My Very Good, Very Bad Dog

by Amy Newmark

  The decision was not an easy one — in fact, I agonized over it for days. I had never boarded Bailey, my beautiful Pyrenees-Husky mix. In fact, we were seldom separated. We had travelled together across the vast width and depth of the United States and through a good part of Mexico.

  I would pack our lives in the trunk of the car, open the rear door of the old Buick and, with Bailey in charge of the back seat and me at the steering wheel, we’d spend long days together on the road. She rested her white snout and cold black nose on the armrest and watched every truck that passed. Every now and again, she would nuzzle me or I would stroke her as I talked and she listened. We took leisurely walks every few hours, and when we stopped for the night, she would snuggle down on her blanket on the floor, completely trusting that I would always care for her.

  And she believed this to be true until I boarded her at a doggy motel.

  Bailey and I were wintering in Arizona when my daughter invited me to drive home to Ottawa, Canada, via Michigan, not only to visit her, but to attend the theater performance for which she had designed the sets and lighting.

  It was important to both of us that I attend. However, there was one difficulty — her husband was seriously allergic to dogs. Bailey could not stay with me at their home. It was also not feasible to stay at a people hotel because during the four-day visit I would be out and about to places where she couldn’t join me. Usually, when I visited Michigan, it was directly from Ottawa, and I would leave Bailey at home with my other daughter, but this time I had her with me. The only possible solution was a doggy motel.

  After considerable research online, and having my daughter obtain glowing references from people who had used this specific facility, I finally booked Bailey’s stay. After agreeing to pay for extra walks, special treats and broth with her food, I still hesitated to leave her. Sensing my reluctance, my daughter thought I would be happier if I saw her room. It was a large cage! She had never been caged. Reassurances that it was clean, that she would be safe, have two very long walks a day and that the staff would go out of their way to see to her comforts, I left her. I phoned three times that day to make sure she was okay, was eating and wasn’t pining. I phoned each day after that to check on her, and when my visit was over, I followed my daughter through the back roads of Michigan to collect her.

  When Bailey was ushered into the reception area, she took one look around and headed directly to my daughter, who she hardly knew. I was being deliberately snubbed. I put it down to being in a strange place. Once she was in the car, I reasoned, she wouldn’t be confused.

  Calling her, I headed for the Buick. She walked right by it. I herded her back and into the back seat, kissed my daughter and headed for the highway to Canada. Bailey immediately sat, turned her rump to me and looked out the back window. No amount of coaxing would entice her to lay her head on the armrest where I could reach her for her regular head scratches and mommy pats. She stayed this way to the Canadian border and beyond. I stopped at a rest area to stretch our legs, for her pit stop and new-place sniffing challenges. Fastening her extendable leash, I stepped aside so she could jump out of the car. Bailey quickly pulled away from me, staying at the end of her long lead, did her business and barely tolerated my forced petting and hugs. Back in the car, she repeated her angry stance and ignored my existence.

  Hours later, we stopped in Oshawa to visit relatives. Bailey happily ran in the door, greeted everyone with tail wagging and doggy smiles, then went to my cousin and sat at her feet with her back to me. I was not in her favor, nor did she want any part of me. I was feeling really guilty and somewhat sorry for myself. Would my dog ever love me again?

  Back in the car, I pleaded with her, promising to never, ever board her again. I told her how I wasn’t happy at having to do it, how I had phoned every day to check on her. I made promise after promise that it would never happen again. I told her she was a good girl and I was a bad mom.

  I’m sure I detected a smirk as her big, woolly white head appeared on the armrest, and her wet nose touched my arm. After seven hours of torturing me, I was finally forgiven.

  We were companions for fourteen years. True to my promise, I never, ever boarded her again.

  ~Molly O’Connor

  Reprinted by permission of www.offthemark.com

  Plastered Puppy

  Not-so-fun fact: Alcoholic drinks contain many ingredients that are toxic to dogs.

  “There,” I said, adding a final toss to the green salad and turning to face our guests. “We can head for the table.”

  I grinned at the friends milling around the kitchen of our small Japanese house. We were part of a squadron of U.S. Navy pilots and wives stationed at a base in a rural Japanese town on the Inland Sea. Most of us were newly married, some with babies, and all without any family nearby, so we became closer than just friends. We quickly learned to depend on each other for everything and think of each other as family.

  We were jammed in our little kitchen, laughing, as one of the guys asked incredulously, “You mean we’re going to eat lasagna Japanese-style? Your house smells like an Italian restaurant, not a Japanese tea room!”

  “Sure, why not?” I told him. “Pasta or rice, it all tastes good, even when you’re sitting on a cushion on the floor.” I envisioned his long legs tucked under our Japanese table, which looked like a one-foot-tall coffee table.

  He looked doubtful, but finally nodded his head. Good thing, as it was the only table we owned.

  Then it hit me. “Where’s the dog?” I asked, looking around and through the sea of legs. Then, louder, “THE DOG! OH NO!”

  We almost knocked each other down, pushing through the door to the dining room, where the table was set with plates full of lasagna. Well, some of them were — three were bare, with only remnants of red sauce smeared on the white china. Our one-year-old Cocker Spaniel was finishing off the fourth plate and headed for the fifth.

  “NOOOOO!” I screamed.

  Buffy shot me a quick look of utter surprise at my ear-splitting scream, then immediately, another one of indecision — should he grab the next plate of lasagna or look contrite? Only a split second passed as he looked longingly at the meat and cheese as well as the next glass of wine before lowering his head and acknowledging his wrongdoing.

  I swear he was smiling. And a kind of “triumph no matter what the consequences” gleamed from his eyes when he next glanced at me.

  Bill looped his finger beneath Buffy’s collar, saying, “Bad dog!” while banning him to our bedroom and slamming the door.

  Fortunately, I’d made a second pan of lasagna to freeze and serve another time. Who knew we’d need it that night? Together, we washed and dried the plates and wine glasses, and returned to sit on the floor for our Italian feast.

  Our guests laughed as they downed their dinner but I felt guilty for leaving Buffy in such a tempting situation. It was our fault for setting a dog-high table basically under his nose and then leaving it unattended. Never did I imagine everyone would gather in our tiny kitchen while our pup took full advantage of our lack of attention.

  Occasionally during dinner, Bill or I would go check to make sure the puppy was all right. He was sprawled out on the floor at the foot of our bed, definitely breathing but not moving much.

  Several times during the night, Buffy woke us with whines and rumbles. When we rose in the morning, we had to stifle our laughter. He had his paw over his eyes to block the light in the most human-like manner but it was obvious he was in distress. I made a sarcastic comment about payback for stealing food and wine, and he groaned audibly. We gave him water, and he spent all day outside where he could come to grips with his sour stomach and raging hangover.

  In spite of it all, our puppy learned some valuable lessons and even taught us a few.

  Never again would he touch Italian food. Never. Not that it’s a normal dietary item for dogs anyway, but he turned away from it throughout his thirteen-year life. He remembered too well how it had made him fee
l afterward.

  Even more telling, he would not go near wine, beer, or any other alcoholic beverage again. One sniff and he would back up and shake his head. That one and only hangover forever taught him about the pain of drinking too much.

  Clever dog.

  ~Jean Haynie Stewart

  My Protective Dog

  Fun fact: A Newfoundland named Seaman accompanied Lewis and Clark on their historic 8,000-mile trip in 1804, helping to protect them from bears and other dangers in the wild. He even survived a bite from a beaver.

  A Furry Affair

  Not-so-fun fact: If your dog has a high predator instinct, you probably don’t want to get a pet rabbit.

  “We can’t keep this rabbit,” I told my husband, as he stood holding a little brown bundle of fur that he’d found outside a medical complex an hour earlier. Obviously, someone had abandoned the rabbit. Our Golden Retriever, Autumn, stretched her neck to inspect the creature cradled in my husband’s arms.

  We agreed the rabbit could spend the night in our enclosed back yard, and I’d deal with finding a new home for it the next day. Autumn followed me as I put a bowl of water and lettuce near some bushes.

  “Don’t worry,” I told Autumn. “This yard belongs to you, and you don’t have to share it with a rabbit.” We went back into the house and locked the rabbit outside. My husband stewed all night about the rabbit’s safety. I was fine if an owl ate it.

  The next morning, Autumn and I checked on the rabbit. Suddenly, the rabbit bolted from under the bushes and charged directly at Autumn. He ran in big circles around my gentle giant of a dog, as if to say, “I’m the boss here. You might be bigger, but you’re not going to hurt me.”

  Autumn looked as if she had no idea what had just happened. Since Golden Retrievers are hunting dogs by nature, I expected her to chase the rabbit, but no, the rabbit chased her.

  That evening, I told my husband, “Thumper (the name he’d given his new pet) has got to go. I won’t have a rabbit peeing on my dog to mark its territory.” Autumn now smelled like rabbit urine, and Thumper was obviously trying to establish dominance over my dog.

  One strong shake of the neck from Autumn and that rabbit would have been history. Instead of hurting the rabbit, Autumn made a game of Thumper’s attempts to show his power. In retrospect, I realize Thumper was wild with fear and trying to protect himself from this huge animal, but to my eyes, he seemed aggressive.

  When Thumper charged, Autumn barked and lunged forward as if playing with a puppy. Then she started running in huge circles while Thumper ran after her. We watched from the kitchen window as an unusual friendship began to blossom.

  Thumper quickly realized that Autumn was no threat, although sometimes she grabbed Thumper’s ears in her mouth when she got too excited. I’d holler, “No ears!” and Autumn immediately released the ears.

  Even with the instinct, power, and size to kill this small rabbit, Autumn allowed Thumper to control their play and backed off when Thumper ran to his safe place under the bushes. After Thumper caught his breath and Autumn had turned away, Thumper would race from his hiding spot, bolt toward a surprised Autumn, and jump in the air like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle — front paws chopping the air and hind legs kicking toward the dog. The game was on! Autumn barked and charged Thumper, all the time using her “gentle retriever mouth” when grabbing Thumper’s fur in her mouth.

  As this friendship grew, we allowed Thumper to come in the house more. We trained him to use a litter box and created an area in the family room where he could sleep and eat. Every night, I tucked him into his caged area while Autumn followed us upstairs where she slept in our bedroom.

  Each morning, I took Thumper outside to stay in the yard for the day, but Autumn had the freedom to come and go through a dog door. Within days of Thumper’s arrival, I noticed the rabbit watching Autumn go back and forth through this rectangular hole with a plastic flap. I could almost see the wheels spinning in Thumper’s head: “If the dog can do this, why can’t I?”

  After watching Autumn for a few days, Thumper pushed his front paw against the plastic flap. It moved! He jumped back. Then, very carefully, he poked his head against the flap. It opened ever so slightly. He stood back and seemed to say, “I think I’ve got this figured out.” As I watched, he took one big hop and jumped through the door. Freedom! Just like Autumn.

  Now, he could follow Autumn in and out of the house. And he did — and still does. No more would he be confined to his cage or back yard. While I rabbit-proofed the house by moving electrical cords and closing off rooms with our computers, Thumper moved in permanently.

  Just like Autumn, Thumper now stretched out on the family room floor in the evenings and watched TV with my husband and me. Quickly, a one-sided love relationship developed. Thumper pressed his tiny body as close as he could to the dog, while Autumn only tolerated his presence. It was obvious Thumper was falling in love with our Golden Retriever, and he couldn’t be close enough to her. Autumn resigned herself to the fact a rabbit was now part of our family and sharing her space. But if we gave the rabbit too much affection, Autumn gently pushed Thumper away with her nose.

  Since Thumper was now fully trained to use a litter box, we let him stay out of his cage at night. Soon, he was hopping up the stairs after Autumn and stretching out on our bedroom floor. Once Autumn settled on her dog bed, Thumper snuggled as close as he could next to her. Before they fell asleep, Thumper would lick Autumn’s head and body, like a cat washing her kitten.

  Today, Thumper and Autumn share our home like good friends, but Autumn has set boundaries. Thumper gets a warning growl if he goes near her food dish, but they share the same water bowl. Whenever I leave the house, I remind Autumn that she’s in charge and Thumper must obey her. But I never worry that Autumn will harm the rabbit because she’s such a trustworthy dog. When I arrive home, Autumn greets me at the door, and Thumper is usually napping under the coffee table.

  Sometimes, we catch Autumn snuggling nose-to-nose with Thumper, but the minute she sees us, she moves. Certainly, she doesn’t want us thinking she actually likes this rabbit.

  We remind Autumn daily that she’s a very good dog for sharing her home with a rabbit.

  ~Jeanne Getz Pallos

  The Night Watchman

  Fun fact: The only dog that doesn’t bark is the African Basenji, one of the oldest dog breeds. Paintings of them have even been found in Egyptian pharaohs’ tombs.

  “He doesn’t look like much of a guard dog,” my husband said, as he cupped the face of the yellow Lab puppy and looked into Buster’s eyes. He ran a hand over Buster’s smooth back and picked up one of his large feet. “But if he grows into these feet, he’s going to be big.”

  We had rescued Buster from a shelter. His previous owners had tried to contain his energy, but the fenced back yard of their city home had not provided enough room for exercise. The neighbors had complained about his barking, and Buster had escaped too many times by digging holes under the fence. The shelter staff thought he would be happier on our farm, where he would have room to run.

  We put Buster in a large, fenced-in area with a bowl of fresh dog food and a pail of water. He barked all night. Early the next morning, after a night without sleep, my frazzled husband let him out. We worried we’d spend the rest of the day trying to find Buster, but we shouldn’t have. He had found a home and didn’t intend to leave. He spent the day napping on our deck. We got him a doghouse with a heated mat and gave him easy access to the warm barn where he could sleep with our other animals. We never locked him up again.

  Those first months, my husband and I would look at Buster and wonder if we had made the right choice. We had wanted a guard dog, but Buster loved everyone and spent his days sniffing out the squirrels or chasing rabbits. He greeted visitors with a wagging tail and a sloppy grin.

  Buster’s favorite spot was a rocking chair on the front deck. He nosed the chair next to the picture window and sat upright on the flowered seat cushion. He woul
d rock and doze.

  At Buster’s mealtime, he walked back and forth across the deck as he watched us prepare his food. He would emit one of his infrequent barks on hot summer days, until I added more cold water to his bucket. In the evenings, after the boys had finished their outdoor chores, he watched while my sons worked on their homework and I swept the kitchen floor. Buster was happy to once again sit in his chair on the deck, rocking contentedly.

  As Buster grew to 140 pounds, so did his devotion. Hour after hour, he ran behind the tractor as my husband baled hay. He was a constant companion to our sons and caught countless balls during their frequent baseball games. Quieter moments were spent curled in the hammock with our youngest son, until another burst of energy would hit and they were off on another adventure, Buster always right by his side, never resting until all the boys were safe inside.

  During calving season, Buster loved to sleep in the barn, nestled in the hay next to the new mother and calf, keeping them safe. The cattle learned to stay inside their fence and the deer stayed away from the apple trees when Buster was on patrol.

  When our boys were outside playing or riding their four-wheeler, Buster would be right by their sides. The kids spent hours playing with him. He grew to be the kind of dog that earned the respect of strangers, who remarked, “That’s the biggest Lab I’ve ever seen.”

  In his last years, after a dozen good years as a faithful companion, Buster slowed some. But he was still on patrol, his feet following the path he had tread around our house a million times, the trampled grass trail a testament to his vigilance.

  After my husband returned home from work, Buster would settle into his warm doghouse for the night, his black nose visible through the opening. He stirred from his bed only if a car turned onto our driveway or a deer ran across the yard. But on evenings when my husband was away on a business trip, Buster didn’t sleep in his usual spot. On those rare nights when I was home alone, Buster was on high alert throughout the night, nestled beneath my bedroom window, warning intruders to stay away.