by Amy Newmark
A Second Too Long
Not-so-fun fact: Never leave your dog alone in a hot car. He can quickly become overheated and even die.
“Let’s go, Maximus,” I said, snapping a leash onto his red collar. My parents had called to offer a Sunday meal, and I jumped at the invitation. Plus, I was taking my new pup to play with his grandpa and grandma for the afternoon. I would get great eats, and they would get time with their grandbaby. Max’s stubby tail, or to be honest, his whole butt, wiggled back and forth in anticipation of going “bye-bye.” Car rides were one of his most favorite things — even if he had no clue where he was going. A trip to the vet even elicited this response… at least until we pulled into the parking lot.
I gathered up all the necessary items I needed to take along: Max’s toys, his food, and two videos I needed to return to the store on our way, and piled all of it into the car. I buckled Max into the passenger seat for safety reasons, and he sat obediently within the confines of the belt, still vibrating with anticipation.
The day had turned cold and blustery, and snowflakes had begun to fall on my windshield. After running the car for a bit, I turned the heater up full blast to warm up the car, and we were on our way. Max immediately tried to bounce around on the front seat, anxious to see where we were headed.
“Sit!” I commanded, and he dutifully sat back down, looking at me with his big panting smile. He had not taken too many car rides since I adopted him two months prior, but he already knew most rides ended up at my parents’ house, so he tried his best to be patient. He knew Grandma and Grandpa had the best treats. We were both on this trip for one thing: food.
The snow had just begun to stick so I maneuvered my car gingerly down the street. Due to the weather and because I was in a hurry, I pulled up outside the store along the curb instead of parking in a space. It would only take me a second to run inside and drop off the movies, and then we’d be on our way to a home-cooked meal.
“Stay here, Max,” I said, giving him a brief pat on the head. “I’ll be right back, buddy!”
I left the car running, heat blasting, and jogged into the store. I heard Max bark a few times in dismay as I left him behind, but I would only be gone a few seconds.
I took two steps inside the door and handed the movies to the cashier. Turning on my heel, I headed right back outside. The snow was falling in earnest now, and I wondered if I should still continue on to my parents’ home. But they were looking forward to getting together, and Max and I were looking forward to the meal, so I decided to keep going. Dad could always drive us home if it got too bad.
I could see Max’s whole body wiggling with excitement and his tongue hanging out of his smiling wide jaw as I approached. His exuberance made it seem like I’d been gone for weeks. It made me smile to have someone adore me so much and miss me so deeply when I’d only been gone a few seconds. Adopting him had been the best thing I’d ever done.
“Hey, buddy,” I said from outside the car in the voice everyone uses when speaking to their pets. “Yes! Who’s a good dog?! Let’s get going!”
I reached for the handle, watching Max bounce with pure joy inside the car. Just as I put my hand on the handle, Max’s bouncing paw found the door-lock switch.
I heard the locks engage, and it felt like one of those slow-motion moments in the movies.
“Nooooo!” I screamed.
Several passersby glanced in my direction as I pulled unsuccessfully at the locked car door. I tried every door, but the electronic locks had engaged every entrance.
My loving but slightly-too-exuberant dog had just locked me out of my still-idling car.
My mood instantly changed to one of shock and despair. I heard my car’s engine droning on as visions of gallons of gas going up in unnecessary fumes filled my mind.
Max, however, didn’t understand the dilemma and panted gleefully at me from the now really warm interior.
I could almost hear him say, “C’mon, Mom! Let’s go! What’s the hold-up?”
I debated walking home to get the spare key, but it was over two miles away. Plus, the snowy, cold weather put a damper on walking that far. I didn’t want to leave my car or my pooch, and the car would probably be out of gas by the time I was able to retrieve a key. I tried to get Max to step on the same button to unlock the door, to no avail.
“Come on, buddy! Step right there… no… there… no… argh!”
Max quite enjoyed this new game, panting and barking at my weird commands, and fogging up his side of the window. I rubbed my hands over my increasingly cold arms and tried to think of another solution.
As each second passed, I saw dollar signs drifting out of the exhaust. Finally, I gave up and went back into the video store. The only solution was to call Dad before my car ran out of gas. After briefly describing what had happened to the cashier and ignoring her smirk, I asked if I could use her phone to call my dad, who also seemed quite amused at my situation.
“He did what?” he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice.
After explaining it again, he promised to come straight away with the spare key.
I hung up the phone, thanked the clerk and went back out to check on Max. I watched as he fogged up the windows of the car, sitting dutifully on the passenger seat and looking at me shivering in the cold like I’d lost my mind. I tried to reassure him that everything was okay, but it was really myself I was comforting. I went back inside to wait.
When my dad finally arrived, he didn’t say a word, but just grinned and handed me the spare key. I followed him back to their house and endured hours of endless amusement about how the dog had locked me out of my own car.
After this incident, I now make certain that Dad always has the spare key, and when I bought a new car, my top priority was the feature that wouldn’t allow the doors to lock while the car was running.
Now Max rarely gets left alone in the car, even if it is only going to be “just a second.”
~Sue A. Fairchild
Heidi’s Gift
Fun fact: Miniature Schnauzers are known as “ratters” because they were developed by German farmers in the late 19th century to keep the rat population under control.
Both teens retired to their rooms. My husband Freddy let our Miniature Schnauzer Heidi out for her final yard inspection before bedding down in her crate. Though she was not a large dog, she would do whatever was necessary to guard her family. Checking out the yard before bedtime was one of her many self-imposed duties. I looked in on the kids while Freddy called Heidi back into the house.
Instead of going to her crate, Heidi rushed past me into my daughter’s room. As she darted by, I tried to grab what looked like dried grass hanging from her beard. In one flying leap, she landed on Teri’s bed among open books and homework.
I went to tell my son goodnight. I’d be back for Heidi when she’d had a few scratches behind her ears.
As I chatted with John about his day, the quiet evening was disrupted by Teri’s shrieking. Her screams were so loud I thought a burglar was in the house. As John and I ran down the hall, we met my husband headed in the same direction.
There was no burglar, but the shrieks continued. Puzzled, we stepped into the room.
Heidi sat in front of Teri on the pink bedspread, tail wagging, ears up, and paws together. She looked like a little general standing at attention. Teri was bouncing up and down flailing her arms about while she continued to scream.
She was able to get out a few words to give us a clue as to the cause of her terror. She pointed to Heidi. “Look. Look. Look.” We hurried over to the bed.
Heidi seemed so proud as she sat behind her offering to Teri: a mouse. Somewhat crippled but still alive, the mouse wriggled as Heidi stood guard.
Schnauzers are mousers. They earn their keep catching — and usually killing — mice for their owners. Teri had been chosen from the four people in our home to receive the spoils of her backyard reconnaissance. Perhaps in Heidi’s mind, a live mouse was better t
han a dead one.
My husband stepped forward. He took the treasure outside and didn’t bother us with the details. Meanwhile, my son and I were laughing so hard that my daughter’s terror turned into indignation.
We laughed even harder at her version of the story. When Heidi jumped on her bed, Teri reached over to pull a piece of dried grass out of her beard. When she discovered she was pulling a live mouse’s tail, the screams began. Hoping to appease her mistress, Heidi laid the mouse as close to Teri as possible.
Later, as the house returned to normal, I remembered trying to grab what I thought was dried grass in Heidi’s beard. Had I succeeded, I would have denied Heidi the chance to bestow her gift on Teri and we would have been deprived of a great family memory.
~Carole A. Bell
His Just Desserts
Fun fact: Humans have five million scent receptors in their noses, but dogs have more than 200 million scent receptors in their noses and the roofs of their mouths.
It was dog-treat baking day — time to create those homemade treats that my pups love so much. Somehow, they always know when I’m about to start cooking. Two seconds after I pull out the cookie sheets and grab the bone-shaped cookie cutter, the dogs appear. I suddenly become the most popular person in my house.
Sadie, our Lab-Shepherd mix, and Coco and Pixel, the Maltese pups, waste no time dashing into the kitchen. They jockey for position, extending their moist noses, anxious to see what I’m doing. I usually have quite a bit of help with my baking project.
This day was no different from any other. With pups underfoot, I assembled the ingredients. I mixed and measured flour and cheese, adding in some bits of bacon as I stirred and kneaded the concoction. Beautiful smells filled the air, tantalizing their senses. The puppies gathered under my feet, bouncing into my legs and demanding my attention. They whimpered and whined, begging for some small scrap to come their way as I loaded the cookie sheets with rows of tiny treats. A modest pile of cheese and bacon pieces was left on the kitchen counter. Feeling generous, I knocked the mound to the floor. Three wet tongues scurried along, slurping up the tiny scraps. Keeping them occupied allowed me to pop the treats into the oven without their help.
I mused that baking time must be sheer agony for the dogs. Delicious smells wafted from the oven. The puppies never stray too far from the kitchen during the baking process, so, as usual, they lay down and stared at the oven door. When the oven timer went off, it was almost like someone had rung the doorbell. (We all know what a frenzy that drives our dogs into!)
Buzz… buzz… buzz. The howling and barking began. In dog speak, the buzzing must mean “hot treats are done — you can eat them now.” I quickly scooped out both cookie sheets, turning off the pesky timer in the process. Foolishly, I thought the absence of noise would make the dogs calm down. No way. As soon as I put both of the cookie sheets on the stovetop to cool, another chorus of howls greeted me. I’m pretty sure they were saying they wanted their treats — right now. How was I going to explain that none of the delectable goodies was intended for immediate consumption? I didn’t even try. I just made a general announcement to the universe that the treats needed to cool. I also added that any puppies in the kitchen needed to vacate the area. For the next fifteen minutes, three dogs sat very still on the kitchen floor, gazing up at the stovetop. They looked as though they expected the treats to come to life and jump into their mouths. Occasionally, they’d look forlornly at one another, whimpering and barking quietly.
I never suspected that they were hatching a plan — that can be the only explanation for what happened next. I can still see it happening as though in slow motion. I grabbed the cookie trays, one in each hand, moving them to the kitchen counter. I was silly enough to think that I’d be able to load up their treat jar with the freshly baked goodies.
That’s when it happened.
Simultaneously, three dogs sprang to their feet, charging toward me. Three dogs under two unsuspecting feet doesn’t end well. I tripped, twisting and turning in several directions at once. Meanwhile, the dog treats were slipping and sliding precariously on the baking sheets.
Down I went along with both cookie sheets. The puppy treats scattered like dry leaves in a hurricane. They slid in several directions across the slick tile floor. Sadie dashed off in one direction, scooping up treats as fast as she could. Coco scampered off in another direction, munching and chomping on the warm goodies along the way.
And there sat Pixel. At his feet was a perfectly formed dog treat. Untouched. I was eye-to-eye with him at this point, after my not-so-graceful landing on my rear end. He stared at me, just waiting. With a whole floor covered in dog treats, he wouldn’t eat a bite.
Finally, I reached over and picked up the treat, snapping it into two pieces. I placed one piece back on the floor at his feet. The other piece went into his open mouth. Pixel looked at me as if he was smiling before he wolfed it down. You see, that’s the only way Pixel will eat his treats. One piece must be placed gingerly into his mouth with the other piece placed at his feet. Even when the whole floor is covered in his favorite thing to eat.
You tell me — is he spoiled, or what?
~Debby Johnson
Reprinted by permission of www.offthemark.com
Independence Day
Fun fact: 17th century Swiss monks in the Hospice of Saint Bernard bred St. Bernard dogs to search for lost travelers crossing mountain passes between Switzerland and Italy.
My first dog was a St. Bernard named Sir Lancelot. From a fluffy puppy we carried in our arms, he grew to be a powerhouse weighing nearly 200 pounds. Lancelot was not only large, he lived large, trotting across the lawn with an old tire clamped in his jaws or turning a discarded mahogany tabletop into a teething ring.
Our dog was not a star pupil in obedience class. Lancelot pulled on the leash so hard he yanked my mom and sister off their feet. Only my father and I walked him. Sometimes, I wrapped his leash around my arm, the chain digging into my flesh with bruising force, to hold him back when Lancelot growled at strangers who shared my sidewalk.
Lancelot may have frightened strangers, but he was still a little puppy at heart. We made the mistake of leaving him home alone in the yard his first Fourth of July while we went to see the fireworks show at the high school. We came home to an empty yard.
Lancelot had hurled himself against the gate until it broke open, then disappeared into the night. Dad drove slowly around the neighborhood. Mom and I walked up and down our street calling his name. None of us spotted any sign of our missing St. Bernard.
Late that evening, the phone rang. “Mrs. Lendroth, is your doggie home?” asked the mother of my best friend, Denise Woo.
Her parents had returned home from a night out to find something unexpected on their shadowed porch. A deep, long growl rumbled from the darkness when they opened their front gate. The Woos quickly slammed it shut again. Whatever creature barred them from their home was large, very large.
Mr. Woo called the police from a neighbor’s house. The officers angled their patrol car to throw light up the walkway and onto the porch. When Mrs. Woo saw what stood there, she called us.
Somehow, our terrified St. Bernard, running to escape the booming fusillade overhead, had found Denise’s house a half-mile away, remembered from the two or three times we had walked there months ago in cooler weather. Her porch spelled safety, Denise’s parents, intruders.
Dad quickly drove to the Woos’ house. When he approached the gate, Lancelot growled deep and low, warning him and everyone else to stay back from the porch he had claimed. The policeman warned Dad, too. “That dog’s scared; you’d better not go near him.”
Dad simply opened the gate and yelled, “Lancelot, you damn fool, it’s me!”
At those magic words, our dangerously frightened St. Bernard bounded to Dad, panting happily and wriggling like a puppy. Clipped to his leash, he was eager to greet the Woos, the police and anyone else he met — a happy-go-lucky dog whose person had finall
y arrived to take him home.
~Susan Lendroth
Midnight Thief
Not-so-fun fact: According to the Association for Pet Obesity Prevention, 52.7% of dogs in the United States are overweight or obese.
I love to visit my son and his family in Fountain Inn, South Carolina. Not only do I get to enjoy the weather there versus winters at our home in northern Illinois, but I get to see their three adorable dogs: Mason, a yellow Labrador Retriever; Max, an overweight Basset Hound mix; and Jake, a cute, caramel-colored Dachshund.
The dogs love treats and perform to get them. Jake “speaks” in a special way, Mason balances a bone on his nose, and Max rolls over and plays dead.
The dogs are obsessed with food, of course, but they are fed a healthy diet, with a minimum of “people” food. When we sit in the dining room to eat, three little heads poke around the door and move closer and closer to the table, hoping against hope for an accident.
One day, my daughter-in-law, Tammy, had made a beautiful and delicious cake for dessert. After dinner, we loaded the dishwasher, covered the leftover cake, and went to bed.
The next morning, Tammy shrieked and yelled at Mason, who being a Lab, was the only one of the three tall enough to reach the kitchen counter. I stepped into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Look!” She held out the empty cake plate. “Naughty dog!” She stared at Mason.
“What happened?” I had wanted another piece of that cake.
“Mason ate all the leftover dessert.” She grabbed the dog, saying “No, no,” and putting him out in the back yard.
After dinner the following night, we wrapped the leftover apple crisp and slipped it into the refrigerator — out of sight and smell, and temptation. I rolled the potato chip bag tightly closed, clipped it, and put it on the counter.
