The author and his Yalie.
It took me more than seven decades to get into Yale, not as an undergrad but a lecturer. It took our pooch, Lucca, only 15 months to receive his notice of acceptance as a student.
In late February, he passed his entrance exam at the university’s Canine Cognition Center on St. Ronan Street. It tests, according to the website, “how dogs think about the world.” Lucca’s world, by comparison to ours, seems unburdened by painful news and worries.
So, when asked to find hidden treats in a three-card monte trick and pay attention to a video — feats equivalent, apparently, to a high school human who boasts a 4.0 GPA and captains the debate team – he focused only on those tests.
As a result, he now owns a sheepskin, or facsimile, that verifies our Lagotto Romagnolo is a “dog scholar.” It is signed by none other than Dr. Laurie Santos, who has presided over the most popular course ever at Bulldog U., on the keys to happiness.
It’s a good thing, however, that she and her colleagues do not test the intelligence and competence of dog owners. If these were ever recorded and reviewed by the school’s behavioral scientists, I’d end up on probation.
It wouldn’t help me to point out I’d never had a dog before, and therefore am a sucker for Lucca’s affection.
The fact is I’m not a reliable purveyor of the discipline required of anyone who owns such a pet. Whenever I say “No,” to him, only 16 times a typical day, he tilts his head, as if to say, “Really?” And, too often, I back off.
When I walk in the door after spending hours on campus, he seems happy to see me, but in a second has absconded with my scarf or gloves.
At such a point, I don’t sit him down and say, “If you do that again, I won’t take you to Disneyworld.”
Could I put a value on the inventory that Lucca has ruined? Yes. Shoes alone: There are the Hogans, the Asics sneakers, the Tom’s walkarounds, the Birkenstocks. That’s maybe $500.
But what price is that to pay for a guy who every morning climbs up on the bed to lick my left eyelid? (Why he never licks my right eyelid is an issue I intend to take up with his therapist.)
On the other hand, there is his latest caper to consider.
As a member of the English Department, I gird myself for some version of, “The dog ate my homework.” Indeed, Yale students are clever, too clever to offer that explanation.
But how to excuse my recent incident at home, something that on the retail market may have cost me at least $2,500 if the timing had been different?
At my age, I am among the legions of seniors who need a little help eating and smiling. That is, I used to tell people that the reason I didn’t go to dental school was that as a youngster I couldn’t count to 32, the preferred number of choppers. The joke, however, was on me. I never would have to count that high, given the number of original teeth I would end up with.
Yale may one day offer a course, Math 320: Lary Bloom’s Big Mouth: Subtract 22 From 32, add 16 for Implants That Didn’t Take, 9 That Did, Divide by 16 in a Plastic Plate, and What Do You Get?
This is one to stump even Lucca.
This Ivy Leaguer isn’t intuitive enough to distinguish a piece of kibble from a titanium dental implant that, having seen its better days, escaped from the receding bone in the upper jaw.
How the incident happened: I of course had done what any human would do when I noticed something was missing in my mouth. I picked it up off the floor, issued the required “Oh, what kind of fool am I?” but, providing further proof of the charge, placed the well-used metal screw on the counter in the bathroom.
I knew very well that Lucca seldom leaves potential food unnoticed, but thought, hey, this probably isn’t very appetizing. Then, as Suzanne and I were on a Zoom call with friends, an alarm went off in my head – what if…
It was too late. I got to the bathroom just as Lucca inhaled the implant, made with an element that possibly came from, of all places, Ukraine, a major exporter of titanium.
My attempts to get him to throw it up went for naught. I called my periodontist, who of course has heard many stories over his years in practice. But never this one.
At first, he worried this was the new implant that he’d screwed into my head just weeks earlier.
“No, I explained, “this is one from the old days.”
Relieved, he seconded my view that it was no longer of use, though seemed skeptical that it might fetch a few dollars on eBay.
He changed the subject to Lucca’s welfare. Indeed, it is well known that dogs can get severe reactions to chocolate or raisins or onions, though I haven’t come across any expert who yet has added dental implants on that list.
I was reminded of a Facebook post by another Lagotto owner who said her pooch ate her grandmother’s diamond earrings, and so a poop-snoop posse had to be organized. It eventually discovered the missing ice in a pile.
Our story has a similarly happy ending. As it turned out, there was no need for panic. It all, apparently, came out in the end. Somewhere.