Brave New Woof

Ain't Misbehavin'

You’ve seen it; I’ve seen it. We’ve all seen it. You’re in a grocery store, or a library, or on a bus, or at the movies—anywhere, really—and there is a bad kid there. Not just a sort of squirmy, ADD kid-being-a-kid kid, but a public menace kid. The kind with a glint of determination in his eye. The kid who you can picture growing up to be a serial killer, or at the very least, a cutthroat lawyer. A kid who, at the supermarket, willfully opens and pours a jar of mustard on the ground while staring you in the eye and laughing maniacally (this happened to me). Or a kid who screeches and shouts about how mean his parents are. Or a kid who pees on the floor (also happened to me, at a Chapters bookstore). Kids who are doomed from the age of seven. Or ten. Or four.

And in those situations, all you can think is, “Not my kid.” As in, a) I’m so grateful that’s not my kid, and/or b) My kid will never be that bad.

But for at least a few of us who think that, our kid will be that kid. Or at least, given the right set of circumstances, will seem like that kid once or twice in public. And what control do we have of it, if any? (I am thus far childless, but all the people I know who have kids describe a moment when the usually calm/kind/fair child they’ve raised unleashes a bit of hell. Not to mention the perfectly “normal” upbringings of many people who end up being psycho.)

The same goes for furbabies, or so I’ve observed. Recently, I watched two people and their pooches having a conversation in the dog park near my house. One of the dogs kept trying to aggressively mount the other, and the owner of the humper simply laughed this off. “What a scamp,” he seemed to be saying. “Aren’t dogs the funniest?”

This is curious to me. I know there are parents out there who act the same way—the mom of the mustard kid simply grabbed his hand, smiled and said “Guess we’ll need a cleanup here” before walking away scot free—but pet parents have no excuse. The standard excuse for human parents is that this kid is growing up, that they will learn, and that “This is a being that sprung from my loins! They are perfect in their own imperfect way! It’s you who doesn’t understand him/her!!! “

In other words, this is a phase. He’ll grow out of it. Or, it’s you, not him/her!

I know that some people feel this way about their dog (except for the sprung from my loins part) but we need to let go of this on both accounts. I’m as terrified as anyone else of having a bad kid or dog, but responsibility comes into play. If you have a bad kid, you can talk to them about it, get them to talk to others about it and through communication and education, generally make things better (unless they’re the mustard kid). As kids grow up, they will meet many people who can make them better adults. Our dogs need us, first, foremost, and sometimes exclusively, to keep them in line. Don’t laugh it off. Change it.

The Best Best Friends

There’s no doubt that my generation (Y? Pepsi? Next? Whatever we’re called) is a generation raised on TV. I won’t deny it: TV has influenced my choices and preferences in most things: music, culture, books, movies, people, places and of course, dogs.

Other than my real-life dog Rufus, who convinced me in about four seconds to be a dog fan for life, there are a few famous dogs who took me over the edge, as well. Here’s just a few of them:

1. Cooler the Pound Puppy

Created for the purpose of (what else) selling toys, the Pound Puppies cartoon series aired when I was between the ages of three and six. Cooler was a cool (duh) and heroic cocker spaniel who helped get the other pound puppies out of scrapes and away from baddies like Katrina, Brattina and Captain Slaughter (yikes!) on the road to being adopted. Oh, and he wore a leather jacket, too. How could I resist?

2. Santa’s Little Helper

The Simpsons were already eerily close to my own family (I’m Lisa!), but when the best dysfunctional fivesome out there adopted an imperfect family pet, that sealed it. In typical Simpsons fashion, it goes down like this: Bart gets a tattoo in the mall. The Christmas money jar is used to get it removed. The family depends on Homer’s bonus to buy presents, but the bonus doesn’t happen. Instead, Homer works as a mall Santa, and, with his meager earnings, bets on a greyhound at the track—Santa’s Little Helper. The dog loses, Homer loses his money, the dog gets kicked out by his owner, and the Simpsons get a new pet for Christmas instead of gifts. Aw.

3. The Littlest Hobo

A Canadian classic. Hobo is a stray German Shepherd who travels from town to town saving people in need. Canadians of a certain age love Hobo more than anything, and you can tell true Hobo fans because they can a) sing the fantastically horrible theme song; b) quote the fantastically horrible dialogue; and c) have signed a petition sent to CTV (the station that aired the show in the 80s) asking for its renewal (seriously).

4. Wishbone

A Jack Russell Terrier who acts out literary classics. In costume. Enough said.

5. Brian from Family Guy

This martini-swilling, wise-cracking dog is a more recent addition to my list, but he might be the favourite. Who doesn’t look at their dog and imagine him making eye-rolling, wry observations about us humans and our stupid decisions? Brian makes our dreams of dog communication manifest. From the mouths of pups…

A List of Things I Will Teach My Dog to Do

Jean-Luc Picard and I are going to make a lot of money. That’s because he will be the smartest dog in the world, and I will be the best trainer, and together we will tour around the world showing off.* Here’s what he will be able to do, in no particular order:

1) Jump through flaming hoops.

2) Fetch the newspaper.

3) Read the newspaper.

4) Circle stories of interest in the newspaper.

5) Smoke a bubble pipe.

6) Wear a monocle.

7) Laugh at intellectual jokes while doing #3, #4, #5 and #6 simultaneously.

8) Massage my temples.

9) Roll his eyes at reality television shows.

10) Make scrambled eggs.

11) Give high fives.

12) This.

13) This.

14) Locate and attract Justin Timberlake.

15) Make Justin Timberlake marry me.

*This is a fantasy post. But if I really wanted to, I could do it.

Wolf at the Door

No matter what pooch I end up with, I know one thing with certainty: the dog will like me.

The dog will like me because I will make sure we’re compatible (duh), but also because dogs always like me. Always. Cats, not so much, but dogs…

Always.

With one exception.

When I was living in Brooklyn a few years back, I rented a room in a converted brownstone. My room was on the ground floor and faced a backyard that was about 20’ x 20’—a far cry from the acreage my family lived on at home. Still, it was better than looking into someone else’s room (which one of my roommates did, and after seeing some…private things, she kept her blinds closed on a permanent basis).

There was also Spirit. Spirit was a husky who belonged to my landlords and who called the backyard home. Upon first seeing him, I thought I was beginning an ideal relationship with a dog: I got to look at, pet and maybe even walk a very pretty creature, but I didn’t have any real responsibility towards it. Magnifique!

That is, until I actually started trying to befriend Spirit. It was winter, and my landlords had tied the poor dog to a stake in the backyard. One night early on I was watching Spirit circle his post during a particularly heavy snowfall. He looked distressed. I felt sorry for him, so I went outside to undo his chain and let him in. Now, up to this point, Spirit and I had passed in the hallway, and I had given him a small pat or two as my landlord walked by with him on leash (he always seemed to be on leash).

Now in the yard, I reached toward him to unfasten the chain from the spike. Spirit immediately leapt back in fear. I tried to speak calmly, coax him nearer. I went inside and fetched a piece of cheese (there was nary a dog treat to be found in this house). He still wouldn’t come. I tried being playful. Dominant. Submissive. He still wouldn’t come near me.

Months passed, and winter became spring. Still, Spirit was weird and skittish; I started to think he was being mistreated, or at least had been in the past. But my landlords didn’t seem abusive, at least not where Spirit was concerned. With each other, on the other hand, they were a little more aggressive. One day they got in a horrendous fight regarding another tenant, which I heard in all its glory through my bedroom door. Marco, the husband, promptly moved out, and around the same time, Spirit disappeared. I assumed he’d gone with his male companion to a new home. To tell the truth, I was a bit relieved.

A few weeks later, Marco returned to get some things. I happened to pass him on the corner by the house, and we struck up a bit of a conversation. I asked after Spirit.

“Oh,” Marco said, looking surprised. “Spirit’s gone.”

Gone—a weird verb. I considered its different iterations. Ran away? Dead? Marco saw my expression and guessed at the path my brain was taking.

“He’s at a wildlife preserve in Alaska.”

“Oh,” I said. Then I thought about it. “Wait, what?”

Marco looked surprised. “Spirit was 100% Timber Wolf. When we kicked out David [the tenant over whom the fight had occurred], he called animal control and got Spirit picked up. It was in the paper and everything. I thought you knew.”

I just stood there on the corner, mouth agape. I had lived next to, attempted to pet and befriend and even fed…a wolf. Not husky. Wolf.

“I’m still mad,” said Marco, finally. “That wolf cost me $4000.” (Priorities much? I moved out shortly thereafter.)

New York is a strange and beautiful place, particularly Brooklyn. When I think about it, I think about waking up to that wolf staring at me through a pane of glass.

So I guess my record is still clean—no dog has ever disliked me. Just wolves.

The "Dog" Dog Debate

The boyfriend and I have had more than a few discussions now about potential dog ownership (this is exactly a few more discussions than we’ve had about babies, thank goodness). The talks are interesting ones, for many reasons, not least of which is that they are both serious and not. Responsibilities are weighed, but so are sillier things: we discuss how names like “Coach” would allow the boyfriend to get “pep talks” from the dog (“Hey, Coach, I’m feeling down”). We generally come to the same agreement: Dogs are great. They’re a big deal. We’ll get one at some point. That point is not now.

These discussions are also pretty indicative of our relationship in general. It’s healthy, and full of things that are both serious and playful. But the one dog-related point of contention that we cannot settle on might be a clincher: He wants a Dog dog. I want an easy dog.

There is a simple reason for this—he has never owned a dog before. His mom is an avid West Highland Terrier fan (there’s a Westie themed bathroom in the house) and his parents have a Westie named Shona. Growing up, however, he and his brother never had a dog. This means that our dog will be his first dog. So he wants a Dog dog.

What is a Dog dog? Well, when you teach a kid to draw a dog, it’s usually a furry, long-eared, long-snouted, happy, tail-wagging pooch. A variation on a lab. A dog you can picture running in a field, chasing a ball. The dog that well-adjusted nuclear families have on TV (like Comet on Full House). If you’ve never had a dog, and you’re still a little boy inside (as the boyfriend is), then this is the dog you want.

However, if you come from a past of many, many dogs, both Dog dogs and otherwise, then you’ve seen some things. You* know what you like and don’t like. You want easy. You want low key. You want shorthaired. You want the opposite of Dog dog.

So what’s going to happen here? Are the boyfriend and I doomed to part, living our sad separate existences, because we couldn’t agree on a pooch for us?

Probably not. Like most other things, we’ll probably figure it out. We’ll either wait until we can agree, or, more likely, we’ll become a due-dog organization. I can see it now: He’ll be tossing a ball to Coach on the lawn while Jean-Luc Picard and I are sunning on the deck. Nothing wrong with that.

* And by you, I mean the universal You. By which I mean me. 

Country Dog, City Dog

I have been around a lot of dogs in my life. Aside from the aforementioned Rufus (RIP), there has been Doolie, Slicker, Twister, Bezi, Keera, Marley, Spirit, Spike, Baxter, Jake, Maizie (see above) and Bernice (to name only the “immediate family”). This is because I come from a split family, one half of which lives on a farm, and the other half of which is headed by a matriarch who wasn’t allowed a dog as a kid, thereby turning her into a “crazy dog lady.” (Hi, mom!)

There are currently four dogs living at my mom’s house, and it’s a motley crew: Spike is the Alpha dog—a Jack Russell, who sings and talks to you; Jake is a three-legged mutt, with the sweet face of a Cocker Spaniel; Bernice is a rapidly growing miniature bulldog/bulldog mix puppy; and Maizie is a stout little Boston Terrier. Bernice is new—she came into the family after my mom’s beloved Baxter, another bulldog, died a few months ago. Of late, Bernice and Maizie have been jockeying for Beta dog position (Jake could care less, as long as he gets car rides and the occasional sip of dad’s beer). Watching two little flat-faced dogs snort and wrestle is one of the funnier activities out there. I highly recommend it.

Now, being that most of the dogs I have known in my life are country dogs, we’re not the leash/walking type in my family. When you have several acres to run on and horses and other dogs to chase, going for walks isn’t a high priority. Therefore, many city dog ownership rites of passage are nearly foreign to me: leashes, dog tags (not necessary in a place where everybody knows your dog, and where they only leave the property when they escape it), dog parks, formal grooming, obedience training…

Okay, that last one should apply to all dogs, country or city, but my mom’s always been a liberal parent, whether to human or dog.

Even here, at the Modern Dog offices, taking the office pooches out on a leashed walk feels a bit funny. It reminds me that whatever dog I end up getting in this city is going to need a more intensive exercise routine than opening the back door and saying, “Go gettim!”

Boldly Go. Now, Boldly Stay. Good dog!

Confession: I am a Trekkie. Not a huge one. Not a, “In Episode 3.2, why were you holding the phaser in your left hand in one shot and in your right hand the next?” Trekkie. But a pretty devoted fan, nonetheless. Especially when it comes to Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Now, when I get a dog, there’s a fairly high probability that I will name it after a Star Trek character. I will do this because, a) there are some great names in that universe (imagine a dog named Worf!); and, b) then I will always be able to judge who I will like and who I don’t.

Let me explain. A friend of mine recently had a baby, and she named this baby Ava. I think it’s a beautiful name. Now, when she was pregnant, she and her husband refused to share their baby name ideas with anyone (even me, the maid of honour at their wedding, and someone who would be present at the birth). Their reason for this was simple: people judge you when you talk about what you’re going to name your baby. They didn’t want to have that happen, and once the baby was born and named, no one would dare question it. Good plan.

I picture a similar scenario in regards to dog naming. If I’m taking little Jean-Luc Picard for a run in the dog park, and someone approaches and asks his name, and I tell them, and they make a judgmental face or comment—this person is not my friend. Their dog is not my dog’s friend. End of story.

I recently attended the massive Star Trek convention in Las Vegas (okay, maybe my Trekkie status is a bit more serious than I first admitted), and I met a couple with three miniature poodles (see the above pic!). Their names? Data, Tasha Yar and Riker. Yes, they were wearing the correct uniforms. Yes, they acted in accordance with their character names (Riker was definitely in command, Tasha was kind but strong, and Data was a bit standoffish). Yes, they were adorable and attracted huge crowds. Yes, their owners were a bit nuts.

But I won’t be like that. Right?

Don't Gimme Shelter

There’s a story my mom tells about me as a little kid. We’re in Alberta visiting my grandmother’s sisters when my mom takes me on a walk. Along the way she points out the unusual black rocks that are only found in this part of the country, and we start collecting them together and putting them in my shirt, which is held up like a sling. By the time we get back to the house I have a shirt full.

A little while after showing my grandma our prize, I disappear. My mom, the aunts and grandmas and cousins can’t find me anywhere. Then my mom spies me a bit down the road, walking slowly and deliberately. She asks me what I’m doing.

“I’m putting them back in their houses,” I say.

I’m carefully placing each rock at a distance from the next, making sure each one goes “home.”

I have always been like this—even now I apologize to doors when I slam them too hard. (I should be careful here—I’m starting to sound like a bit of a nutbar in this blog!) So you can imagine how I feel when I go into a shelter. My heart becomes like the Grinch’s, swelling and springing out of its little wire frame. I hyperventilate. I can’t take it.

This is one of many dilemmas I face when considering this dog prospect. Under no circumstance would I buy a puppy from a store, nor would I approach a breeder (much respect to breeders. My stepmom is one. But I am aware that there are many, many dogs out there, already born, who need homes). So at some point or another, when getting a dog becomes a reality, I will have to set foot into a shelter or rescue home.

Last month, my boyfriend tried to cheer me up on a gloomy day by “surprising” me with a trip to a shelter. My affliction was unknown to him. That is, until I started breathing heavily and rocking back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I. Can’t. Go. In. There.”

I’ve gone once or twice. The heartbreak is too much. Unless I’m leaving with a pooch or two, I can’t do it. I can’t turn my back on all of those little faces, even if I know I might be back to take someone home. I’m not so naïve as to think they’re not just as in need without me looking at them, but sometimes self-preservation is necessary. After all, they’re not just a shirt full of rocks.