Barley and Me (don't worry, nobody dies in this one)

Very few bonds are stronger than the one between a man and his dog.

Unless that dog is actually his wife's from before they were married, and when she's not around the dog still looks at him as if to say, "You can't tell me what to do, you're not my real dog dad," and then poops in his dress shoes.

Then the bond's kind of awkward.

Which more or less describes my relationship with our cocker spaniel/golden retriever mix, Barley. In fact, I've only recently started referring to him as "my dog." Obviously, that doesn't apply to times like when I'm telling others about how he scoots around the house dragging his rear end on the carpet because he has worms. He's still "my wife's dog" then. But when he does something amazing -- you know, like catch a Frisbee in midair or not urinate in the house for two consecutive days -- well, then I'll claim him.

So when the nice folks with the Southeastern Wildlife Expo asked me if I'd like to participate in the DockDogs dog-jumping competition with my own dog -- an opportunity to solidify the bond between Barley and me -- I immediately said yes. And then called the SPCA to see if they offered loaners.

Totally kidding. I waited at least 10 minutes.

But as it turns out, they don't do that sort of thing, so instead I signed up with Barley. Not only would it be fun(ish), I thought, but it might provide the two of us an opportunity to take our relationship to the next level (also known as "Level 1").

For those of you who don't know what DockDogs is, it's a governing body that runs contests to see whose dog can jump farthest into a pool of water. Basically, they're looking for the Carl Lewis of dogs, only with a better singing voice. Which, oddly enough, are two things Barley does well. (Throw in "smelling like a gutted carp," and that makes three marketable skills.)

As it turned out, Barley and I would be competing against a bunch of local media people. A veritable who's who in Charleston. (As in, "Who's that up there?" "I have no idea.")

It didn't take long to realize that all the other media people hadn't brought their own dogs because they knew they would be supplied with professional jumping dogs for the competition, thus bettering their chances of victory. As all the confident dogs surrounded Barley, I could sense his mounting nervousness. So I turned to him -- looking him straight in the eye, no doubt connecting with the pooch for if just a brief moment -- and said, "Don't worry about them, boy. You're my partner for better or worse."

But that was before I found out he was a wuss and scared to jump off a raised dock, so I ditched him for Ralphie. Who ended up leading me to victory.

Needless to say, the car ride home was a little awkward, Barley sitting silently in the back seat, staring at me from between the head rests as I marveled at Ralphie's and my blue ribbon.

Though I felt a little guilty about bailing on him for the competition, in the end, I don't really think he cared. After all, one of the spectators told me that he got into one of the other dogs' food and ate it while he was competing.

Yep, that's MY dog.

Bryce Donovan also thinks Barley might like him better, too, because he's pooped in his dress shoes twice already this week. Reach him at 937-5938 or bdonovan@postandcourier.com.