In the spirit of spring, last Sunday I went for a hike to the fire tower in Norwich. As a veteran hiker, I knew to bring along some emergency supplies in case I got into a pickle: water, food, matches, warm outer layers, a Swiss army knife, my girlfriend, wool socks, etc. But without a doubt, had I gotten into trouble out there in the unforgiving Norwich woods none of these items would have saved me. My girlfriend is no MacGyver and I forgot the rest of the stuff in the car. The one thing that most likely would have saved me was the one other thing I brought along with me: Vic, Alpha Delta's Bernese Mountain Dog. I am now a firm believer that frat dogs are more than pizza crust disposal units; they are life savers as well, which is more than I can say for the rest of the canine world.
For those unfamiliar with the breed, Bernese Mountain Dogs are enormous, black, bear-like monstrosities bred with the sole purpose of dragging French and Swiss skiers out of avalanches in the Alps while wearing comically large barrels of brandy around their necks. The thinking being that brandy would desensitize the victim while being dragged down the side of a mountain. While Vic lacks the barrel and Alpine terrain, his rescue instincts have not dulled the least. On several occasions I have witnessed him rescuing pizza boxes and winter jackets from certain peril by dragging them out of AD onto the lawn and ripping them to shreds in a futile attempt at resuscitation.
However, my respect for Vic's rescuing abilities was limited. Vic was no Lassie, but I figured taking him along for the hike couldn't hurt. My understanding of Vic and frat dogs in general would completely change as my girlfriend and I began climbing up the fire tower for a panoramic view of Vermont and New Hampshire. As I expected, Vic was unwilling to climb up the 50 feet of weathered wooden steps leading to the top. Vic had sensed a half-eaten turkey sandwich in need of rescuing in the bushes and was gone. We left him there and continued up the rickety steel frame to the top of the fire tower. While enjoying the view, being the true romantic that I am, I began to utter those sweet nothings that only a panoramic view of the Vermont landscape can really bring out: "Yo check how far I can spit from up here!" My wails of joy as a loogie flew towards the New Hampshire border triggered Vic's rescue mode.
Before we knew it, the dog that had been sheepish of the tower's shadow and frightened by its steep ascent upward, was bounding upward to our rescue. He climbed two-thirds of the way up before he realized that we were safe and that I just was getting overly excited about saliva and the laws of gravity. I do not doubt that had there been real danger Vic would have dragged me down step-by-step to the ground and then down the trail back to my car where he would have ripped my body apart limb by limb.
This experience came as a big surprise to me. I didn't realize that your average dog could be so heroic. Besides the bomb-and-drug sniffing dogs used for security at airports and border crossings and the courageous and zany three-some of two dogs and a cat in "Homeward Bound: the Incredible Journey," my notion of dog heroics was limited to barking at the mailman really loudly. This is because my dog back home lacks any semblance of courage, among many other positive personality traits. His name is Tucker (after Chris Tucker).
Tucker is a member of a truly failed dog breed that was created through years of unsuccessful genetic experiments by the French. Yes, Tucker is a Bassett Hound. He has the height of a Dachshund, the ears of small elephant, the beauty of a rumpled sweater and the intellect of a potato. And these are his redeeming qualities. He also smells, barks, howls, whines, begs, jumps up on people, rolls in feces, eats feces, runs away when his name is called and drools. On so many levels he lacks the class and loyalty of a frat dog like Vic. If we were ever in a dangerous situation, Tucker would undoubtedly save himself first and then take a nap.
What explains the difference between these two dogs? If I had to guess, I'd say that it had do to with who trained them. While Vic has received constant attention, training and affection from the 22 dog-crazy guys he lives with, Tucker's training was left to me. For the past eight years I have tried unsuccessfully to turn Tucker into a pleasant-smelling house pet.
While Tucker was a puppy, his behavior was somewhat explainable. He chewed up things while teething and had a relatively normal penchant for peeing in secret locations. But he refused to learn anything beyond basic house-breaking skills. I even attempted to educate him by taking him to dog school. He and I both failed out. In a room full of 20 to 25 well-mannered puppies and dogs sitting and staying, Tucker was the only one running loose and humping the other pupils. I was politely asked to leave after the third week. Tucker had been gone since week two. If I were ever trapped in an avalanche, I am confident that Tucker would bark at me a couple times and then run away.
So what I am I trying to say from all this? While it's easy to judge a frat dog by its slow moving garbage disposal-like demeanor and strand of drool dangling from his jowls, underneath this exterior is something else -a dedicated selfless animal that will climb mountains for you (and probably drag you back down as well). I know from my personal experience, not all dogs have this in them. I think the same thing can be said for Dartmouth's frat boys. On the surface they may appear to be big smelly, easily-entertained human beings, but when push comes to shove, they are going to be there for you when you need them the most. Also, they will almost never poop on your lawn.
