Pup psychology
It was yesterday afternoon when I fully realized that my dogs have thrust me into a different dimension.
I was interviewing another potential dogsitter for the Memorial Day Weekend camping trip I’m planning (yes, I am aware of the approximately 295 things that are wrong about that sentence, none of them having to do with camping), and we had gone through vet info, emergency contact info, collar details, shot records, feeding schedule, treat preferences, toy preferences (Monkey = marrow-filled bones, Rooster = stuffed animals with a squeaker) (which means that every time I come home, I hear “SQUEE SQUEE SQUEE SQUEE” and several hard thumps as I reach my door, since both have to greet me with their favorite things in mouth), and favored playtime activities (Monkey = eternal vigorous tug o’war with any object that’s handy, Rooster = sitting on your head while dropping slimy tennis balls on whatever is left exposed), we got to the section on their fears.
She sat calmly while I explained about Monkey’s spotty history with offleash parks and the fact that she can’t meet dogs head-on without growling and playing tough (funny enough, she’s fine if she sniffs butt first), and delved into her deep fear of thunder and fireworks, waxing philosophical and creating a convincing backstory including a lost love, careless gunplay, and a failed bombing attempt. I still don’t know how to explain her vendetta against vacuums (not as much a fear as an overwhelming need to tackle while snarling) so I left that out of the conversation. Did manage to mention, however, that I had trained her in agility and she will still touch anything that looks like a plastic yogurt lid with her nose on command, but I’m thinking that was more harmful than helpful.
I noticed an eyebrow raise when I moved on to Rooster and got into his deep, intense fear of linoleum flooring. It went even higher as I explained that I hoped to get his CGC Rating (Canine Good Citizen – it’s a behavioral test) and train him as a Therapy Dog to visit retirement homes and hospitals, but his fear of linoleum was the main thing holding him back from reaching his true canine potential.
Luckily at this point the pups in question decided to play-wrestle with a stuffed snowflake toy left over from their Christmas bounty, so I was saved by the “Aren’t they just the cutest lil’ things!?”
After she left, I looked around my house and took special note of the 7 hollow bones (that I will shortly refill with peanut butter bought specifically for the dogs and then freeze for special treats), approximately 22 tennis balls (with another 15 or so in a basket by the door, most coated in dried mud), bits and pieces of 5+ stuffed toys, 2 giant, plush dog beds, closet full of treats ranging from rawhide to beef knuckles (when I don’t eat meat and can’t stand to handle the stuff), gourmet dog food, assortment of throwing toys for balls that they never bring back, and 2 sofas bought because they are too big to share one. Then I looked at my house, which was rented for the backyard and proximity to the offleash park, in addition to its older carpet and linoleum that I knew I’d appreciate while housetraining Rooster (to which I have to say: good call, self). Then I looked at my car, which was bought for its backseat, stain-resistant fabrics, and low ground clearance.
There once was a guy who, angry that Rooster had ninja-licked his cheek (at my urging) one too many times, ominously declared that “as long as you have those dogs, no man will ever love you”. I’m not worried. Whoever is brave enough to love the mess that is me (see: entire above paragraph and all previous bloggage) will have no issue adding in the two little fountains of hair-covered affection that I have created through my years of crazy-dog-ladyship. Compared to their owner, they are completely normal.
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