THE PROBLEM OF THE CHOW CHOW.

I'll Never Go Back to Georgia

The problem of the chow chow, unleashed, in a summery rural lane. With no owner, apparently, nearby. And no people, for that matter, anywhere about. The problem of that chow chow, cocking his head, raising his tail, in that rural lane. In Georgia. He'd been clenching a softball in his jaws, and when I arrived, dropped it, slobbery, beaten by bats and gloves. The ball rolled off to the side and the chow chow cocked his head, a black dog with purple gums, its tail not passive, but raising like hackles. To know a dog's name is to know his combination and if you get one or two tries incorrect, unlike a safe -- which will just sit there, dumbly guarding its valuables -- the dog will grow and growl impatient. Or worse. Would nobody name a rottweiler "Rottweiler" or a shepherd "Shepherd" but a chow chow's second name is always "Chow Chow". And so the problem of the rural chow chow, unleashed, was solved. Even though I've never been in a country lane. In Georgia. It was Florida, instead, and the chow chow was a friend of mine.