A Dog Eat Dog World

A Dog Eat Dog World

The young man bent over and scratched my dog behind the ears. "What's her name?" he asked.

"We call her 'that damn dog'," I replied.

He looked at me, questioning, probably wondering if he had heard me correctly. I just smiled benignly. I wonder what he would say if I told him what we really call her, I thought to myself, giving her a pat and continuing on my walk.

That damn dog's name is actually Biscuit but using it is a true waste of breath. She has never answered to it in her life. She is also affectionately known among our circle of family and friends as the Mucking Futt. They told me at the pound she was a shepard/lab mix but I think they just pulled that description from thin air because they needed to sound educated about her orgins. Personally, I think she's a dog/billy goat combination. After two years of living with this long limbed, lolling tongued, gargantuan, I still find her chewing rocks. She makes my fourteen month old daughter look selective about what she puts in her mouth. Taking Biscuit to her bathroom spot is a neverending store of suprises. You never know what she'll pass next! Red crayon, action figure pieces, what could it be today? Of course, those Christian holidays always reek havoc on her digestive track. She poops Christmas tinsel from December to April and Easter grass for the rest of the year. One would think that after regurgitating various houshold items that she would learn.

In dealing with Biscuit's repetitive actions, the term 'dumber than dirt' comes to mind. She runs off at regular intervals, taking advantage of my children's absent-mindedness and invariably returns smelling like some dead animal's remains or else what some living one has left behind. Or course, each time this happens, it is necessary to give her a bath. How I hate that! I'm lucky if my two legged creatures are cleaned at the end of the day never mind having to worry about the four legged kind. The only pleasure I receive from this messy task that I hate so much is that she hates it more. Of course, if she came when she was called...

As frustrating as it is that she doesn't come when called, it can be quite entertaining to watch when you're not the one being ignored. Well, not ignored, exactly. She pretends to be listening. She stops and looks at you with ears perked, head cocked to one side. Sometimes, she even runs in your direction. She lopes at top speed straight at you and you bend and clap ready to praise her for obeying your command. Then she veers to the right and streaks right past leaving you eating dust and feeling like a fool as you curse her under your breath. I criticize her repetitive actions, but time and time again we truly believe that she is coming to us and when she dashes right by, we are just as righteously indignant as we were the first time. Who did I say was dumber than dirt?

Even the most vocal dog advocate couldn't deny the stupidity of her latest escapade. Having been lulled into a false sense of security by her recent good behavior, I took Biscuit out for her evening constitutional without the leash. MIS-take! Before I could hum the first verse of "Bingo", she was gone. Since this is a pretty common occurence, I decided to sit outside and await her return. As I made myself comfortable with a book, I heard some rustling in the yard hehind me followed by the most horrific stench I have ever smelled settling around me like a cloud.

"That damn dog," I moaned as I visualized gallons of tomato juice and vinegar. Snapping my book shut, I went into the house to close windows before the odor contaminated the inside. Periodically, I went out on the porch and whistled. No response. What a surprise! On my umpteenth trip outside, I finally heard her collar jingling, grateful she was close by. Now I could confine her until morning when I would, no doubt, have to bathe her at least four times. Suddenly, I heard a rustling of bushes and Biscuit growling. I called her again.

"Biscuit, come," I commanded. Jingle, jingle, woof. Suddenly, she emerged from behind the fence, still growling. In hot pursuit was a smaller animal. Although it was difficult to see in the dim light, the white stripe down its back was unmistakable. Again, the strong, acrid smell permeated my nostrils as Biscuit backed away shaking her head. Not again!

"Biscuit, come!" I snapped sure that she would gratefully seek safe haven. Instead, she just looked at me, ears perked, head cocked to one side and galloped away. Totally disgusted, I went inside and shut the door knowing that I wouldn't have to worry about her being picked up by the authorities. No one would get within 10 feet of her! Sure enough, she was sitting on the back steps early the next morning. I awoke to her barking at some passing dog or jogger at 5:30. She must have felt kind of like Chicken Little thinking the sky was falling from the shower of shoes raining down upon her from my bedroom window. Since that day, I have taken drastic action. Remembering meeting a woman on one of my walks who had a perfectly behaved boxer standing unleashed by her side with an electronic collar, I looked up the number of the trainer she had given me. I had thought about this option a number of times but was put off by the cost. Now, however, my determination to improve our quality of life knew no financial limitations. After talking extensively with one of the members of the trainer's staff, I made an appointment for two weeks. That afternoon, Biscuit went on one of her aromatic excursions. I called the trainer back and rescheduled for one week instead.

Now, instead of having a variety of profane aliases, she is called good girlie and nice dog and rather than ignoring her name, she answers to a variety of commands the first time! We call her the Stepford Dog after that old Katherine Ross cult classic. After an hour with the trainer teaching us how to use the collar and breaking bad habits we had both acquired, it was as though he had taken my dog and replaced her with this remarkably well behaved canine who also had all of Biscuit's sweet disposition and loving personality. What more could you ask for? Well, actually, I did manage to think of one thing. Do you suppose I could get collars for my kids too?