"C" is for Canine

Upon reflection, I’m going to have to give myself a “C” in the area of my dog-mom duties for yesterday.

My highest marks came in the area of doggie death matches. There weren’t any. This is also good because it means that it was unnecessary for me to flood my own kitchen again, and I didn’t suffer any additional breaking-up-dog-fight injuries. I did not, however, get to use my air horn, but as amusing as that might prove to be, I imagine I should probably still be grateful.

I also did my usual outstanding job in supper-preparation. I made Honest Kitchen dehydrated raw for Sprocket, because all his necessary supplements mix into it so well, and a mix of raw (Nature’s Variety lamb this time) and Nature’s Variety Instinct grain-free duck kibble for the other boys. This was actually a bit of a shortcut, because I've been making my own raw food. For the past couple of weeks, though, I've cheated and used the pre-made raw frozen meals because my neck and shoulder were still really hurting from the Unfortunate Stair Incident, and it takes a lot of upper-body effort to mix, smush, blend and portion 14 pounds of raw meat, vegetables and fruits. I take a twisted sort of pride in the fact that I put more effort into their meals than my own. I choose to believe it is a true compliment that they all snark down their meals in 30 seconds or less, or about six seconds in Darwin’s case. I refuse to dwell on the thought that they couldn’t possibly be tasting it, let alone enjoying it.

There was also a very sweet interlude during which Darwin and I were sacked out on the couch, his head on my chest so that I could rub his ears. He kept lifting his nose up so I could bestow frequent, affectionate little smooches. It was all rather idyllic. I was also, due to my compulsive need to multi-task, reading Antarktos Rising and watching the first of two (two!) new episodes of Chuck.

I totally blew it with regard to bark-control, though. It was -12F in the morning, and didn’t exactly become balmy at any point during the day. In the afternoon, after several unsuccessful attempts to lure Darwin back into the house from my semi-frosty post at the sliding glass doors, I was forced to don my Arctic Explorer gear and cautiously make my way down the Killer Steps of Death to physically transport the bark-tard back inside. If only it were that easy.

I don’t watch a lot of football, but I watch enough to draw one comparison. You know those little running backs? The ones who are half the size of everyone else on the field, but compact and solid muscle? They’re also supernaturally fast, and it generally takes about three guys the size of cement trucks to stop them once they get moving. Well, that’s Darwin. As he races along the fence line, barking like a maniac, I attempt to position myself to cut him off. He sprints right for me, then dodges at the last second, leaving me with nothing but a few golden hairs clutched in my rapidly-freezing fingers. Eventually, if I’m lucky, I’ll manage to snag him in the narrow area between the pool fence and the lilac bush, or in the back corner, as long as no cars come from the opposite direction to send him rocketing past me again.

At one point a few days ago, I took a leash and slipped the clip end through the handle, forming a lasso of sorts, thinking I could rope the speedy little booger like a rodeo calf. This did not go as planned. My cowboy skills are clearly lacking. I suspect I might actually need a horse to execute this maneuver properly. This is not an option for at least two reasons. 1) I’m a little bit afraid of horses, and 2) I think there’s a high likelihood that many hundreds of pounds of horse would be even more difficult to control than a 60-pound dog, especially if it is also neurotic. And living in our household, there’s a pretty good chance it would be.

At last, with frostbite imminent, biology helped me nab him. I happened to be in the immediate vicinity when nature required him to move part of breakfast out of his system in order to allow his recently-gobbled supper to take its place. That’s the only way I got a hand on him. I did courteously wait approximately three milliseconds after he finished before latching onto his collar, but it was a calculated risk. He could have burst back into action at any instant, and with his load being considerably lightened he would have achieved warp speed before I could even turn around. I got him back inside, but since it was my fault that he was out there barking in the first place, I can’t truthfully claim that as a victory.

My other failure today also involved a biological process, but this one of a more liquid variety. I was determined to wait until at least 8 PM before letting the boys out for their last potty-break, because the fewer times I might potentially have to trudge out there to haul Barky-Boy’s butt back inside the better. We’d recently had our doggie-mommy snugglefest on the couch, and I was feeling partially redeemed for my earlier laxity. I went into the bedroom to chat with Tom for a minute; I don’t know what he was watching in there, but it wasn’t Futurama, and that’s what I wanted to watch as I waited for the second episode of Chuck. (What NBC was thinking when putting an episode of that ultra-retarded Celebrity Apprentice nightmare in between my long-awaited two new episodes of Chuck I cannot begin to imagine.)

The dogs, of course, had followed me. It’s a parade every time I get off the couch. It’s a good thing I try not to do that often on my days off, because otherwise those dogs would get really, really tired. I informed them that it was just about time to go “o-u-t,” but by the time I got to the door, Darwin had sprung a leak. There was a large piddle-puddle by the door, and a dribble-trail led away from the scene as he scurried around the table at my approach. The dribbles made a series of dark curlicues on the carpet, which might or might not have spelled, “Thanks a lot, Mom.” Who knew that dogs could pee sarcastically?

I felt especially bad about this, because in the two months he’s lived with us, Darwin had not had a single accident. This, despite having lived his first three years in a garage. So I knew he felt awful about it. I received further proof of this when he went outside, did whatever it was he still needed to do (though I can’t imagine he could have had much left), and came right back in without a single bark. Or maybe no cars happened to pass during that time. I didn’t look. I was de-tinkle-izing the floor.

This led me to the conclusion that if I want to stop him from running the fence and barking at cars I could simply refuse to let him out until he pees on the carpet. For obvious reasons, this is an unacceptable solution.

I won’t be able to improve my grade today, since I work all day and have a raw feeding seminar to attend tonight, but I will be with them all weekend. Wish me luck, and listen for the air horn!