Of Mutts and (Wo) Men

  

   It’s certainly been a week, hasn’t it?  There’s been more than enough news (and week) to go around and most of it bad.  Maybe you could say that about any random week, but this one seems particularly noxious. With that in mind, we need to talk about something else, change the subject, create a diversion, shift gears, and I know just the thing; dogs.  Who doesn’t like a good dog?

   I have two. Whether the adjective “good” applies to them probably depends on what you expect from a dog.. They are the Mutt and Jeff of dogdom. One is a Doberman Pinscher.  She has a noble aristocratic carriage, almost regal in nature.  She’s red. I’d never seen a red Dobie before I rescued this one. Now they’re all red ones. I never see the black ones anymore. It’s a little like being pregnant. You don’t notice pregnant women until you are a pregnant women. When you are pregnant, the whole world is pregnant right along with you, any woman with kids gets that. It’s happened to all of us. It’s the same with dogs.

  So, I have a large, regal, almost royal, red Doberman Pinscher.  A protection dog, and she knows her role.  Her counter- part weighs thirteen pounds. He’s a Corgi-Chihuahua.  What I’m told is that people have been crossing the two breeds to allow for a dog with a shorter back, less prone to back injury. The result is the best of both; a perky little dog with stand-up ears, trim legs, and a curly tail.   His role is to be the auxiliary pup – the dog in reserve, the break glass in case of fire dog, only to be depended upon in a pinch, the first runner-up, who will serve only when the primary dog can’t fulfill the role. It’s a good thing he’s not the primary. He’s been here five years and has yet to learn the right stuff.  Sadly, he’s not much of a student.     

 This auxiliary pup is a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. He lives to chase his squeaky toys, or the cat, or any squirrel that dares to set foot off its tree into the yard, or to curl up on any lap offered.  He’s not a protection dog – though he does a good imitation of one, in kind of a high pitched frenzied voice.  It’s hard to take him seriously. A thirteen pound dog, with stand-up ears snarling, lips curled around a squeaky toy in his mouth, is less than intimidating.

  

  Not much fazes him with the possible exception of thunder.  He will cheerfully wear an elf hat at Christmas, howl at passing emergency vehicles, sleep with the tip of his tongue protruding between his teeth, and allow the cat to chase him around the house. You can see why I can’t consider him for a more important role in the household.

  The Doberman, on the other hand, is a very serious dog, solemn and somber. It’s sad to say she doesn’t have a sense of humor. She was bred to protect her home, her owner, and any living or inanimate object within her domain. She doesn't hunt, she doesn't fetch, she doesn't swim after aquatic fowl. She protects, she's a one trick pony dog. 

   She also has a severe case of OCD. I had never known that dogs could exhibit obsessive compulsive disorder.  The Doberman Pinscher is the OCD breed of the dog world. I discovered this when I made the comment to my veterinarian that she seemed awfully anxious. “She paces in circles constantly,” I explained to my vet. “It’s as if she feels she needs a 360 degree radius of protection.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “This is a very anxious breed, but they are always on their toes.” This is the same vet who, when I told him of my concern that I had a very short fat cat, replied that I also had a very short fat vet, so what was the problem?  OCD doggie? No worries.

  This angst-ridden dog, true to her Velcro type nature doesn’t  like to let me out of her sight, but she’s sweet; not especially bright, but sweet. Many times she wears a confused look, earnestly studying my face as if to say, “I really want to do what you want me to do, if only I could figure out what you’re saying. Just tell me how, I’ll do the ironing.” 

  She advanced within the ranks from her former role as auxiliary pup, when her predecessor passed on to the great dog park in the sky. It soon became obvious she wasn’t quite ready to take on the role, her confidence seemed to need a boost.  She’s done okay, not great, but okay.  She puts on a ferocious show of teeth and foaming at the mouth, but I have a hunch the previous dog kept some of the secrets to being a highly successful primary dog to himself, the same way a cook doesn’t give you all the ingredients to her specialty dish. In some ways, the Dobie has been left to sink or swim on her own.

  Back to one dog after the former primary dog died, I wasn’t in a hurry to obtain another. One day my step sister called. She and her husband ran a veterinary clinic forty miles up the road and she had something she wanted me to see. It was a small dog that she felt had possibilities. I wasn’t convinced but I made an appointment to see him. At first meeting he jumped onto my lap and snarled at everyone else in the room.

 “I’ll take him!” I declared making an impulse purchase on the spot. And he has snarled and snapped at every new person he has met since.  This behavior while perfectly compatible with Chihuahuas guarding the Aztec gold and Corgi’s keeping their flocks safe, is totally incongruous with his otherwise sunny, goofy personality. This is one happy dog. He’s the smart one. And like any smart funny kid, that can get yuks from his clowning, he doesn’t apply himself. I don’t think he’ll every amount to anything.

  

  This leaves me with a conundrum. The Doberman is getting on in years. When she goes I would probably be fine with only one dog. But the little guy; he’s just not up to the job. Perhaps I shouldn’t worry, he might grow into it, but then again, there’s the Donald Trump example. I’m not sure I can tolerate incompetence in my dog too.