Valentine Dog

by Jefferson Holland

Ifirst met Ruffian shortly after moving to Eastport, the maritime working-class neighborhood of Annapolis, where Black and white families had lived in relative harmony for generations. I had moved in with some other quirky housemates and found a job with Annapolis Boat Shows. My way around at that time was my old canoe—a 17-foot, square-stern Grumman aluminum that my Dad had bought when I was six. I poked up and down all the creeks and eventually discovered a little stretch of beach on the far side of the mouth of Back Creek.

The beach was deserted when I scuffed the bow up onto the sand, but before I could step ashore, a big black dog appeared and spat a huge chunk of driftwood at my feet. He stood there, staring at me expectantly, so I dutifully picked up the hunk of wood and chucked it as far as I could into the water. He charged after it, grasped it in his jaws, brought it back and spat it at my feet again.

This went on for some time, not just on that day but on all the other days that summer I came paddling back to play with my new friend. About that time, I realized that the beach was Bembe Beach and the property belonged to the Annapolis Sailing School and that the school was a sister company to the boat shows. I got to know the sailing school crew, some of whom lived in a little cottage on the marina grounds. One of these guys was the owner of this dog. I learned that his name was Ruffian, and that he was part Labrador and part Chesapeake Bay retriever, which accounted for his thick, curly fur and his swaggering attitude.

It was also about this time that my housemates and I decided to attend a poetry reading at the Maryland Inn over in downtown Annapolis. Standing in line in the lobby, I saw a tall, beautiful woman looking for the entrance to the evening’s program. I gallantly invited her to join our party, since the event was sure to have limited seating, taking place as it was in the little King of France Tavern, tucked under the low beams in the stone-walled basement of the inn.

She squeezed in with us at our table, and I learned that her name was Louise, that she had just moved to town from Atlanta and that she was a poet in her own right. Her day job was working as a florist in one of the shops on Main Street. The poetry reading led to an invitation to a party at our collective house, and that led to a series of dinners for two, sometimes at my house, sometimes at her tiny apartment in one of the old houses along Conduit Street downtown.

As my relationship with Louise evolved, so did my relationship with Ruffian. In fact, that fall, Ruffian’s owner was heading back to college and asked me to look after him. Hmm. A dilemma. I knew I was in love with Ruffian, and I was pretty sure I was in love with Louise, but what if they didn’t get along?

One autumn evening, Ruff and I walked across the drawbridge to pay a call on Louise. I didn’t tell her I had a companion. I climbed the narrow staircase, which Ruff took in two bounds. She had left the door ajar, and Ruff barged into the tiny sitting room where—this is true—Louise was practicing her yoga. This strange, 98-pound black dog leapt on her and commenced ardently licking her face. The result? Laughter. She started laughing, then I started laughing. Louise had passed the test.

Louise and I were married a year or so later and we went to the beach at Cape Henlopen for our honeymoon. Ruffian, of course, came along. That was 39 years ago. We have a different dog now, but Ruff will always be up there among the best dogs that ever fetched a stick.

Sometime later, my musical partner, Kevin Brooks, wrote a ditty that’s still my favorite of all his songs. It’s about the necessities of life: A Good Hat, a Good Dog and a Good Boat. I added a stanza:

“Now let’s consider women for a minute, They’ll judge you by your hat and how you look in it,

But if she likes the way you float your boat,

Then hold on tight and don’t let go,

So long as your good dog ain’t agin’ it!”