since he was tiny, he has happily curled up on cue when I needed him to and crated every night, sleeping belly up and snoring, limp paws folded, muzzle buzzing, lips flapping with the exhale. Once he no longer needed to crate at home, Gambit was allowed to choose his own sleep spots, and they have always, always been strange. For a time, I found him sleeping snuggled up to the side of the refrigerator. Cool to the touch in winter or summer, it might have been refreshing for a hot doggy, or it might have been the vague vibration of it he found pleasant. About the time I thought I had that figured out, he dumped the fridge for a specific spot in the hallway, where he liked to sleep with his nose—just his nose—under an armoire. A few months later, he chose a spot beside the couch, where he could put his whole head into a corner between a desk and the wall, leaving only his headless body extended out to view. Gambit has never liked sleeping soft. He has always preferred the hardwood floor. He’ll jump on the couch now and then, but he’s never been a fan of beds—dog or human. When Jake Piper, in the last years of his life, grew frail and needed an orthopedic bed, Gambit watched him happily flop down on it, but he never expressed any interest in it himself. If Jakey got up, some of the small dogs would gladly settle on the ortho bed. Yeah, baby, it had a soft velvet cover and was comfy on the bones. They loved being off the cold floor. They loved taking over the big dog’s bed. Not Gambit, who sniffed the thing and turned away. Gamby turned eleven this year, and though he’s still a lively dog who’s happy to canter and run, I have noticed a little stiffness of hips and shoulders now and then, small signs that the joints feel creaky and the bones sometimes ache. In cold weather, he has chosen the couch more often, but he still jumps off after a while. Soft is all well and good for about 10 minutes. Thinking maybe he’d respond well to the ortho bed now that he needed it, I got it out again, zipped on the freshly-washed cover. (I’d been sleeping on it on my own mattress in October after a back injury. Dude, I said, this is is great.) Not interested, said Gambit. Again. Two nights later, I found him in his new sleep spot of choice, the Chihuahua-sized felt donut bed where Pepita had given birth to her puppies and, thoroughly cleaned after that blessed event, that all the little dogs have since enjoyed. The 68-lb golden retriever was just a tad large for that bed. He spilled over the side. Gambit didn’t care. He curled himself up in his best tuck position, draped his head over the side, and settled in for the night. The small dogs circled and gave him the side-eye. Three of them plopped down on the ortho bed, where they could stare at him across the hallway. Gambit’s expression was mild. Big dog, little bed. What of it? 
In the way of dogs and territory, now the felt donut bed became the most desired spot in the house. (The little dogs were like kids at a playground competing for the best swing, that wasn’t the best swing until one of them decided it was the best swing, and now it was absolutely and forever and had always been the best swing.) Trouble was, the golden retriever was rapidly flattening the Chihuahua-sized sleep spot, making the donut bed into something more like a pancake. That bed was not what it once was. Even Gambit seemed a little dismayed. So, for Christmas, I went to Hollywood Feed and bought him one of their special, larger donut beds. I didn’t buy the size recommended for him, oh no, but trying to think like my goofy golden retriever, bought one size down. Sturdy and supportive, it’s a good bed for old bones and of a size that I thought could stand up to him. It’s just a little … small. He hopped right in. The little dogs eyed him. Suddenly this new bed was the very best bed ever, and Pepita’s felt donut was No Longer Quite the Thing. Dogs. I left it to them to work it out. That very best bed is rarely empty. And now there’s new strategy. When it’s cold, the little dogs rush to it together after Gambit has gotten up. Circling, scruffing, muttering, and settling, they make quite a show–revelling, I think, in the warmth he’s left behind.
 
© Susannah Charleson, 2026 |
