An Outlaw Dog

When we lived in Greenwich Connecticut in the 1970s-1980s, we had a dog named Valentine. She was a mutt, and Greenwich is a pretty fancy town. We eventually had to get rid of her. This was my eulogy in the Greenwich News.

The long criminal career of Valentine LeMoult, my outlaw dog, is over. This will come as welcome news to the decent, upstanding citizens of Greenwich, but many a grizzled veteran of the underworld is blinking back a tear as he elbows up to a bar down by the railroad tracks.

Valentine was a legend in her own grime. In her early days, she traveled with Butch Beagle and the Sundance Hound. She was their gun moll and was known to have personally participated in knocking over banks of garbage pails. She once single-handedly held up traffic in downtown Old Greenwich for ten minutes while the gang made a getaway behind the GranCentral Market.

In her old age, Valentine limited her criminal activity to violation of a host of state and local ordinances. Gone were the glory days with the old gang. But like Al Capone, who was ignominiously defeated by the Internal Revenue Code, it was municipal ordinances which got Valentine in the end.

Valentine started out life as the afterthought of a dashing Labrador Retriever passing through to Dodge City and a pliant Springer Spaniel named Kitty, who couldn’t resist the smooth line of her vagabond lover. That was the last she ever saw of the Lab except for one postcard from Juarez, which said he was on the lam - or was it the lamb chop?

We first saw Valentine at the Stamford Pound where she was being held on charges of practicing dogginess without a license. She was named after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. We had lived in New York City for 13 years and didn’t know that Greenwich had a rule requiring that all dogs be purebred with lineage going back to the time of William the Conqueror.

We asked the warden the make and model of Valentine. “This is a ‘Basics’ dog” he said. “You know, like the ‘Basics’ products you can buy in some supermarkets.” Well, we asked, is there a name for the breed? “Yes,” he said. “This is a pure Cur, of the hangdog variety.” Ah, we sighed. Of course. We could see that hangdog look, the drooping eyes, the drooling mouth, and fleas. We asked to see her “papers.” He produced a rap sheet showing 17 arrests and six convictions. “And at such a young age,” we said. “We’d like to bail her out.” “Okay,” said the warden, “but this dog is trouble. It’s your problem now.”

I can’t tell you the river of tears shed by my wife over the years because of the wild antics of our wandering acquisition. While we plugged away at the ranch, looking at the horizon for some sign of the fleas and ticks which usually preceded her arrival, Valentine was off with Butch and Sundance casing some veal joint or eluding the long arm of the law. We had both grown up in a frontier gold-mining town called Larchmont, New York, where dogs roamed free and every man packed a gun. We couldn’t bear the thought of locking up this emancipated scion of the wild sagebrush. But we both knew that Valentine would come to no good end.

One day, while pitching hay in the barn, I got a call from a lady in downtown Old Greenwich. “Do you own a small black dog with floppy ears and spots on its paws?” she asked. “Maybe,” I answered, “who wants to know?” “Well I’m a dog lover, first class,” she responded, “and everybody down here says this is your dog.” “Probably is,” I said, “what is the problem?” “The poor dog is lost and wandering around,” she said, deep concern reflected in her voice. “Well ma’am, I’m right grateful to you for calling; I’ll just mosey on down and get her.”

As I hung up the phone, I tried to stifle a laugh. Lost! That dog has never been lost. She could set up an information booth in Old Greenwich and offer tours of the town. She knows every street, house, back alley and garbage can in the area. She was on a first-name basis with the druggist, the barber, and the firemen.

But every dog has its day, and Valentine’s has come and gone. Her picture is still in every post office, and the “Most Wanted” television series recently did a special segment on her illegal exploits. One of our neighbors recognized her under her alias, Ma Barker, and threatened to report her to the authorities.

Our neighbor had good cause for umbrage. He had his house on the market for sale, and Valentine chose his yard as a temporary hideout. While lying low under his bushes, Valentine noticed that the house was not equipped with a bomb shelter and set about excavating holes to provide this luxury. Unable to erect a sign advertising her services - as roofers, painters and remodelers often do - Valentine left several of her calling cards around the property.

In her twilight years of fading beauty, Valentine would put on heavy lipstick, rouge and eye makeup, and hang out in the middle of the intersection near our house. Some friends, seeing her lying there motionless, feared (or hoped) she was dead. But no such luck. She was just regulating traffic.

My neighbor pointed-out that Valentine was in violation of Statutes forbidding “roaming upon the land.” Guilty as charged. But this dog didn’t just roam, she traveled, she explored, she set out in the spirit of Vasco de Gama, Marco Polo, Amundsen and Perry. She would have been the first dog to conquer Mt. Everest if she’d had a better travel agent. He also accused Valentine of violating the Statute which prohibits dogs from being a “nuisance.” Now this I resent. Even though she was old and arthritic, Valentine was never a mere “nuisance.” She remained an outright menace to civilized society right up until the end.

Well, Greenwich is a town that carefully cultivates its lawns and property values. It’s no place for a free spirit like Valentine. We’ve put her out to pasture. Happy trails to you, Valentine, until we meet again.