Against all good sense, I think I love my dog
JOHN W. FOUNTAIN author@johnwfountain.com October 12, 2011 10:26PM
Fountain gives the family dog a good toweling off after a shampooing this summer.
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Updated: November 16, 2011 2:04PM
I think I love my dog.
I hate that his shedding season is once again upon us, his golden and bronze hairs sticking to my socks, sweat-pant leg, to anything wool or nylon. I have sworn many times that our dog, which we got more than a year ago at our son’s persistent request, was on his last leg.
I hate that he is ever stealthy, judging from evidence that he has once again had his 70-pound body — and paws — on my bed. I am weary of the walking, the washing or watching that is now a part of daily life.
But no matter how many times I have been at the end of my rope — or my dog at the end of his — the more I look into his big brown eyes and take in the tail-wagging, panting affection that greets me morning, noon and night, I think I love my dog.
This despite my discovery that our dog, a mixed breed we call a Shepherdor, had mauled the handle on my chair — the sacred big chair dedicated to football Sundays. And despite that day while playing in the family room the dog — totally out of his house-broken nature — decided to squat and do a No. 1 right there on the carpet. (I guess I should be grateful it was not a No. 2, huh?)
There was the time this summer when he discovered some curious substance in the backyard, and rolled in it, like a pig in mud.
“What’s he doing?” I yelled to the kids. No answer.
“What’s that on his face?” I continued. It looked like, uh . . . He came closer. I smelled it.
Yep, animal poop. “Awwww, mannnn!”
No use in fussing. My wife hopped in the minivan bound for more doggy wash. I grabbed the garden hose to begin the scrub-down while the dog and kids stared off into nothingness, like deer in headlights. I washed, wrestled, rinsed and brushed until the stench gave way to a blend of coconut and rose. Then mercilessly he shook himself, spraying me speechless.
But I think I love my dog.
Sometimes I throw the Frisbee to him in the backyard — and instead of returning it to me like I ask, motioning, I find myself chasing him. Even with that, I’ve told myself he must be a pretty smart dog to have flipped the script — that he’s still a keeper, even if he sometimes seems to be lacking in smelling, hearing and seeing ability, judging by the squirrels, rabbits and assorted vermin who get within biting distance without even a peep of warning from my dog.
OK, so maybe he’s not a full-fledged watchdog. But he’s still got good protective instincts. He barks at approaching strangers — the light man, the gas man — and in my son’s words, “gets his Mohawk” — that ridge of hair that raises on his back when he is battle ready.
Whatever our dog lacks in killer instinct, he more than makes up for in love and contagious delight — never more evident than when he arrives home from boarding. He runs through the door and makes a mad dash through the house until his tongue is hanging and he is panting, his mouth curled at the ends like a big smile.
Cute, huh?
So much about being a dog owner isn’t.
The last 16 months of cleaning, brushing, walking, grooming, boarding and simply taking care of the dog my son, 9, wanted, has taught me this firsthand.
“The dog was your idea,” my wife reminds me in moments of frustration when I am vowing once again that “That dog’s days are numbered!”
But he’s not going anywhere. You know why? Because I think I love my dog.
Although here lately, I’ve been thinking, “What’s love got to do with it?”
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