Dog Person

I am not a dog person.  I know dog people.  I even like some dog people.  I am okay with my own dog, as a matter of fact.  But I am not a dog person.

The problem with this -- actually, there are lots of problems with this, but I am going to focus on one (for now) -- is that my dog is TOTALLY a me dog.  Our dog is crazy about me.  Like, if she were a person, people would talk about how unhealthy her attachment to me is.

This would be sweet and kind of fulfilling for a dog person, which, as I have stated and re-stated, I AM NOT!

My husband and I decided, when our kids were of a certain age, we should have a dog.  A woman I knew had just had a litter of Cocker Spaniels and I thought that seemed like a reasonable-size of dog, if we had to have a dog, which, apparently, we did.

Amendment to the earlier statement:  I am not a dog person and I am REALLY not a big dog person.

So, a Cocker seemed like as good a choice as any.  I had a Schnauzer growing up and, although I didn't especially like that dog either -- but she adored me, come to think of it -- she was a good size for a house pet.

Bobby and I decided the Easter Bunny would bring the puppy to our children, so we drove three hours on the Saturday night before Easter Sunday to pick out and pick up our new dog.  I held the puppy for the three hours driving home and I guess we somewhat bonded.  I mean, come on.  Even people who don't like dogs like to snuggle with a puppy every now and again.  So we get home, the kids are sleeping and we take the puppy to the crate we had hidden in the basement.

Puppy commences crying.  Again, even a card-carrying non-dog-person doesn't want to hear a baby crying in her basement all night.  But I couldn't let the puppy sleep with us.  Even I knew that was a precedent we did not want to set.  So I compromised.  I moved the crate up out of the basement to the laundry room, hidden between the washer and dryer.  I turned the dryer on for some heat and noise and tried to go back to bed.

Baby continues crying.

Mom (that would be me by default) ends up spending the night on the floor of the laundry room, fingers in the crate for puppy to snuggle.  Hey, I didn't ever break down and let the puppy sleep with me, right?

The next morning, while my precious children are distracted with the egg hunt in the backyard, I pulled the puppy out of the laundry room and introduced him to his new kids.  They were overjoyed with their new puppy.  Who really only wanted to cower behind my ankles.

The damage was done.  I had a new appendage.  And the kids, offended that "their" new dog didn't seem to want anything to do with them, distracted themselves with the other goodies the Easter Bunny had brought and resigned themselves to sharing their house -- but not their hearts -- with the new resident.

Oh, I guess maybe they tried to play with her.  As I said, no human is immune to a cuddly, fat puppy.  Especially when she's sleeping.  But for the most part, I was the one to feed her, take her outside, reward her for going outside, bring her inside, keep her from chewing everything leather or wood or fabric once she came inside. . . .

And sleeping on the floor of the laundry room all the while.

Then the kids went back to school.  And my husband went back to work.  And it was, for real, just me and that dog.  Scout, she had been dubbed.  Just me and Scout.

I had read about crate training and figured that was a good idea.  Warehouse the animal for hours at a time, take her out to go outside, put her back in the crate, walk away.  Really, the dog likes it, the books said.  They are den animals, the books said.  They need to be alone, they really like it.

Damn books.  They have never tried to get something -- anything -- done in a house with a caged, crying puppy.

So, I contracted a Puppy Whisperer.  I needed someone to teach me how to raise this animal.  I mean, my son and daughter had made it to elementary school without any major catastrophes, but this was, literally, an entirely different animal.

Puppy Whisperer told me to take Scout out of the crate, attach her to a leash and attach the other end of the leash to my beltloop and go about my day while the kids were at school.  When they came home, they were to take her on walks, play with her, generally attempt to imprint themselves on the tiny dog brain in any way possible.

So, I did.  All that.  At 75 bucks an hour, Dog Whisperer is One To Be Obeyed.

About a week into this ridiculous situation -- children insisting that Scout WANTS to watch TV with them after school, pulling the puppy around the block -- I am not making this up -- on her little bottom because she would sit and not get up if it meant leaving my side, or sometimes carrying her around the block, Scout and me actually attached at the hip -- I was complaining about my new life to a friend.

"Oh, no,"  Rhoda said.

"That's something dog people do,"  Rhoda, mother of three boys and three dogs, said.  "You are not a dog person."

Too little.  Too late.  Thanks, Rhoda.

So, fast forward eight years.  For the first five or so, she lived in her crate when I left the house.  She slept in her crate.  If I ever just didn't want her at my feet, I could put her in that crate.

And then she didn't.  And I couldn't.  She just flat refused.  Howling, crying, chewing on the bars of the crate refused.  So, now she sleeps in my bedroom.  On a leash on a rug on the floor -- next to the expensive lambswool and velvet bed that Santa brought a few years ago.

If I am at home and a visitor comes to the house, she goes absolutely nuts.  Barking, growling, running around the house and then standing resolutely between me and whoever dares trespass.  If I am not home, any and all strangers are welcome to come into the house, gather up any and all of our belongings -- save the chair she is lounging on -- and skeedaddle.

If I want to take a bath, she will guard the door so none shall pass.  If I want to take a nap, she is suddenly very sleepy.

It's a lot of togetherness, even for a dog person.  Which, did I mention?  I am NOT.

In case you are not convinced, just let me add this last little story:  About a year ago, I wrecked my car. That's a whole 'nother post.  Suffice to say, I totaled my convertible and, along with it, my right leg.  Five hour surgery to reattach my foot; six days in ICU; then I'm home -- in a wheelchair or on a walker -- to my everlovin' canine limb.  She takes one look at me and immediately lies down by my side.

Sweet, right?

Eventually, I have to get out of bed to go to the bathroom.  I finagle my way around out of the covers, swing my legs off the edge of the bed, align myself with my walker and begin to hop -- slowly and painfully -- to the bathroom.  Scout right by my side.

Hobbling.  With her right back leg lifted.

Really?  The dog absolutely cannot walk.  For, like three days, she keeps this up.

My husband just about lost it.  "Oh great," he says.  "Now the dog has bone cancer," he says.  "I can't handle it.  It's too much," he says.

I arranged to have a friend -- Rhoda -- take the dog to the vet.  I waited at home for news.  About three hours later, the phone rang.

Vet:  Mrs. Fagan, we have done every test we can think of on Scout, and can't find anything physically wrong with her.

Me:  Umm.  Okay.

Vet:  Let me ask you, has anything changed significantly around your household recently?

Me:  Umm.  Other than the fact that I can't use MY right hind leg, either?

Vet:  Yeah.  That'd be it.  This is psychosomatic.

Me:  Umm.

**DIALTONE**

I don't know if he hung up or I did or if Scout somehow figured out how to disconnect the call now that we were on to her.  I just know that, at that moment, I knew, dog person or not, I was going to have to figure out how to accept and love this animal as -- not just part of my life -- part of me.

But I am not getting another one.

I am NOT!

Umm....