 Aside from some bad actors, dogs get a lot of good press. They save children. They alert their owners to the dangers of smoke inhalation. They fetch and guard and sometimes even sit and stay when asked. I clicked on a link about a small dog that ran away from home and wound up in a hospital where its owner is getting treatment. The dog had never visited the hospital before, but somehow it got through the front doors in an effort -- the reporter speculates -- to comfort its ailing owner. I don't mean to be unkind. Perhaps that small dog has buckets of compassion. But my small dog, while she is an excellent sick-bed visitor and was happy to snooze quietly on Mummsie's hospital bed for hours at a time –– well, I am not so sure she's all about offering comfort. Seemed like she's more about offering access to her prime petting zones. (Ooh, a little to the left. Grunt! Grunt! Sigh.) If Lilly ever tracks me down to a hospital (heaven forbid), it would be for the really good dog-biscuits. It would be because Uncle Markie or her own Food God had forgotten that she covets the ones I keep in a tub with bacon drippings in the fridge. The English dismiss it as "cupboard love," but when she sits on my foot and gazes winsomely into my face with her sweet, clouding bug-eyes, well, okay then. Bacon-dripping-soaked dog-biscuits it is! 
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 I imagined that it would be easy to list a dozen things a day that make me happy. Two dozen. More –– I recognize that I live a cheerful and lucky life. But as it turns out, it's often the same things each day. Here are a few:
 Dogs belong on the floor. People belong on the couch.  Dogs LOVE trucks.
 The first message from my sister went like this, "Lilly is fake-peeing to get extra treats."
That's my little con-artist –– always working the angles! I used to believe that dogs did not actually lie. They tell their truths, I used to think. My friend SJL (squee! book deal! details to follow!), a seasoned owner of a small dog, assured me that perhaps they don't fib, but they do exaggerate. When the dog tells me that she's starving –– grunt! grunt! grunt! –– there's probably a grain of truth. And if she insists on trying to convince the babysitter that she regularly gets a second dinner –– well, she might just be right. The small dog enjoys mixed success socially. She is keyed to human company. On a good day, she is a fine ambassador for her small species. On a bad one, her noisy breathing and pushy attitude drive everyone around the twist. Other dogs she can take or leave. When we meet dog-walking people, she is indifferent to the pet lunging at the end of its leash, barking in excitement to meet her. At the dog-park, she focuses on sniffing the perimeter, giving other dogs the cold shoulder when they bound up to say hello. She's got a finite amount of patience with puppies, less with human children, and if given the opportunity, she would be delighted to eat any bird or horse -- or their byproducts. Cats are invisible to her: she will trot past a lounging cat on the sidewalk while keeping her gaze directed 90 degrees away. If the feline is especially bold and makes to touch noses, Lilly will discreetly move to the opposite side of my legs, leaving me to fend for myself. We travelled en suite with the small dog recently. I've hosted visiting dogs and their people often enough to understand why people bring their dogs when leaving home. Still, having not had a dog of my own since college, it was my first experience of carting a possibly unwanted four-legged family member along to the party.  She did not embarrass us too much: she did steal the really luxe dog-bed from Velma and Daphne when she had the chance. She did insist on being hoisted up onto someone else's couch -- but at least she did not, as she does at home, scuff up a nest before falling asleep. She made some noise with her hosts' dogs and was entirely ready to half-inch the other dogs' food -- but on the plus side, she did a bang-up job of spit-polishing other people's kitchen floors.
She waited patiently (i.e. snoozed and snored) in the truck while we went to restaurants. There were no "accidents." There was no vomit. And that, for traveling pet-owners, is the new good.  Not begging. Watching until I look up from the computer. Rules can make the difference between civilization and anarchy in a household. Around here, the rules sound draconian, but it keeps us in order: Rule #1.) No human food from human hands for the dog... ...although I can't deny, it's open season when food drops on the floor. As soon as she hears me cooking, the small dog skitters into the kitchen and peers near-sightedly at the floor, waiting for manna to fall. When in doubt, she'll inhale whatever loose items she finds. Garlic skins are a frequent disappointment. The small dog is such a splendid janitor that my neighbor has been known to borrow her for clean-up jobs. Grated cheese spill on Aisle 4! Bacon splatter emergency! Cheerios down! She's a slobbery cross of a Swiffer Wet Jet and a Roomba. Rule #2.) Everyone sleeps in his own spot. That means the small dog stays off the bed... ...Mostly. Unless she is required as an organic heating pad. Or for when she's helping wake somebody up. Or if it's very very cold and her little jaws are chattering. Until recently I thought that these two rules -- strictly enforced! -- prevented the small dog from turning into a begging machine and a cover-stealer, but maybe not.
The owner-operator of Uncle Markie's Home for Wayward Pups glanced up from the computer and said, "You're going to be gone, what? Two weeks?" "A month." As soon the words hit air, I recognized the truth, so I added as if I'd meant to say it all along: "...and a month is too long to leave the small dog with you." Uncle Markie assured me that he could work it out, but it was too late. Lilly spends a lot of time with him, but honestly, he didn't sign up to co-parent the snorting creature. So, an elderly Boston Terrier with an unknown travel history and some anxiety issues, plus modern-day plane travel -- what could possibly go wrong? I spent the night in Chicago once on this same route; it's not like having a dog along could have compounded that misery. Well, okay, better living through chemistry. And while her new vet was willing to cop her a sedative, he did remind me that the old dog has a pretty significant heart murmur. As in: don't overdose her because she's on (and my long-suffering friends can join me on this chorus) "borrowed time."
That's six hours from open range to open range for the little dog. I kept thinking that the timeframe should pose no problems, since the small dog sleeps about 22 out of every 24. (Insert the sound of ironic laughter and the single word repeated: "Chicago.") Let me just thank all those folks who gave me kindly, friendly, interested, and pitying looks as I hauled the disgruntled-but-brave small dog across the length of Philadelphia International in a small heavy-dernier nylon pet carrier. Also thank you to the flight attendants who pretended not to notice when I did not squash the small dog entirely under the seat in front of me. And a really big cheer to the seat-mates who pretended not to notice when the small dog began to pant and fart with nervousness at the instant the jet engines revved up. She didn't actually stop until the next day. Lilly and I have agreed to never discuss the other thing that happened inside the pet carrier, but let me assure you, dear reader, that no amount of Purell... well, enough about that. We all survived and I didn't have to rent a car to get there.
She staggered like a drunken sailor when I took her to the curb for a bio-break. She slept in the carrier while we ate dinner outside that evening. I had to carry her the last block of her walk. She was still sleeping it off 44 hours later.
At the 45th or so hour, however, she woke up ready to rumble. "What the --!? " she seemed to be saying. And, "What a f$%^d-up dream I had! And where the hell is my biscuit?!"
Even when she's willing to go walking early, the sun shines fiercely, pavement radiates heat up through her ratty little toe-pads, and the air is thick with humidity. Her route in the winter stretches to as much as a half a mile on a good day, but in August, she tires after about 50 feet. She may have energy to start with, but it flags. She begins to pokey-pete. Instead of trotting along at the farthest forward reach of her leash, she dawdles. As the pace slows, she makes frequent but nominal pee-breaks.
We resort to bribery and promises, setting small goals and cheering her on ("Just to the light pole, come on, Bubba-loup, you can do it!"). Eventually, on the hottest of days, we give it up for a bad job. I'm the weak link. I'll pick her up and portage her back to the air conditioning.
Where she tanks up on water before staggering to her bed. If history holds true, she'll spend the next six hours snoring mightily, recovering from her exertions. Unless she hears the faint jingle of car-keys, the merest whiff of anything yummy, or if someone uses the word "cheese" in conversation. Then she'll bounce up, all ears and expectation.
But still. I warn everyone who comes into the house: don't tease her because she will bite. And -- it goes without saying -- I don't trust her unsupervised with little children. Of course, it's super-fun to rile her up. I can't deny. I slap my own arm and cry out, "Ouch" on a too-regular basis. Reliably, she bounces around frowning and telling me to "F#$%ing CUT that SH!# out, right NOW!"  Occasionally, she recognizes my ruse, gives me an aggrieved look, and retreats to her bed with a near approximation of dignity. More often, I relent after a few rounds of "Ouching!" and end up kneeling on the floor while she lolls around getting her belly soothed.
She's right: peace is better.
Regardless the scrumptious morsel of cheese I just handed over with her medicine hidden inside.
Nope, doesn't seem to matter. Perhaps this last trip was too much for her faith. After all, we were gone more than two weeks, bounced home for a single night, and were gone again for a couple of days. A small dog, evidently, has a limit. She loves visiting Uncle Markie -- his kids mean that there is abundant food droppage, she gets to go in the car, and wherever they end up, she kind of rules the roost. Plus her religion has proven flexible before. So now, she is walking away from me when I sit on the floor to indulge in a little belly-rubbing. She's got her glowing bug-eyed gaze tracking Mr. Linton and she barely glances at me. She is pinning her belief on men, perhaps, having been abandoned by one woman after another. It's sad but true: her mysterious first owner who went into nursing care and whose daughter (I picture a sort of Snidely Whiplash female) could not stand the small dog; my mom; and now, repeatedly, me. The first time I returned from a long trip solo, I found her cuddled on the couch with my husband, belly to the sky, the expression on her flat face one of vague befuddlement: "I thought you died!" I find I am not a smiting-and-brimstone kind of deity, at least in my non-fiction life. But it does kind of sting. Sharper than a serpent's tooth and all that. |
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