I’ve had a few dogs in my time—all of them owned collectively and none of them my own choosing. My childhood dog was named Kinky after her curly brown hair and matted brown butt. She was expertly trained to dive under the couch as soon as my not-so-dog-loving dad arrived home from work at 4:00. I’m guessing the source of his dog discontent stemmed from his own mother—Grandma Betty--an animal hoarder before animal hoarding became must-see cable t.v.
Kinky lived well into her old age despite the chocolate chip cookies I made for her when I was ten. (I really didn’t know dogs weren’t supposed to have chocolate.) Kinky was a constant sliver between my parents. My mom adored her and my dad tolerated her. I was sixteen when my mom had to put her down. I can only imagine how dismayed she must have been in her dog-disparaging family, especially since it was several weeks before I even noticed Kinky’s absence.
Not much has improved for my affection for dogs over the years. Try as John might, the longevity of dog ownership has always remained somewhat elusive during our sixteen-year marriage. Every few years John will spring a new dog on me and I will begrudge and complain until we are once again dog less.
Really, the children are enough. I don’t want to pick up poop from anyone or anything that didn’t drop through my own birth canal. Besides, something happens to animals once they cross our boarders. Perfectly intelligent animals suddenly become witless.
Six years ago John brought home from St. Louis a shelter dog that had been widowed by her owner. She had a goat-like quality and wide vacant eyes. The kids had a kind of love-hate relationship with her. When she felt neglected (which was often) she took to chewing their toys. I have this strong mental image of four-year old Sam sitting on his tricycle giving Melba the bird. It was totally random and it still makes me laugh. Unfortunately, high-strung Melba couldn’t be restrained to the context of our yard even with the assistance of an invisible fence. As far as I know, she’s still out there running.
Three years ago Stancey used her birthday money and adopted a terrier-Chihuahua mix from the local no-kill shelter. Pedro had the foulest breath imaginable. He loved butter and pooping on Madison’s bed. In the year that he lived here, he had his paw rescued from the dining room radiator by the fire department and took to touring the adjoining neighborhoods whenever the back door was left ajar. It’s really not surprising that his final walk from our house led him back to the shelter we adopted him from. Pedro was just too much drama for a house already prone to breakdowns.
Today we have Moxie. She’s a nice dog. Rather busty and robust, but nice. She dually serves as family pet and learning toy. As Kenny would say, “She has seven, eight, nine nipples!”
Moxie’s groomer says, “She’s a big girl and she knows it!”
I am acutely aware just what a big girl she is. She takes up a huge chunk of real estate on our main floor. It seems that no matter where she lies, she’s in the way. Just this morning, Kenny bellowed out, “Get in the basement, Moxie! All of you! Even your tail!”
She is the Moby Dick of Labrador Retrievers. Everything about her is enormous. In a moment of great excitement, Max picked up a gargantuan poop that she had erected in our front yard. He held it over his head like a trophy. Why should her poop gross him out? I catch him drinking out of her water bowl all the time.
Tell me, why do we need a dog when we have a Max?
Maybe someday, after the children are grown, I’ll find that ideal dog.
Or maybe I won’t.
After all, dog is man’s best friend.
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