And then he’ll have no sticks and I’ll have both

sticks. “You think I’m really dumb, don’t you,

dog,” I said. I heaved back and with a great, exag-

gerated groan hurled the stick with all my might.

Sure enough, Marley roared into the water with his

stick still locked in his teeth. The only thing was, I

hadn’t let go of mine. Do you think Marley figured

that out? He swam halfway to Palm Beach before

catching on that the stick was still in my hand.

“You’re cruel!” Jenny yelled down from her

bench, and I looked back to see she was laughing.

When Marley finally got back onshore, he

plopped down in the sand, exhausted but not

about to give up his stick. I showed him mine, re-

minding him how far superior it was to his, and

ordered, “Drop it!” I cocked my arm back as if to

throw, and the dummy bolted back to his feet and

began heading for the water again. “Drop it!” I

John Grogan

repeated when he returned. It took several tries,

but finally he did just that. And the instant his

stick hit the sand, I launched mine into the air for

him. We did it over and over, and each time he

seemed to understand the concept a little more

clearly. Slowly the lesson was sinking into that

thick skull of his. If he returned his stick to me, I

would throw a new one for him. “It’s like an office

gift exchange,” I told him. “You’ve got to give to

get.” He leaped up and smashed his sandy mouth

against mine, which I took to be an acknowledg-

ment of a lesson learned.

As Jenny and I walked home, the tuckered Mar-

ley for once did not strain against his leash. I

beamed with pride at what we had accomplished.

For weeks Jenny and I had been working to teach

him some basic social skills and manners, but

progress had been painfully slow. It was like we

were living with a wild stallion—and trying to

teach it to sip tea from fine porcelain. Some days I

felt like Anne Sullivan to Marley’s Helen Keller. I

thought back to Saint Shaun and how quickly I, a

mere ten-year-old boy, had been able to teach him

all he needed to know to be a great dog. I won-

dered what I was doing wrong this time.

But our little fetching exercise offered a glim-

mer of hope. “You know,” I said to Jenny, “I re-

ally think he’s starting to get it.”

Marley & Me

She looked down at him, plodding along beside

us. He was soaking wet and coated in sand, spittle

foaming on his lips, his hard-won stick still

clenched in his jaws. “I wouldn’t be so sure of

that,” she said.

The next morning I again awoke before dawn to

the sounds of Jenny softly sobbing beside me.

“Hey,” I said, and wrapped my arms around her.

She nestled her face against my chest, and I could

feel her tears soaking through my T-shirt.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. I’m just—you

know.”

I did know. I was trying to be the brave soldier,

but I felt it, too, the dull sense of loss and failure.

It was odd. Less than forty-eight hours earlier we

had been bubbling with anticipation over our new

baby. And now it was as if there had never been a

pregnancy at all. As if the whole episode was just a

dream from which we were having trouble waking.

Later that day I took Marley with me in the car

to pick up a few groceries and some things Jenny

needed at the pharmacy. On the way back, I

stopped at a florist shop and bought a giant bou-

quet of spring flowers arranged in a vase, hoping

they would cheer her up. I strapped them into the

seat belt in the backseat beside Marley so they

John Grogan

wouldn’t spill. As we passed the pet shop, I made

the split-second decision that Marley deserved a

pick-me-up, too. After all, he had done a better

job than I at comforting the inconsolable woman

in our lives. “Be a good boy!” I said. “I’ll be right

back.” I ran into the store just long enough to buy

an oversized rawhide chew for him.

When we got home a few minutes later, Jenny

came out to meet us, and Marley tumbled out of

the car to greet her. “We have a little surprise for

you,” I said. But when I reached in the backseat

for the flowers, the surprise was on me. The bou-

quet was a mix of white daisies, yellow mums, as-

sorted lilies, and bright red carnations. Now,

however, the carnations were nowhere to be

found. I looked more closely and found the decap-

itated stems that minutes earlier had held blos-

soms. Nothing else in the bouquet was disturbed.

I glared at Marley and he was dancing around like

he was auditioning for Soul Train. “Get over

here!” I yelled, and when I finally caught him and

pried open his jaws, I found the incontrovertible

evidence of his guilt. Deep in his cavernous

mouth, tucked up in one jowl like a wad of chew-

ing tobacco, was a single red carnation. The others

presumably were already down the hatch. I was

ready to murder him.

I looked up at Jenny and tears were streaming

Marley & Me

down her cheeks. But this time, they were tears of

laughter. She could not have been more amused

had I flown in a mariachi band for a private sere-

nade. There was nothing left for me to do but

laugh, too.

“That dog,” I muttered.

“I’ve never been crazy about carnations any-

way,” she said.

Marley was so thrilled to see everyone happy

and laughing again that he jumped up on his hind

legs and did a break dance for us.

The next morning, I awoke to bright sun dappling

through the branches of the Brazilian pepper tree

and across the bed. I glanced at the clock; it was

nearly eight. I looked over at my wife sleeping

peacefully, her chest rising and falling with long,

slow breaths. I kissed her hair, draped an arm

across her waist, and closed my eyes again.

C H A P T E R 8

A Battle of Wills

❉

When Marley was not quite six months old,

we signed him up for obedience classes.

God knew he needed it. Despite his stick-fetching

breakthrough on the beach that day, he was prov-

ing himself a challenging student, dense, wild,

constantly distracted, a victim of his boundless

nervous energy. We were beginning to figure out

that he wasn’t like other dogs. As my father put it

shortly after Marley attempted marital relations

with his knee, “That dog’s got a screw loose.” We

needed professional help.

Our veterinarian told us about a local dog-

training club that offered basic obedience classes

on Tuesday nights in the parking lot behind the

armory. The teachers were unpaid volunteers

from the club, serious amateurs who presumably

had already taken their own dogs to the heights of

John Grogan

advanced behavior modification. The course ran

eight lessons and cost fifty dollars, which we

thought was a bargain, especially considering that

Marley could destroy fifty dollars’ worth of shoes

in thirty seconds. And the club all but guaranteed

we’d be marching home after graduation with the

next great Lassie. At registration we met the

woman who would be teaching our class. She was

a stern, no-nonsense dog trainer who subscribed

to the theory that there are no incorrigible dogs,

just weak-willed and hapless owners.

The first lesson seemed to prove her point. Be-

fore we were fully out of the car, Marley spotted

the other dogs gathering with their owners across

the tarmac. A party! He leaped over us and out

of the car and was off in a tear, his leash dragging

behind him. He darted from one dog to the next,

sniffing private parts, dribbling pee, and flinging

huge wads of spit through the air. For Marley it

was a festival of smells—so many genitals, so little

time—and he was seizing the moment, being care-

ful to stay just ahead of me as I raced after him.

Each time I was nearly upon him, he would scoot a

few feet farther away. I finally got within striking

distance and took a giant leap, landing hard with

both feet on his leash. This brought him to a jolt-

ing halt so abrupt that for a moment I thought I

might have broken his neck. He jerked backward,

Marley & Me

landed on his back, flipped around, and gazed up

at me with the serene expression of a heroin ad-

dict who had just gotten his fix.

Meanwhile, the instructor was staring at us with

a look that could not have been more withering

had I decided to throw off my clothes and dance

naked right there on the blacktop. “Take your

place, please,” she said curtly, and when she saw

both Jenny and me tugging Marley into position,

she added: “You are going to have to decide which

of you is going to be trainer.” I started to explain

that we both wanted to participate so each of us

could work with him at home, but she cut me off.

“A dog,” she said definitively, “can only answer to

one master.” I began to protest, but she silenced

me with that glare of hers—I suppose the same

glare she used to intimidate her dogs into

submission—and I slinked off to the sidelines

with my tail between my legs, leaving Master

Jenny in command.

This was probably a mistake. Marley was al-

ready considerably stronger than Jenny and knew

it. Miss Dominatrix was only a few sentences into

her introduction on the importance of establish-

ing dominance over our pets when Marley decided

the standard poodle on the opposite side of the

class deserved a closer look. He lunged off with

Jenny in tow.

John Grogan

All the other dogs were sitting placidly beside

their masters at tidy ten-foot intervals, awaiting

further instructions. Jenny was fighting valiantly

to plant her feet and bring Marley to a halt, but he

lumbered on unimpeded, tugging her across the

parking lot in pursuit of hot-poodle butt-sniffing

action. My wife looked amazingly like a water-

skier being towed behind a powerboat. Everyone

stared. Some snickered. I covered my eyes.

Marley wasn’t one for formal introductions. He

crashed into the poodle and immediately

crammed his nose between her legs. I imagined it

was the canine male’s way of asking, “So, do you

come here often?”

After Marley had given the poodle a full gyne-

cological examination, Jenny was able to drag him

back into place. Miss Dominatrix announced

calmly, “That, class, is an example of a dog that

has been allowed to think he is the alpha male of

his pack. Right now, he’s in charge.” As if to drive

home the point, Marley attacked his tail, spinning

wildly, his jaws snapping at thin air, and in the

process he wrapped the leash around Jenny’s an-

kles until she was fully immobilized. I winced for

her, and gave thanks that it wasn’t me out there.

The instructor began running the class through

the sit and down commands. Jenny would firmly

order, “Sit!” And Marley would jump up on her

Marley & Me

and put his paws on her shoulders. She would

press his butt to the ground, and he would roll

over for a belly rub. She would try to tug him into

place, and he would grab the leash in his teeth,

shaking his head from side to side as if he were

wrestling a python. It was too painful to watch. At

one point I opened my eyes to see Jenny lying on

the pavement facedown and Marley standing over

her, panting happily. Later she told me she was

trying to show him the down command.

As class ended and Jenny and Marley rejoined

me, Miss Dominatrix intercepted us. “You really

need to get control over that animal,” she said

with a sneer. Well, thank you for that valuable

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