Not A Good Way To Start The Year

No one should have to start the New Year mad!

Even less should one have to start the year mad at their dog . . . you know man's best friend and all that stuff.

But that is exactly what happened in this household.  The details are a little sketchy.  After all, the dogs still aren't talking about it much.  But this is what fell out, the best I can deduce.

White Dog and Brown Dog were left home alone on New Year's Eve.  This made Brown Dog decidedly grumpy and started off the evening on a bad note.  To make matters worse, fireworks began to go off in the neighborhood and Brown Dog found himself nervous, disturbed, and feeling very, very alone.

 

About this time, Brown Dog spied something he had not yet noticed in all the holiday festivities.  Down under the Christmas tree was a large, soft, white flannel sheet, used as a tree skirt.  It looked very, very comforting . . . for a dog who is nervous, disturbed and feeling very, very alone.

Brown Dog began eyeing the sheet.  White Dog smelled trouble and warned Brown Dog to mind his own business, be content with his cast-off quilt, stick his paw pads in his ears, and be a good dog, which of course only encouraged Brown Dog all the more to have . . . that . . . soft . . . sheet.The fact that Brown Dog was on his leash, which was attached to a pillar two feet from the tree mattered to him not in the least.  In fact, it served only to heighten the challenge of having . . . that . . . soft . . . sheet.

And, so he pulled, he tugged, he threw his body at the tree, he twisted, he jumped.  And by gum he got that sheet.

White Dog, meanwhile hid his head under his own well-worn, cast-off comforter, put his paw pads in his ears, hummed loudly and said, "I don't see what you're doing.  I can't see a thing.  I know nothing that's going on."

That is how it came to be that as the 7 of us walked in to the house, bleary-eyed, in the wee hours of New Year's morning, we found the tree, rotated 90 degrees, bottom 2 rows of expensive artificial tree foliage bent to the ground, a veritable shower of artificial tree "needles" on the floor, ornaments scattered about . . .

. . . and a very sentimental, hand-crafted, 25 year-old ornament smashed on the floor. 

Have I mentioned that no one should have to start out the New Year mad?

After a cup of tea, my emotions were back in check, I had decided that Brown Dog could live in safety for another year, and I was beginning to believe that 2011 might actually turn out to be quite a satisfactory year.

It was at this point that Youngest Son approached me tentatively, eyes wide, gesturing in the general direction of the dining room table, mouth moving but no syllables coming out.

Yes.  Vintage glass ornament.  Part of a set from the 1930s.  Handled with care by my German grandmother for years and then passed down to me.  Smashed.

Children don't understand these things.  It's round.  It must therefore be a ball.

If things don't turn around quickly here, I'll be the one in bed, covers over my head, waiting for 2012.

Have I mentioned that no one should have to start out the year mad?

Time for more tea.

One Decade

It was ten years ago.  My husband was enthusiastically watching a college football game.  I'm sure I was doing something child-related.  At that time, we had a 7 year-old, a 6 year-old, a 4 year-old, and a 9 month-old.  So, of course I was doing something child-related.  I was probably making a snack, breaking up a fight or changing a diaper.  We really didn't need any more commotion to the family . . . no more wildness in the house.

At that moment, 2 tiny puppies wriggled their way between the boards in our fence, entered our yard, and entered our lives.  We found a little grassy nest back behind the fence where they had huddled for warmth before bravely looking for a home.  One looked like a German shepherd; one looked like a golden retriever.  But because of their age and the way they were nesting together, the vet determined they were brothers . . . brothers dropped off in a neighborhood in hopes that someone else would take on the responsibility that their owners reneged on.

We may not have needed commotion and wildness, but we got it.  They lived in the kitchen.  They chewed up cupboards, pooped on the floor, ate cookbooks, gnawed table legs.   For years, our house had the faint odor of puppy-ness, and the value of all our furniture dropped dramatically.

But they became family, as surely as anyone to whom I had given birth.  They wriggled their way into our hearts that day.  And, just like family, they alternately frustrate and delight, annoy and endear.

 

They have been known to warn of intruders, comfort sad little hearts and obediently stay off all couches, chairs and beds. 

And they have been known to pee shamelessly on silk curtains, gnaw stacks of expensive Post-It Notes, and gobble up a warm pan of lasagna.

But they're family, and we couldn't imagine life without them.  I'm so glad 10 years ago two little puppies looking for a home found ours.

Bad Dog

This is a bad dog.

Just today, at lunch, I made a luscious grilled deli meat and cheese sandwich for Middle Son and placed it, piping hot, on his lunch plate. At that moment, Middle Son chose to dart off and attend to some pressing distraction. And also at that moment, this Bad Dog "seized the day" and seized the sandwich. It makes me VERY MAD when animals of the household steal human food. Very, very mad.

I know this is startling, but you'll have to forgive me if a tiny piece of me wished that Bad Dog burnt his tongue on the hot cheese.

I made another sandwich. Middle Son ate half of the sandwich. Middle Son chose to dart off and attend to some pressing distraction. Bad Dog seized half of the second sandwich, gobbled it down in one swallow and actually grinned . . . grinned at me!

Middle Son, still hungry, pulled a large, delicious dish of leftover mashed potatoes out of the refrigerator, set them on the counter and warmed up a full plateful. Middle Son left the potatoes out on the counter. Middle Son chose to dart off and attend to some pressing distraction. Bad Dog sauntered cavalierly into the kitchen, put his two naughty paws up on the counter, stuck his furry head down into that bowl and went to town.

When I discovered him, there was a quarter cup of potatoes left in one corner of the dish, and buttery mashed potatoes rimmed his smirking mouth and extended up to the corners of his ears.

Bad Dog . . . bad, bad dog!

I'm ready to banish him to the outside. I'm ready to call the pound. I'm ready to attach him to the mailbox with a large "Free Dog" sign on his chest.

But then . . . !

But then I find him playing "fort" with Youngest Son.

And I find Middle Son and Bad Dog curled up cozily on blankets on the living room floor, heads resting on pillows (yes, my decorator couch pillows), covered by a red throw (yes, my Martha Stewart red throw with pompons ::sigh::).

And the old buzzard lets Youngest Daughter lie right on top of him and pull on his ears and inspect his calloused "elbows" without a complaint.

And somehow I just can't do it. I just can't send him off to doggy jail. I just can't banish him forever and ever to the cruel, cold out-of-doors. And goodness, if I don't even find myself forgiving him and loving the old fellow all over again.

Naughty Dogs

Meet Chase:

Meet Husker:




Our two dogs. On normal days, on normal weeks, man's best friend, defender of the property, comforter in sorrow, salt of the earth. On normal days rules are remembered . . . rules like where to sleep (your own threadbare dog bed) and where to pee (outside).

But not this week. No, this week rules were forgotten, guidelines abandoned, authority trashed.

The first was a minor, albeit appalling, infraction that could be overlooked.



What is this?? A dog on a couch?? An absolute no-no in our house!! This scoundrel was taking advantage of my being out of the room and jumped up to comfort Middle Son in his hour of distress . . . stomach flu.




The comfort was obviously noticed . . . appreciated . . . enjoyed. This transgression was motivated by love. This can be forgiven.

The next infraction, however, pushed all boundaries of grace and unconditional dog love. The incident began innocently enough with a visit from My Mom. My Mom who pet sits for a living. My Mom who smells (to the canine nose) like many and varied dogs and cats. My Mom who entered Husker's front door with the smell (to the canine nose) of many varied invading and marauding dogs and cats. It was not to be tolerated. Husker greeted her and all the invading and marauding smells at the front door and immediately knew what he had to do. Mark his territory. Tell all the smells and the visions and feelings they conjured up who was boss, who lived here, and the boundaries of his domain. So, he lifted his leg and marked. All over my curtains. All over my custom . made . dry . clean . only . silk . curtains.



Rules have now been remembered, guidelines restored, authority re-established. Grace is given. He is, after all, only a dog with the need to enforce his territory. He knows he was wrong, the guilty face says it all.



He is still loved.

And now I'm off to the dry cleaners.