My father was a man of absolute conviction, so when he decreed that the only cars worth having were made by General Motors we believed him. When he said that a vote for a Democrat was a vote for socialism no one argued. When my mother made a meatloaf studded with hard boiled eggs, he declared it unfit for human consumption and she never made it again. And when he absolutely refused to consider adopting a mixed breed dog because “you never know what you’re getting,” no one ever saw any reason to dispute him.
Like most sons, my adherence to my father’s core beliefs has been somewhat fluid. For example, I don’t drive a GM car and I consistently vote Democrat. On the other hand I do agree that my mother’s meatloaf studded with hard boiled eggs was an abomination and, until recently, I never owned a mixed breed dog because, control freak that I am, I wanted to know what I was getting.
Then we adopted Ali, who the Humane Society solemnly assured us was a six-week old Lab mix. I felt virtuous for adopting a rescue dog and comfortable because, as a female Lab mix, I assumed that she would grow into a friendly, laid-back animal who would be eager to please, not too bright and, most importantly, not too big.
When Ali was about eight weeks old my partner looked at her and said, “She doesn’t look like a Lab.” I had to agree. For one thing, her ears stood straight up, like a German shepherd and her tail stood straight up like a Pointer. “Well,” I said heartily, “maybe her father was a German shepherd. Or a Pointer.”
“Or a German pointer,” said my partner.
By twelve weeks, Ali started to developed speckles on her paws and snout “She’s part leopard hound,” said my sister with authority. I accused her of making up dog breeds but she was vehement. “Trust me,” she said.
By 16 weeks Ali had developed a bark like a junkyard dog; it was so fierce that she sometimes scared herself. “That’s a Rottweiler bark,” my brother said with certainty. My brother is something of an authority on dogs because he watches the Westminster Dog Show every year, but I pointed out that she looks nothing like a Rottweiler. He stood firm: “She’s definitely part Rottweiler,” he said, “or maybe Greyhound.”
By 16 weeks, guessing Ali’s heritage had become something of a parlor game for friends and family, and by now our sweet tempered “Lab mix” was lean, energetic and too smart for her own good. She also hated water and was maddeningly obstinate: in short, she was about as “un-Lab like” as she could be. Different people told us that she absolutely, positively was part boxer, Akita, Dalmatian, poodle, Yorkie and Great Dane. “Do you think?” I said, over and over.
By 24 weeks as Ali kept growing larger and larger we started to get worried. “How much bigger is she going to get?” my partner asked the night that she joined us at dinner and rested her head on the table. ”She’s only 6 months old.”
“Well,” I said, sounding like my father, ”you never know what you’re getting with a mixed breed.”
Soon after, in one of the most bizarre impulse purchases of my life, I bought a “Doggie DNA” kit at the pet store. As per instructions, we swabbed Ali’s mouth with what looked like a small bottlebrush; we were somewhat hampered when Ali clamped down on the swab and refused to let go. “Maybe she’s part pit bull,” said my partner, panting slightly as he tried to pry open her jaws. Ali rolled onto her back and kicked her legs in the air, clearly enjoying herself. Then we sent the swab to a lab for analysis.
The results came back via email 3 weeks later. “Results are inconclusive,” the report said, listing 8 separate “possible” sources of ancestry that included Irish setter, beagle, Akita, Airedale and Chihuahua. “Labrador Retriever” was not even on the list.
My partner was incensed; “A Chihuahua/Irish setter mix? Demand a refund. Call the Better Business Bureau. Stop payment on the credit card. ”
I was unsure if I was demanding a refund for the DNA kit or for Ali, so I did not respond and kept reading the analysis that accompanied the test results. “Remember,” I read out loud, “when you have a dog of uncertain ancestry you have a wonderful lifetime companion, but you’re never sure exactly what you’re going to get.”
