I KNOW DOGS

There are certain things you become accustomed to when you share your life with Irish Wolfhounds. People stop their cars. Strangers cross streets to meet them. Complete strangers ask how much they eat, where they sleep, whether they can be ridden, and occasionally, whether they're actually dogs.

Over the years, I've learned to expect just about anything.

Or so I thought.

On Halloween, we took Clover and Hooligan to the Wurtsboro Halloween Festival. It was a wonderful afternoon, filled with costumes, laughter, excited children, and more attention than two Irish Wolfhounds could possibly know what to do with.

Clover, our beautiful black Wolfhound, was her usual magnificent self. Hooligan, her enormous eight-month-old younger brother, was delighted to discover that an entire village had apparently gathered for the express purpose of admiring him.

We were mobbed- in the best way possible!

Justin had a crowd. I had a crowd. Children lined up to meet the hounds, parents took photographs, and people approached from every direction. We handed out 61 Halloween goody bags in less than two hours, along with information about Emerald Hounds Abound.

At one point, I became so busy talking and handing things out that I failed to notice Hooligan had begun licking the Halloween face paint off a child's face.

The child was smiling.

Hooligan was delighted.

Apparently, we'd expanded into cosmetic removal services without my knowledge.

Several times throughout the afternoon, we had to walk away from the festivities to give the dogs, and ourselves, a much-needed break. It didn't matter where we went. People found us anyway. Most were wonderfully respectful, standing at a distance until we invited them over.

Then the crowds would form all over again.

And somewhere in the middle of this delightful chaos, we encountered a woman who would provide one of the most memorable moments of the entire afternoon.

She looked at Clover and Hooligan, two enormous, shaggy Irish Wolfhounds, and confidently announced:

"Those are Jack Russells."

Now, I've heard some interesting breed guesses over the years. Scottish Deerhounds? Understandable. Long-haired Great Danes? Not quite, but I can see how someone might get there.

But Jack Russell Terriers?

I looked at the woman, looked at the dogs, and naturally assumed she was joking.

So I agreed with her.

That was my first mistake.

She immediately turned toward her family, practically bursting with triumph.

"I KNEW IT! I KNOW DOGS!"

Oh.

Oh, dear.

She wasn't joking.

I looked down at Clover and Hooligan, who together represented more than three hundred pounds of canine magnificence. The average Jack Russell Terrier weighs somewhere around fifteen pounds.

Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong in the breeding program.

"Actually," I told her, "they're Irish Wolfhounds."

Now, at this point, most people would laugh, acknowledge the mistake, perhaps ask a question about the breed, and carry on with their afternoon.

Not this woman.

She immediately informed me that she knew they were Irish.

"We're Irish," she explained.

"Okay," I replied.

And then, as though the conversation hadn't already wandered far enough into uncharted territory, she began explaining to her children that the dogs were symbols of Ireland.

I stood there for a moment, contemplating a question that was practically begging to be asked.

The Jack Russells or the Wolfhounds?

I didn't ask.

I turned around and walked away.

There are moments in life when you realize that absolutely nothing you say is going to improve a conversation. Twenty years working in probation has taught me to recognize those moments.

It has also taught me to be particularly suspicious of certain declarations.

"To be honest with you."

"I swear on my mother's grave."

And now, apparently:

"I KNOW DOGS!"

What's particularly remarkable is that this wasn't the first time I'd encountered that exact declaration.

Years earlier, someone had confidently informed me that Shamrock, our magnificent 210-pound Irish Wolfhound, was a long-haired Great Dane. When I explained that he was, in fact, an Irish Wolfhound, she refused to believe me.

Why?

Because she knew dogs.

Of course she did.

Shamrock, however, remains the undisputed champion of mistaken identity. During a walk in 2021, a man actually slammed on his brakes, backed his car up to us, and asked whether I was walking a cow.

A cow.

When I offered to let him demonstrate how to milk my supposed livestock, Shamrock turned toward the man, sneezed, shook himself, and delivered one enormous, authoritative WOOF.

The man apparently realized that the creature before him was not a cow after all and departed in a cloud of tire smoke.

Shamrock never needed to explain himself further.

And now, five years later, his younger sister and cousin have managed to confuse an entirely new generation of animal experts.

I suppose there's something reassuring about that.

The world changes. Technology advances. People come and go. But somewhere, at any given moment, there's a person standing in front of an Irish Wolfhound who is absolutely certain they're looking at something else.

And heaven help you if they know dogs.

Because they'll tell you.

They ALWAYS tell you.

Something Ancient Still Walks With Us.