Dog Stories part 2

We have six children.  Sometimes when someone learns that we have six kids they will make some comment like – what else do you do for entertainment, or ask a question like – why do you have six kids?  Having been asked many times over the years I developed a few favorite responses, one of which I have borrowed from Bill Cosby – because we didn’t want seven. 

Our sixth child is our fifth son, Samuel.  One of the advantages of having five older siblings can be that you acquire the ability to think on your feet.   In some cases it might be a survival instinct, but for Sam it has resulted in a quick wit and well developed sense of humor.  I don’t know if this is true of all later born children but Sam seems to have an insatiable curiosity combined with a very high gross out level.  This means that Sam will pick up anything – living or dead – to examine it, smell it, evaluate it, and sometimes stuff it in his pockets.  Leaves, rocks, bugs, feathers, toads, a dead mouse have all come under Sam’s scrutiny.  

Rita was my brother’s dog.  She was a mutt.  She looked like she had some Beagle in her but her legs were longer, proportionately, and her snout was slimmer and she was smaller than a Beagle.  She was mostly white with the familiar liver colored patches.  She was a great dog.  She even met all of my mother's requirements for a good dog.  I asked her once when she was about 80 years old, what kind of dog she liked and she said she only had three things she wanted in a dog.  One was "nothing hanging down" which eliminated boy dogs.  Second she said, "no drooling - I don't like loose lips and a lot of slobber.  I can't stand that."  "And the third thing?" I asked. "I don't want anything shining at me from the other end."  Enough said.  So Rita was okay by Mom.  She was friendly and patient and could do a few tricks and was never snippy with kids.  Sam loved her.

It was Christmas week of 2006 and my mother and father were coming to spend the holiday with us and they were bringing Rita with them.  My brother and his wife were going to Brazil for Christmas and my parents were taking care of Rita.  When Sam found out that Rita was coming he was thrilled.  He was already happy that Grandpa and Grandma were coming, but Rita was icing on his Christmas cake.

The evening finally arrived and Grandma and Grandpa came in with Rita and after a round of hugs, Sam attempted to play with Rita.  Of course Sam’s idea of playing was to follow her around and try to pet her, pull her tail or her ears, lay on her, hug her, etc., all of which Rita normally tolerated very well, but this time she seemed a little anxious about something when Grandpa said, “I think she needs to go out and do her business, Sam.”  Sam got a very concerned look on his face and said to Grandpa “make sure she doesn’t eat any poop, remember what happened last time.”

Okay a little digression here for sake of explanation.  Sam at the time was five years old.  The previous summer our second son David had graduated from high school and his graduation party was in our back yard.  We have a large two acre lot surrounded by woods and a creek bordering the back property line.  For the party we set up a large tented eating area, some volleyball nets and a music system.  The weather was perfect and everyone had a wonderful time.  Our dog Sadie, an eight year old black lab with a perfect temperament, and Rita, were the only two pets invited to the party.  They were both getting lots of attention and an occasional snack.  Rita was getting a lot of attention from Sam, who had appointed himself her personal guardian, when something alarmed him.  He started yelling at Rita, “STOP! STOP!” Uncle John, tell Rita to stop.”  We looked over at Sam who had his arms around Rita’s shoulders pulling back as hard as he could, while Rita was lunging forward digging in for all she was worth, her snout in the grass.  My brother started walking toward the two of them and said, “What’s she doing Sam?”  “SHE’S EATING POOP!” he shouted, voicing great concern for Rita’s health and well- being.  Admittedly five year old boys do not know much, but Sam was sure he knew that this was not good.

The technical name for what Rita was doing is coprophagy.  Why dogs do it is not really clear.  Some experts think it’s because the undigested parts of the feces provide some nutritional value, especially cat feces which, because of their diet, tends to be higher in fat and protein content.  On the other hand some dog behavior is just inexplicable.  Like the time I saw a well-bred German Shepherd rolling around in a raccoon carcass in the middle of the street.  I can only imagine his family’s dismay when he arrived home wearing his new found aroma.

It’s easy to be repulsed by this sort of canine behavior, but we might be casting stones at ourselves.  According to Saint Peter those who know the truth and abandon it, are like dogs returning to their own vomit or pigs wallowing in the mire. 

Now if a five year old boy has been paying any attention at all in his short time on earth, he has learned that some behavior is highly questionable, and this certainly fit that category.  So he clung to Rita with all his might and called his uncle for reinforcements.  And while Sam could not pull Rita away, one stern word from my brother –“RITA, QUIT!” made her slink back and assume the subservient position -rolling on her back, her legs in the air, tail half-wagging, hopefully looking up as her master approached and then one playful rub of her belly from my brother and she bounced to her feet and followed him away from the danger.  Sam looked relieved and a little tired as he let out a little boy sigh and then followed after Rita and his uncle, and as brief as it was the whole thing had left quite an impression on Sam.

So when Grandpa told Sam that he was taking Rita outside to do her business, Sam felt a moral obligation to remind Grandpa of the previous summer’s misbehavior and save Rita from repeating the transgression.  “Don’t let her eat any poop Grandpa” Sam warned, adding “Remember what happened last time.”

Grandpa was taken aback – he had forgotten the incident and didn’t care to be reminded, and said rather gruffly “Sam, some things are better left unsaid.”  To which an un-phased Sam responded “Yeah Grandpa and some things are better left on the ground.”

Dog Stories part 1

I like most dogs okay, but some of their owners - well, that is a different story.  One case in point was our neighbors in the college town of Kent Ohio.  We had just moved into a large three story five bedroom home with our two young boys, John and David who were four and two respectively.  Tracy was six months pregnant with Daniel.  We lived on the top two floors and three friends lived on the first floor.   It was a corner lot with a small backyard lined with lilacs and equipped with a small swing set. 

Naturally Tracy wanted to make use of the yard.  She liked to sit outside and read and rest and smell the lilacs, while John and David played.  It seemed like an idyllic setting, except for our neighbors – and their dogs. 

The dogs were medium sized mutts, which our neighbor (we’ll call her Ruth) would release unleashed into her backyard, where there were no fences- electronic or otherwise, to do their business.  The problem was that these mutts were not even slightly sociable.  If any of us were in our yard when they came out, they would snarl and growl and bark and occasionally charge toward us.  But, even if we were not outside they would leave us presents in our backyard, near the swingset.  For a while I wanted to be neighborly and not cause too many problems with Ruth and her family, so if the boys wanted to play, I would go outside and police the yard with a shovel.  I had no desire for one of my sons to encounter what the dogs had left behind and perhaps … well why mention it.

But this went on for months and so one day I approached Ruth and explained the problem.  I politely asked her if she could make sure that her dogs did their business somewhere other than my yard.  As I talked to Ruth I was standing in her backyard and she was on the top step of her five step back porch staring down at me.  She didn’t blink, her face did not change expression, and she did not speak.  When I finished expressing my concerns she turned around and walked into the house, without comment.  I stood there for a moment thinking maybe she was going to return.  Then I thought – maybe she is getting her husband.  Then I thought – maybe she is getting a gun.  I decided to go back to my house and went inside.

My fear had been confirmed.  Our seemingly wonderful surroundings had a disturbing problem.  Our neighbors.  They were disturbed.  I didn’t know it then, but life is just that way.  I think since the Fall (in the Garden of Eden) nothing has ever been just right – at least not for very long.  There is always a reminder that this earth is now flawed.  So this little paradise of ours was marred by the disquieting behavior of the neighbors.

You would think that Ruth might have made an effort to change the dogs routine.  If there was such and effort, it was to no avail.  The dogs continued to harass us.  One early evening I was confronted by one of them in our side yard.   It  bared its teeth, growled, and I thought ( this is an ugly dog – I should kill it).  This thought was supported by the large heavy shovel I had been using.   If he charges I am going to whack him (both in the literal sense and in the Tony Soprano sense).  He did charge – full charge complete with snarling, drooling barks.  I raised the shovel to swing when I heard Ruth’s voice – YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW.  I didn’t know if she was yelling at me or the dog, but the mutt stopped turned around and retreated to the house, ambled up the steps and in, with Ruth right behind.

I now knew that Ruth knew.  If nothing changed –she just didn’t care.  That made sense – IF we were dealing with sensible people.  We were not. 

It all came to a head about a month later.  Daniel had arrived, so we now had three boys 4 and under.  Tracy was understandably exhausted and I was not getting much sleep.  One afternoon I came home from campus and found my beautiful wife looking like someone from the gulag – her eyes sunken with dark circles beneath, her hair coming out of the barrette and various food stains decorating her shirt – I was concerned, and afraid.  “Would you like me to take the boys outside so you can rest?” I asked, mustering as much concern as I could voice.  She didn’t speak – she simply got up walked into the bedroom and closed the door.   I gathered up the boys and went outside in our nice little backyard so John and David could play while I sat with Daniel.  Just as we got to the bottom of the steps I saw the neighbor’s mutt disappear into the house.   I knew.  So I asked the boys to sit on the steps and entrusted Daniel to John and proceeded to give the yard a once over.  While I was in the process of cleaning up, Ruth appeared on her back steps.  Maybe it was the lack of sleep.  Maybe I just had had enough, but whatever the reason, I walked right over to Ruth and said, “We don’t have dogs – but we do have dog poop.   I don’t think I should have to clean up after your dogs.  My kids (I pointed to them sweetly sitting on the steps – eyes big watching their Daddy in action) should be able to play in their yard and use their swing set without us having to worry about your dogs using our yard for a toilet.”  And then something happened.  Ruth spoke to me.  She said, “I don’t know what is wrong with those dogs.  I have told them to stay in their own yard.”  Without missing a beat I responded, “Well next time maybe you leave should them a note  – apparently they are hard of hearing.”

Ruth looked at me puzzled and then without a word wheeled around and went inside.  The dogs never again entered our yard.