Category: Dogs
I love dogs. I grew up with dogs, have a dog right now, and would love it if I could raise my kids with dogs around because they make great companions and can teach them about being responsible when they’re older.
I also believe that pets are pets. They are a part of the family, but they are not human and it can be dangerous to treat them as such. Doing so can lead to the kinds of behavior you see on The Dog Whisperer. In my opinion, the better you understand a dog’s psychology (and realize it is not the same as human psychology), the happier the dog will be.
Not everyone shares this opinion, of course. There are extremes along the pet sentiment spectrum — those that hate pets a little too much and those that love pets a little too much. Bewilderingly, I’ve been running into these extremes lately.
The Pet Haters
These people hate pets. They may have a traumatic history with a dog or cat, were raised to be weary of pets, or have a genuine disdain for animals. As you can imagine, they typically aren’t vegetarians. At least, I haven’t met any vegetarian Pet Haters yet.
Around these people, you can’t bring your pets. They’ll shriek, shrill, and shrink back in horror. For all the cuteness you think your furry little friend has, they’ll see nothing but four legs of unpredictable fearsomeness. Even tame, well-behaved pets cannot break their shell of hate.
Some Pet Haters have an additional annoying trait: They go out of their way to reveal the extent of their hate. Woe to the dog owner who crosses the path of a Pet Hater while on an afternoon walk. The vitriol from such Pet Haters can be caustic.
The Pet Parents
These people love pets. They consider pets to be their actual children, sans the college education bill. The entire pet industry has thrived on such consumers, especially luxury services such as pet spas, pet restaurants, and pet airlines (it’s true, it exists!).
Michael Schaffer’s book “One Nation Under Dog” discusses how pets have become substitutes for children in millions of households. They could be single and only have pets to come home to, be married and cannot have children, or have children and give their pets the majority of their attention. These pet owners even refer to themselves as the Mommy or Daddy to their pets. (Note: My fiance and I use this label for ourselves in regards to our dog, though we don’t honestly view him as our child.)
Some Pet Parents have an additional annoying trait: They go out of their way to share the extent of their love. If you don’t care for your pet in a manner congruent to the love their lavish on their pets, they will brand you a bad, bad Mommy or Daddy.
The Pet Experts
There is a third dimension to this pet sentiment spectrum. These people love pets, but essentially regard them as animal companions that require strict rules and training. You’ll know you are in the presence of a Pet Expert if you catch one quoting Cesar Milan. (Note: I know I’ve done this a few times and am deeply, deeply sorry for my arrogance. I’ll never do it again.)
You’ll find that some Pet Experts may actually be very well-read on the subject of pets. They may be veterinarians, animal control officials, or animal shelter administrators. But just as easily, you’ll find novices that watch only The Dog Whisperer for their canine proficiency.
Some Pet Experts have an additional annoying trait: They go out of their way to pronounce their expertise. If they see you holding the leash incorrectly, you’d better stand back so their angry spittle doesn’t get in your eye. Watch out for Pet Parent / Pet Expert hybrids. Those are the worst.
How to Handle These Extremists
You’ve probably noticed a common theme here. Within each of these types exists people who go out of their way to tell you their opinions. As you may surmise, that is the crux of the problem. Everyone has and is entitled to an opinion on pet ownership. The problem arises when those people express their contempt for others who don’t share their opinions.
I don’t have any contempt for them as individuals. But I do have contempt for their arrogant behavior.
The same patterns exist for children as well. If you are a new parent, I’m sure you’ve encountered people who hate children, people who love their children to the point of spoiling them, and people who believe they know better than others on child care.
I’m sure you also have no problem with their views. It’s when they get in your face and shout their views at you that it becomes unnecessary drama.
So what can you do? I know of some who are always up for a good fight and push right back. I’ve seen more than a few heated arguments at dog parks to know these are fairly common.
I’ve tried that tactic. It only left me frustrated and my day ruined. The argument had no winners, only two people who walked away angry the other person didn’t share their opinions.
So what can you do? I say imagine that person in their underwear. Or a clown suit. Or in a hot dog costume being chased by hungry dogs. Laugh at their ridiculousness and walk away. You’ll never be able to change an extremist’s mind. Trying to do so is like doing math with bubblegum; it’s impossible.
Then go home and play with your pet. Pet therapy is the best cure for unnecessary drama.
Being a work-from-home entrepreneur sometimes means, well, working from home. Most of the time, I prefer to go out and work in a café, bookstore, or even library. Having people around me, even if I’m not interacting with them, feeds me. It energizes me and keeps me motivated.
However, I’m not always able to go out. Especially when it’s raining out or I’m trying to save cash. In those cases, I work from home, which sounds great, doesn’t it? If you’re sitting in an office after a sixty-minute commute through back-to-back traffic, I’m sure it does.
There is a dark downside though. Daytime television.
Just to set the record straight, I don’t regularly watch TV. When I was single, I didn’t even own a television set. Everything I watched was on-demand from DVDs, Hulu or elsewhere.
And admittedly, I’ve gotten addicted to a handful of shows, like Lost and Family Guy. But I skip the majority of shows on TV. Yup, I get all of my modern culture awareness from Lost and Family Guy. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?
So it is with great trepidation that I turn on the TV every day. No, I’m not turning it on for myself. I’m turning it on for my dog.
That’s right, my dog.
I have a fearful little pup that is prone to barking at outside noise. Or at least, the noise he can hear.
When the television is on, Jerry Springer blocks out the scary neighbors outside with scary neighbors inside. The screeching of cats outside is replaced by the screeching of The View inside. The rumbling trucks in the street are covered by the rumbling shmucks in The Bold and the Beautiful.
My dog doesn’t watch the TV himself. Even when there are dogs on TV, he’ll just do his own thing, like play with the Kong or lie at my feet.
Without the TV, however, he’ll stand by the window on alert. With ears perked, he’ll sniff the air and bark at impending intruders. “Danger close, danger close!” he shouts.
What does this mean for me? It means my eye will wander to the television from time to time. I’ll catch a glimpse of a pregnant woman DNA testing ten guys to find out who is her baby daddy. Or a stately old man discovering that his wife’s young lover is really his cousin’s twin brother who’s been lost at sea for years.
Then I’ll shake my head, sigh, and long for a cafe. Daytime television really sucks.
P.S. Fortunately, there is a feasible alternative. Music also shutters outside noise. Though perhaps my band choices – like Slipknot, Slayer, and Five Finger Death Punch – aren’t the best choices to calm a nervous dog.
“Do you go to church?”
We stopped in our tracks. Blinked. Our dog pulled on his leash uneasily.
“Do you go to church?” barked the portly woman again. Her brow furrowed. Clutched in her fist was a stack of pamphlets. Dangling from my hand was a bag of stinky, liquid dog poop.
“You guys do go to church, right?” she demanded.
My girlfriend and I exchanged furtive glances. We had just come from a local street fair and were in a good mood. The summer evening air was cozy and warm. Delicious homemade food sloshed in our tummies. Even the dog had a good time with a few organic gourmet doggie treats, though his stool indicated otherwise.
It’s funny how one person can turn an otherwise good day upside-down.
“Sure,” I muttered.
“What? You go to church, right?”
My mind struggled to process this situation. It’s not every day that I’m interrogated on a nice summer evening like this. I nodded.
“Which church do you go to?”
My girlfriend cleared her throat. “It’s… not around here…” she said with a sideways glimpse in my direction. I nodded in consent of the unspoken agreement between us.
“Oh really? But you DO go to church, don’t you?”
This lady was relentless.
“Yea, sure,” I threw into her face. “We go to church, okay?”
She eyed me. One eye narrower than the other.
“Which church do you go to?”
Relentless. My girlfriend and I exchanged glances again. The bag of liquid poop started to feel like a hot potato. I started walking forward, my girlfriend and the dog right behind me.
“It’s not around here,” I barked.
She scowled. Both eyes narrow. “Good,” she stated. “God be with you.”
I shook my head and we pushed forwarded. Her countenance disappeared behind us. The dog farted. My girlfriend and I gave each other another look. We rolled our eyes in unison. Sighed. Then laughed as we walked home.
How much is that doggie in the window?
The one with the wagglely tail.
How much is that doggie in the window?
I do hope that doggie’s for sale.”
- B. Merrill
Soon, a little bundle of teeth and fur will be scurrying around my feet. He’s an emaciated Labrador Retriever & Terrier mix, about one year of age, with a calm, though timid disposition. We rescued him from a local animal shelter.
I’ve had three dogs consecutively as a kid, two from pet shops and one from relatives. Being a kid, I didn’t care about where the dogs came from, only that we got cute puppies. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I began learning about where someone could get such a faithful companion, and how those sources differed.
To cut to the chase, there are several ways one can get a dog:
- Pet Stores
- Breeders
- Individuals
- Animal Shelters
- Animal Rescues
Pet Stores
The most obvious choice might be pet shops. That’s where my family got our first two dogs. I vaguely remember walking up to the window and seeing a bunch of excited little puppies pawing at the window, their wet noses leaving trails of snot.
Many of these dogs come from puppy mills or puppy farms. The quality of these commercial breeding facilities were exposed by the Humane Society of the United States (and later, by Oprah Winfrey), as being extremely poor. The dogs are kept in tiny cages and receive little medical care, leading to health and social problems later in their lives.
Since puppy mills are a commercial enterprise, when demand is up, they kick up supply. Meaning, every time a female dog is in heat, she is forced to breed. Unfortunately, when demand is down, the “excess” animals have nowhere to go and typically end up euthanized.
In 1966, the Animal Welfare Act was passed to regulate breeding kennels such as these. There are probably a few legitimate puppy mills out there, though most of the sources I’ve read or people I’ve spoken to warn against buying dogs from pet stores because of these puppy mills.
Breeders
Some people intentionally breed a particular kind of dog, even going as far as to breed particular kinds of traits. Professional breeders report each birth to dog registries such as the American Kennel Club, to record a dog’s lineage. The dogs can be purebreds or crossbreds, depending on which is in fashion at the time.
A few of these lucky dogs go on to dog shows with lavish lifestyles (lavish for dogs and, perhaps, for humans too). They are vigorously trained, groomed, and paraded in front of cameras. (Again, much like some humans too.) The excess animals, much like in the case of puppy mills, typically end up euthanized as well.
You can purchase a dog from a breeder if you want a very specific type of dog. Be prepared to pay fairly high fees, however. Although many breeders try to avoid propagating particular traits, breeding by its very nature can sometimes include inbreeding, which usually leads to genetic disorders.
Individuals
You ever see someone parked by the side of the road with a big sign saying, “Free puppies”? That’s probably someone with a family dog who has gotten pregnant and given birth to a litter too copious to feed.
A free puppy from a loving family is probably a fair and economical choice. Such opportunities are rare, however. If you’re looking for a specific breed, it’s even rarer.
There is another class of individuals who will do that, though their sign won’t have the word “free” on it. They are typically known as backyard breeders and, without any guidance or regulation, are trying to make a buck or two.
Backyard breeders are sometimes compared to puppy mills and breeders, in that they are more concerned with profit than the dog’s welfare. Though I didn’t find any information stating this, I assume the excess animals are also euthanized.
Animal Shelters
Not all of the excess dogs from puppy mills, professional breeders, and backyard breeders are euthanized. Many end up at animal shelters, also known as dog pounds.
These organizations accept all the unwanted or lost animals that no one else will take. Some provide basic health care and prepare them for adoption. Others have a no-kill policy where they will care for the animals for the rest of their lives, if they aren’t adopted.
Sadly, the number of dogs in animal shelters has been increasing as a consequence of the economic recession. Some families are unable to afford their homes anymore and move away. In many cases, they abandon their dogs, leaving them to fend for themselves. Many of these dogs die. A few are picked up by dog catchers who take them to animal shelters.
It is tough to tell what kind of dog you’ll find at a shelter, breed-wise and temperament-wise. You’ll find a motley crew of dogs and mutts there, some abandoned, some lost from home, some from breeding organizations. Every time a dog is found, the shelter will not allow them to be adopted for a week or so, in case the dog simply got lost and the original owners come looking.
The shelter at which I found our dog told me they sometimes find up to sixty dogs a week. They also have to euthanize a large number of them, because their facilities simply cannot hold that many animals. The only way these dogs get to survive is if someone adopts them.
Animal Rescues
Animal rescue organizations are similar to animal shelters, though they focus specifically on getting their dogs adopted. Many of these rescue groups are run by volunteers, as opposed to animal shelters which may be operated by city employees (though some animal shelters are also run by volunteers).
These organizations come in many different flavors. There are rescue groups for specific dog breeds, there are networks of volunteer foster homes, and there are animal rescue shelters with kennel facilities.
Many of them rehabilitate their dogs so they are more adoptable, including training, playing, socializing with humans and other dogs, solving behavioral problems, and dealing with medical issues.
This rehabilitation makes dog rescue organizations a good choice if you would like a low-cost and well-trained dog. The volunteers can usually even tell you about the dog’s temperament, training (housebroken or not), medical issues, and other basic care issues.
Where do you want to get your dog from?
So where do you want to get your dog from? Where should you get your dog from? Many animal lovers and animal activists recommend shelters and rescue organizations, since there is such an abundant supply of dogs out there, just waiting to be adopted or euthanized. But if you must go for a purebred or specific crossbred, professional breeders are also an option, albeit a more expensive option.
Regardless of where you get your faithful companion from, you’ll soon be enjoying a little bundle of teeth and fur around your feet, just as I will be. Woof!
She loved the attention. During block parties, when our neighbors would close off the entire street and BBQ together, she’d scamper to and fro. We wouldn’t find her for hours because she was lavishing in neighborly petting praise.
Then she’d wander home and collapse on the floor, exhausted, happy, and with her tongue dangling out of her panting mouth.
Ginger was a tiny black Pomeranian. She looked like a soot-filled cotton ball with feet. When friends and family rang the doorbell, you’d see this black puff scurry to the door and start yapping.
Although she would try to jump onto you, being only a foot & a half tall meant she came up to your shin and that was about it. Then she’d wag her tail happily until you scratched her ear.
Her barks were more like yips. Sometimes she would erupt into a yapping frenzy and start spinning in circles. It was a futile attempt to catch her tail. Seriously. If you accidentally or intentionally poked her, she would get mad and literally go dizzy chasing her tail. It was the strangest sight.
Walking around at night was a health hazard. She’s dart between your legs, hoping for an ear scratch and potentially causing a stumble. If you stepped on her, she’d yip then chase her tail until she was dizzy.
Going to the bathroom (number one or number two) was always a team affair at our household. Ginger would reliably come over to lie at your feet. Presumably to keep them warm. I don’t think she minded the smell. To her, it was always: duty first — must keep my human’s feet warm.
If you shut the bathroom door, she’d patiently wait outside. If you opened the door and accidentally knocked into her, she’d yip then chase her tail until she was dizzy.
Road trips were always fun. She never threw up and, like other dogs, loved the fresh wind on her face. We had to hold onto her tightly though, since she was small enough to blow away.
Imagine: a car full of Asians passes you by, when suddenly a black puff floats out of the window and onto your windshield, yipping and chasing its tail. Yes, we always held onto her tightly during those road trips.
Leaving Ginger home alone wasn’t her favorite activity. She didn’t tear down the house or anything; she was much too small for that. Instead, she yipped and yapped all day long. Probably chased her tail a few times too.
Upon arriving home, I always sat down with her to give her a good ear scratching. She’d reward me by turning on her back so I could give her a belly scratching too.
Ginger also made a good listening companion. I’m sure she didn’t understand a word I said, though at the time, I liked to think that she was empathetic to my plights. In reality, she probably just loved the attention.
And that was our little black Pomeranian. Our little attention doggie.
It was sometime around my freshman year of college when I got the call. I still remember it to this day.
Cute as a button and small as a purse, Ginger was a scampering, yipping puff of hair. She was a tiny black Pomeranian, which is classified as a toy dog breed because they’re small like children’s toys.
Our cousins gave her to us, back when she could fit in a mug. They called her Cookie, because she loved cookies. My Mom carried her home in her purse.
My parents tell me I named her Ginger, though I don’t remember doing that. I’m guessing it was a reference to Gilligan’s Island, which is strange because I always liked Mary Ann better.
She had a habit of going after socks. Sometimes she’d somehow get her tiny head into a sock, then run around aimlessly trying to get the sock off. It was the weirdest sight. A little black dog with a dangling sock over her head, scrambling around and bumping into walls. Really weird.
With a face like a fox, she looked like a stuffed animal. She loved to scamper beneath your feet too. Since she’s black, it was sometimes hard to see her darting around at night. So occasionally, I’d step on her. Oops.
She was a feisty little pup. Full of energy and life, she’d sometimes chase her own tail in dizzy circles. Then she’d stop and stand there, wobbling. I didn’t say she was a smart little pup, only a feisty one.
Pomeranians are supposed to be good watchdogs. Ginger wasn’t. Not shy in the least, she seemed to revel in attention. When friends and neighbors came by, she’d first bark (well, it was more of a tiny “yipping” sound), then run up to them and eagerly take in some free petting.
The kitchen was her favoritest place in the world. Whenever someone entered the kitchen, she’d dash right over. She was always able to eat and keep her girlish figure. I think her belly was a black hole that just sucked down food. That, or she was taking really large poops in the backyard and hiding them from us.
Ginger wasn’t just the family pet though. Sometimes, after a rough day, I’d sit on the porch and Ginger would lie down next to me. There, she’d provide me with some pet therapy. She especially loved it when you scratched behind her ears.
On particularly bad days, I’d regale her of my woes. She was a great listener: wagging her tail or growling at all the right moments. Wait, did I just admit to talking to my dog? Um, forget I wrote that.
So when my Mom called me up during my freshman year of college, I was nowhere near prepared to hear it.
“I’m sorry. We had to put Ginger to sleep.”
Ginger lived about 14 human-years, or 98 dog-years. Hopefully many of them were good years. Towards the end, her age was very apparent. Her sight and hearing began to fade, as she’d walk into walls (but not in a funny way) and not hear her name being called.
There were even a few agonizing moments where she’d tumble down the stairs. In her younger years, she’d eagerly leap up and down the stairs to follow us around. Later, the stairs required baby barricades to protect her. (Fortunately, she was never hurt seriously from the falls.)
Then various sicknesses ravaged her tiny body. We gave her all manner of doggie medicines and vitamins. But there was only so much we could do to a 98-dog-year-old.
When The Day came, my family fed Ginger a delicious meal, pet and played with her all morning long, then scooped her up and drove to the vet. Pet owners will tell you that their pets always know when they were being taken to the vet. No one has any idea how; they just know.
On the car ride there, Ginger didn’t resist at all. But she did look up at my Mom, who was cradling her in her arms, and tears formed in her eyes. As if she knew, yet accepted it. My Mom cried when she told me this.
There’s still a photo of Ginger hanging in the house. Sometimes, when I’m there at night, I swear I can feel her scampering beneath my feet. I always look down, hoping I’d see her, yipping at me or running in circles chasing her tail.
. . .
Did you have a childhood pet?
Woofer, the 170 pound Irish Wolfhound, backed his new owners to the couch and to their amazement, began speaking.
“Listen folks, this is how it’s going to be…”
But wait, let me back up a bit.
Martin Schwartz is a mild-mannered, friendly, and somewhat passive tax accountant. Some would call him a push-over, although Martin preferred to think of himself as accommodating.
Marietta Schwartz is a nervous, petite, yet outspoken force-to-be-reckoned-with. Some considered her the one who wore the pants in the family, and Marietta would have surely agreed.
They adopted Woofer from the local animal shelter after reading about a break-in two towns away. “We are not going to be victims,” Marietta had declared. “This world is too dangerous to live without protection.”
“But princess,” Martin replied. He always called her princess. “Wouldn’t a gun be dangerous to have around the house?”
“A gun? Who said anything about a gun?!” she hollered. “I’m talking about a dog!”
“But princess, a dog could be a lot of trouble. We’d have to feed it, walk it, take care of it…”
“We. Are. Getting. A. Dog.” And thus the Schwartz household adopted Woofer, a 170 pound Irish Wolfhound who sniffed at Martin’s fingers amiably, yet barked up a fearsom storm at the other dogs in the shelter.
So this new predicament was quite unexpected. And rather frightening to Martin, who had one hand gripped onto his wife’s arm.
“…I’m going to provide you with all the safety and protection you’d expect out of an Irish Wolfhound. In return for this, I have several ground rules which, under no circumstances, can ever be broken.” He gave Martin a stern glance. “Ever.” Martin whimpered.
“Rule Number One: You tell no one about what I can do. No one.”
Martin and Marietta nodded in unison.
“Rule Number Two: You give me warm moist food. Not that dried rock-hard crap. Food from cans with rich, creamy gravy.”
Martin nodded. Marietta wrinkled her brow.
“Rule Number Three…”
“Now just one minute,” Marietta started.
“Princess honey!” Martin screeched through his clenched teeth. “I don’t think we should interrupt him!”
“Quiet you!” She turned back to Woofer. “Canned dog food is expensive. We can’t just go buying loads of that stuff. How are we going to pay for all that?”
“That’s your problem!” barked Woofer. He climbed onto Marietta’s lap. “I see the house you live in. I can smell the detergents you use, the soaps you buy. You can afford luxuries for yourself, so you can surely afford some premium dog food.”
Marietta huffed. Martin shoved her. “Princess honey, I’m sure we can afford it!”
Woofer glowered for a few moments. Marietta could smell his hot, wet breath. It smelled raw and ravenous, with a touch of the blood and flesh of small animals.
“Rule Number Three,” Woofer continued. “I get my own room. No metal cage or pile of blankets in the kitchen. I want a whole room for myself.”
“That’s simply unreasonable!” Marietta argued.
“Princess honey!”
“Quiet you! Now where are we going to get an extra room from? We don’t have any more bedrooms in this place. This isn’t a mansion you know!”
Woofer bared his teeth and growled. Martin whimpered and held his hands in front of his face. Marietta straightened and sat up in her seat.
“You clear out one of your spare rooms,” Woofer snarled. “This house has more rooms than the two of you need. Just pile the rest of your stuff into another room.”
Marietta stared deep into Woofer’s eyes. “We. Do. Not. Have. Any. More. Room.” Martin could have sworn she was baring her teeth too.
The two faced off for what seemed to be, in Martin’s humble estimation, an utter eternity. Finally, Marietta spoke up: “There’s the garage. You can sleep in the garage.”
“No garage!”
“There’s more than plenty of room in there. It’s larger than any spare rooms we have.” They continued to face off with eyes locked and teeth bared. Martin gulped.
CRASH! The sudden sound of glass breaking startled them out of their stand-off. Woofer leapt off Marietta and sniffed the air. Martin held onto his wife. Marietta turned to the sound. “It came from the kitchen,” she hissed. Her eyes widened. “Robbers!”
Woofer started growling. He lowered his head and readied himself.
Two men in ski masks burst into the living room. They had guns in their hands. “Don’t move!” they shouted.
“They got a dog!” Just as he turned his gun to Woofer, the Irish Wolfhound bounded into the air. His jaw gripped onto the gun. With his hind leg, he kicked the robber in the face. Then he pushed off the robber with both feet and yanked the gun away from him.
Martin and Marietta sat frozen on the couch, wide-eyed. The other robber stood equally still with equal astonishment. Then he turned his gun onto Woofer.
With a single smooth motion, Woofer tossed the gun from his mouth, grabbed it with his front paw, and aimed it at the robber. Then he pulled the trigger. The bullet blasted the gun out of the robber’s hand.
Unarmed, the two robbers scrambled like cartoon characters into the kitchen. Their legs spun like wheels as they raced out of the house.
Woofer dropped the gun and regarded it with disdain. “Huh. A 9mm Compact Hi-Point. Amateurs.”
Martin scratched his head. Marietta stood up and turned to her husband. “Martin, get your pillow and an extra blanket.”
“Wha-wha-wha for?” Martin stammered.
“You’ll be sleeping in the garage from now on.”
“ME?!”
“Yes.” She turned to Woofer. “Woofer, you can take Martin’s place in the bedroom. And Martin will buy some premium dog food first thing tomorrow morning.”
And with that declaration, she marched upstairs. Woofer snorted and trotted after her.
Martin leaned back into the couch, scratched his head, and said to himself: “I knew we shouldn’t have gotten a dog.”
. . .
What would you do with a talking dog?
Benny was a big dog. A big male dog. I don’t remember what kind of dog he was, except that he had a coat of tan and white fur and pointy ears.
My brother and I were young. I was in kindergarten; my brother was not yet in preschool.
Being little boys, we’d run and play with Benny. Fetch. Sit and Shake. Even Horsey because he was big enough to support our weight.
One day, he leaped up onto me. I didn’t fathom what he was doing, only that it must have been a new game he wanted to play.
“Look, Mommy! Benny wants to dance!”
My Mom’s face twisted in horror and she pulled Benny off.
Benny would occasionally leap up at us from behind. “Benny, I don’t want to dance right now. We’ll play later,” I’d tell him because we were playing with our Matchbox cars.
Rejected, Benny would leap up against the couch and dance with it instead.
One weekend, my parents brought him to the doctor. “He needs…” my Mom paused and looked around, “…he needs some vitamins.”
When they brought him back, he didn’t want to dance anymore. My brother and I would pick him up and hold his paws. “C’mon, Benny, let’s dance!”
But he didn’t care much for dancing now. “Mommy, how come Benny doesn’t dance?”
She looked at my Dad. “Um,” she answered, scratching her head. “He’s just getting old and doesn’t have enough energy to dance anymore.”
The next dog we got was a small female dog. My parents seemed pleased at that, though she never wanted to dance with us like Benny did.
. . .
Ever dance with your dog?
I blame the dog for losing my pants.
Well, not the dog directly. But he was definitely indirectly involved.
They were a nice pair of gray pants. Went very well with a black or white shirt. The perfect trendy semi-casual office outfit.
A female friend once commented that they looked nice on me.
And BAM! As soon as a girl says something like that to a guy, he’ll start wearing that thing for days on end, until the same girl recants the compliment and violently pummels the guy with Lysol because he’s been wearing the same exact outfit for days, including stinky drawers and socks.
So her compliment accelerated my gray pants into “nice” status. I’ll wear these pants when I go out with friends or to other related special events.
I wore them on the day I went to visit a friend I hadn’t seen in years. To keep my promise of maintaining contact with all of my NYC pals when I move to SF, I spent a week off from work to visit old friends.
It was nice gray pants and black shirt that night. Sweeeeeet. Gotta make a good impression on an old friend, right?
When I got to her apartment, I was greeted by her dog. He’s a very nice dog, but a dog nonetheless.
And by “dog,” I mean a “Trotting Panting Bouncy Animal Who Drools And Sheds All Over Clothes, Especially Nice Gray Pants.”
Do you see where I’m going with this?
I love animals, especially dogs. So when I sat down on my friend’s couch and her dog jumped into my lap, I didn’t push him away. Instead, I eagerly scratched the little fellah’s head.
He rolled around, jumped back and forth from floor to couch, and tried to doogie-kiss me (meaning me tried to French kiss me with his tongue). What better way to express one’s affection for another than by licking that person with the same tongue you use to lick your ass?
Oh, and he also deposited a significant quantity of doogie-drool and doogie-hair on my nice gray pants. That’s the second best way to express one’s affection for another: drool and shed on that person’s nice gray pants.
I was overwhelmed by this dog’s affection. After a while, I had to end the relationship, because I really can’t make such a strong commitment to another only after having met for a few minutes. Plus, if you’re gonna drool and shed on me so early in the relationship, how do I know you’re still going to respect me the morning after?
When I got home, I promptly threw the nice gray pants into the laundry hamper.
Well, that’s not exactly true. In proper male fashion: I sniffed the pants and considered spraying some Lysol on them to help air them out, so I can wear them again tomorrow. Because, as long as the smell doesn’t immediately knock you unconscious, it’s still fair game.
But the doogie-drool and doogie-hair ultimately changed my mind. Hey, I do have scruples, after all.
Ever hear the saying, “Out of sight, out of mind?” Well, that statement strongly applies to this situation. As soon as those nice gray pants fell into the domain of the laundry hamper, I forgot about them.
Then came the day I was to fly to SF again. The Day of Packing coincided with the Day of Laundry. So my nice gray pants came into my awareness again.
Flying to SF is as special an occasion as any. So into my luggage went the nice gray pants. I would have packed the “Nice But Not As Nice As The Nice Gray Pants” khakis, but opted to wear them instead so that I’d have a fresh pair of nice gray pants when I got there.
Then something horrifying happened. Terrifying. Awfulfying. And totally my fault.
My luggage was lost.
I accidentally left my luggage on the train as I made my way to work in the morning. Morning Sleepiness, coupled with, um, Morning Sleepiness, had my brain in a state of fuzzy fog. I got off the train and didn’t remember that I had left my luggage on the rack above my seat.
I didn’t lose my “Nice But Not As Nice As The Nice Gray Pants” khakis because I was wearing them, of course. But if I hadn’t had doogie-drool and doogie-hairs on those nice gray pants, I wouldn’t have put them in the hamper and forgotten about them. I probably would have worn them again that week.
And perhaps I would have even worn them onto the plane and packed the “Nice But Not As Nice As The Nice Gray Pants” khakis, because, after all, I have scruples about putting Already Worn clothes next to Freshly Cleaned clothes. And if I had worn the nice gray pants again, I surely wouldn’t have packed them into a luggage full of Freshly Cleaned clothes. Surely not.
Fortunately, this drama has a happy ending. I got my luggage back, along with my nice gray pants. The train station’s Lost and Found had my luggage. So things worked out in the end.
Save the fact that I’ve put a Restraining Order on my friend’s dog against my nice gray pants. Hopefully, that way, I’ll never lose my pants because of a dog again.
“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN.”
I was in a BAD mood. Really bad. It was one of those things that just hooks onto your mind; a bait that’s almost impossible to remove. My teeth were grinding against each other; the muscles of my maw were clenched tightly in a twisted mass.
Then I walked by this dog tied to a parking meter. He looked up at me and wagged his tail. The owner must have been in the convenience store nearby.
I reached down and patted his head. His tail kept wagging. Then he sat down and tilted his head to one side.
I knelt down and scrubbed behind one of his ears. His eyes shut and his tongue fell limp out of his mouth. Then he rolled over onto his back.
I gave his belly a good scratching. From the look on his face, he was in doggie heaven.
Then I realized that I was smiling. From the look on my face, I was in human heaven.
Writing this brings back memories of a dog my family used to have. Her name was Ginger and she was a black Pomeranian.
A Pomeranian is a toy dog, which means that even as an adult she would never grow taller than one foot (thirty centimeters).
When my Mom first got her, she sat in my Mom’s purse with her tiny paws hanging out.
She was a frisky little one, always running underfoot and jumping up and down. If you as much as made eye contact with her, she’d hurry over to you with those big black puppy-dog eyes, begging for food, petting, or playing.
Ginger was always afraid of other cats; they’d hiss at her and she’d turn tail and scramble away. This was probably because most of the neighborhood cats were larger than her.
Then one day, while Ginger was standing besides me inside of our house, a cat wandered into our front yard. Ginger made her initial bark from behind a screened door gingerly (no pun intended).
Much to her surprise, the cat didn’t hiss back. Instead, the cat ran away!
Ginger erupted into a fury of tiny barks, each more resounding than the last. I opened the screened door and Ginger gave chase for a few feet. The cat disappeared off the lawn, successfully vanquished by our canine protector.
Then Ginger trotted back into the house, head held high, proud and triumphant.
. . .
Have any dog stories?
