HOOLIGAN VS. THE GOODY BAG

An Emerald Hounds Abound DogTale

There are many dangers one might encounter at a community festival. Unpredictable weather, crowded streets, mysterious things on the ground, and the occasional small child who approaches an Irish Wolfhound with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a real live dinosaur. One does not generally expect to witness a prolonged battle between a young Irish Wolfhound and a promotional goody bag. Then again, one does not generally attend these events with Hooligan Charlie Hill.

The Walden Harvest Festival was supposed to be another pleasant day out for the Emerald Hounds Abound crew. Clover and Hooligan had come along to meet people, enjoy the attention, and help introduce our growing world of Irish Wolfhound stories to the community. By this point, the two had become surprisingly experienced public figures. They'd already attended events where dozens of people stopped to admire them, ask questions, take pictures, and marvel at how two animals roughly the size of small ponies could be so wonderfully calm in the middle of a crowd.

Clover, being the older and theoretically more mature of the two, generally handled these occasions with a certain quiet dignity. Unless, of course, she decided that standing was an unnecessary inconvenience and dropped to the pavement, rolled onto her back, and waited for someone to provide belly rubs. Hooligan had his own approach.

He loved people. He loved being admired. He loved the excitement, the attention, and the sheer number of interesting things happening around him. His enormous body was growing faster than his ability to coordinate it, and his ears, affectionately known as his ear hat, often appeared to operate independently of the rest of him. But he was happy. And when Hooligan is happy, every inch of him participates.

We had brought our usual supply of Emerald Hounds Abound materials: little goody bags, scrolls, information about the hounds, and various small surprises for the people who stopped to visit. The goody bags were particularly popular. Unfortunately, one of them caught Hooligan's attention. Exactly how he decided that this particular bag should belong to him remains a mystery. Perhaps he liked the way it moved. Perhaps he thought it contained something wonderful. Perhaps, being Hooligan, he simply concluded that if everyone else was getting a present, he ought to have one too.

Whatever his reasoning, he acquired a bag. And he was delighted. There is a particular kind of pride a puppy displays when he has obtained something that clearly wasn't intended for him. Hooligan carried his prize with the enormous satisfaction of a creature who had just accomplished something spectacular. His head came up. His long legs began moving. His ears flapped. The bag swung. And then— WHACK! It hit him in the face.

Hooligan stopped. His head turned. His expression changed from pure happiness to astonished confusion. Something had hit him. Something unexpected. Something that apparently needed to be identified immediately. He looked around. There were people everywhere, of course, but nobody appeared to be behaving suspiciously. Clover wasn't doing anything. Mom and Dad weren't doing anything. So Hooligan continued on his way. The bag swung again.

WHACK! This time he reacted more dramatically. His head jerked, his ear hat flapped, and he looked around with renewed concern. Who was doing that? He still had the bag in his mouth, but apparently the possibility that his beloved new possession might be responsible for these mysterious assaults had not yet occurred to him. He took another step. The bag swung forward. Then backward. WHACK! Now Hooligan was thoroughly offended.

The poor boy was trying to enjoy his prize, and somebody kept smacking him in the face! He turned his head to look behind him. Unfortunately, turning his head caused the bag to swing in the opposite direction. WHACK! Hooligan whipped around again. The bag followed. WHACK! At this point, the situation had developed into a genuine crisis. The faster Hooligan turned to locate his attacker, the more enthusiastically the bag swung. Every attempt to investigate the assault resulted in another assault.

And somehow, despite holding the evidence in his own mouth, he remained unable to identify the culprit. His magnificent ear hat was now flying in every direction. His long legs were trying to keep up with his rapidly changing decisions. The bag swung like a wrecking ball, striking him from one side and then the other, while he twisted and turned in an increasingly desperate attempt to find the mysterious individual who had apparently singled him out for abuse.

I was laughing so hard I could barely stand it. Here we were, surrounded by people at a public festival, with our enormous young Irish Wolfhound engaged in mortal combat with a promotional bag. A bag he had stolen. A bag he refused to put down. A bag that was winning. Clover, meanwhile, had the distinct advantage of not being involved. I can only imagine what she thought as she watched her younger brother spinning around with a bag dangling from his mouth, repeatedly smacking himself in the face.

Clover has developed a remarkable tolerance for Hooligan's peculiarities, although there are moments when her expression seems to suggest that she would very much appreciate being assigned a different sibling. This was probably one of them. And Hooligan? He was determined. Somewhere nearby, ordinary festival activities continued. People walked past. Conversations took place. Children admired the dogs. The world carried on with absolutely no awareness that a major confrontation was underway.

Hooligan, however, had a problem. A very personal problem. An enemy who struck without warning, disappeared whenever he turned to look, and seemed capable of anticipating his every move. The fact that this enemy was attached to his own face only made the situation more confusing. Eventually, I decided that someone ought to rescue my poor boy from his invisible assailant. As entertaining as the whole spectacle was, the bag was showing no signs of surrender, and Hooligan was becoming increasingly convinced that someone had declared war on his face.

I reached for the bag. Hooligan pulled away. Oh, no. Absolutely not. This was HIS bag. He had found it, claimed it, and was enormously proud of his acquisition. Whatever mysterious creature kept striking him, he clearly wasn't prepared to believe that his beloved treasure could be responsible. I tried again, encouraging him to let me take it. He held on. WHACK! His head jerked sideways. He looked around indignantly. I reached for the bag again.

Hooligan turned away, determined to protect his prize. WHACK! At this point, I was attempting to negotiate the surrender of a stolen promotional bag while simultaneously laughing at the bewildered expression on the face of an enormous Irish Wolfhound who apparently believed he was under attack by an unseen festival attendee. Eventually, after a little more persuasion and several additional blows to his dignity, Hooligan reluctantly agreed to release his treasure.

I took the bag. And lo and behold... The attacks stopped. Just like that. No more mysterious blows. No more wildly flapping ear hat. No more frantic attempts to identify an assailant who somehow knew his every move. Hooligan stood there, looking completely perplexed. He glanced around, apparently trying to understand how the danger had vanished so suddenly. Whatever had been attacking him had disappeared at the precise moment Mom took possession of his bag.

An extraordinary coincidence. He was still considering this baffling turn of events when a little girl approached. "Can I pet him?" she asked. "Of course!" She reached out and gently touched him. And just like that, the entire battle was forgotten. Hooligan leaned into her hand, soaking up the affection. Then he stretched his great shaggy head toward her, poked out his tongue, and gave the tip of her nose the tiniest little flick.

The girl giggled. Hooligan's tail began to wag. And there it was. Peace had been restored to the Walden Harvest Festival. The great battle came to an end. There were no heroic speeches, no official declaration of victory, and certainly no understanding on Hooligan's part of what had just happened. The goody bag had done absolutely nothing except obey the laws of physics. Hooligan had supplied the rest. And that, perhaps, is one of the greatest joys of living with this extraordinary boy.

Hooligan is not a foolish dog. He's curious, observant, affectionate, and astonishingly sensitive to the emotions of the creatures around him. He notices things that other animals seem to overlook, and when he loves someone, he loves them with every enormous piece of himself. But sometimes his enthusiasm gets so far ahead of his understanding that the world becomes a very confusing place. A stolen bag becomes a treasure.

A treasure becomes an attacker. And an attacker becomes an increasingly baffling mystery that somehow manages to strike every time he turns his head. We spend so much time watching these young wolfhounds grow, teaching them about the world, helping them learn, and marveling at the extraordinary creatures they're becoming. Their intelligence, dignity, loyalty, and ancient heritage are part of what makes the breed so special.

Then Hooligan picks up a goody bag and reminds us that even a creature descended from the great hunting hounds of Ireland can be brought to his knees by a swinging piece of promotional merchandise. And perhaps that's part of what makes him so wonderful. He has the heart of a giant, the feelings of a poet, the enthusiasm of a toddler, and the coordination of a baby giraffe attempting to navigate a trampoline. He's growing into a magnificent Irish Wolfhound.

Eventually, he'll become more sure-footed, more composed, and perhaps even a little less inclined to declare war on inanimate objects. Although knowing Hooligan, I wouldn't count on that last part. For now, we're simply enjoying the extraordinary privilege of watching him discover the world, one ridiculous adventure at a time. And somewhere in our collection of Emerald Hounds Abound supplies, there is probably an innocent little goody bag that has absolutely no idea it once defeated an Irish Wolfhound.

Hooligan Charlie Hill: 0 Goody Bag: 1

The Walk continues. Occasionally in circles.