We’re dog shopping. And not just for a dog, for a puppy. As much as I hate the idea of having a puppy, I know the boys will take great pleasure in having one so I’ve resigned myself to the idea. I’m about as neurotic as they come and about as flexible as an iron rod so this is a real act of selflessness on my part. It’s not that I don’t like dogs, I really do. I’d love to have a stellar hunting dog to take out dove, quail, chukar, and pheasant hunting. But the budget doesn’t really allow for a dog with such a skill set so I’ll just bite my tongue and let the boys choose. We’re hoping to have one by the end of summer. My neurosis and inflexibility aside, I’ll probably enjoy having a dog. I had plenty when I was a kid, some even long enough to get sort of attached to.
You’ve heard of a revolving door and no doubt you’ve heard of a doggie door but have you ever heard of a “revolving doggie door”? When I was a kid we actually had one. Well, not literally, but it would be understandable for somebody to think we had one. Mine was a single mom, working a full-time job, going to night school, dirt poor and trying to bring some kind of happiness to her kids. So we’d find a mongrel at the local animal shelter, bring it home, play with it, and eventually get bored with it. After awhile my mom would start hollering, “If you’re not going to play with that dog I’m going to get rid of it. I need another mouth to feed like I need another hole in my head.” Then we’d bring it back to the animal shelter, “Yeah, we don’t really want this dog no more, we petted the shine right off it.” If you’re feverishly searching for the “comments” button to tell me what an awful person I am save yourself some trouble - I already know, I’ve been told (and probably by better than you). My wife informed me before we were even married that recycling dogs would NOT happen in our household. And I guess I can appreciate the sentiment behind it, even if I don’t understand it. When contemplating lifelong marriage, growing old together, and caring for a needy companion it’s comforting to know her philosophy about unloading something that has become more work than pleasure. My philosophy on the subject, however, should probably give her pause for thought.
We probably went through a dozen or so dogs when I was a kid. One dug under the fence & disappeared. One died of some kind of cancer. Still another was run over by my mom’s car (accidentally). Twice. The rest went to the return window at the animal shelter for one reason or another – shedding, barking, digging, snoring (really!), etc. Looking back, that’s a whole lot of dogs. Now, you’d think that the guy who worked behind the counter at the dog pound would remember us after the 5th or so return and cut us off. But you should consider that the dog pound is staffed by government employees and denying us a mutt might require him to complete some sort of paperwork and file it with the appropriate department. Just the idea of that is exhausting to your typical government lackey. Probably a whole lot easier to just toss the offending mongrel in with the next batch of undesirables slotted for the gassing chamber. It’s actually a shame that it continued because there were a couple dogs that probably would have made a real nice pet for a normal family. They’re all gone, though, floating around in heaven with little doggie-angel wings. Most of them are just a little blip in my memory but there was this one that I really liked and I really wish it would have worked out. Her name was Sassy, a 40 lb. Sheltie mix. She had a body like an overstuffed sausage and short, wiry legs. But her looks were deceiving and that dog could jump an 8-foot block wall from a standing-still position. I’d put that dog in the backyard and less than 5 minutes later she was scratching at the front door. She never roamed too far and we guessed that she just got bored with the backyard scenery and wanted to do a little exploring so we didn’t pay her too much mind, just let her in when she scratched at the front door. But one of the neighbors got to complaining that Sassy was digging in her flowerbeds so we tried various methods of keeping her contained in the yard, all to no avail. My mom was nearing the end of her rope and was about to load Sassy into the car when she happened to mention the dilemma to my Uncle Jerry. He told us to hold tight and promised that he had the solution to our problem. The following Saturday my uncle knocked at the door with a large spool of silver wire, an assortment of fiberglass rods, and a box marked, “cattle fence controller.” He dumped the assortment on the dining table and said with confidence, “That dog has jumped that fence for the last time.” After a cold drink and some small talk, Uncle Jerry began lining the outer perimeter of our backyard with fiberglass rods, poked vertically into the grass and spaced at about 8-foot intervals. The rods were then connected by a continuous strand of steel wire which eventually ran back to the “cattle fence controller” in our garage. While Uncle Jerry proceeded with the installation, I studied the “cattle fence controller” box. “The Trident is ShockMaster’s most powerful fence controller. This unit produces a powerful 9,300 volts repelling even the most persistent livestock. The versatile Trident can power 3 separate fences of up to 50 miles - all at the same time! That's value and versatility!” I poked my head into the garage as Uncle Jerry was making the final connections of the wire to the controller box. “Can this hurt my dog?” He quickly replied, “No,” but then paused. “Don’t
you ever touch it, though.” A few moments later the installation was complete. Before Uncle Jerry left, he said, “Just flip the switch to ‘ON’ when you put the dog in the backyard. She’ll only need to get shocked a coupla times and then she’ll learn to stay away from the walls. I bet it won’t even take a week.” Indeed.
That evening my mom instructed me, “Put Sassy out into the backyard so she can do her business, I don’t want her pooping on the carpet while we’re asleep tonight. And turn on that fence thingy that your uncle installed so she doesn’t get out.” Sassy followed me to the garage where I flipped the switch. The control box made an audible hum and Sassy’s ears suddenly perked. After I opened the door from the garage to the backyard, Sassy eased her way into the inky darkness and I retreated to the living room to watch t.v. with my mom & sister. I had barely sat down when the lights and the t.v. dimmed suddenly and the loudest, most blood-curdling wail came from our back yard. We leapt to the window and my mom flipped the switch to the backyard floodlight. Judging by the horrific animal shrieks, we all expected to see a giant monster disemboweling my dog. Instead, we saw Sassy doing something that resembles “canine breakdancing” next to the “fence thingy.” Her contortions were wild enough that one finally freed her from the clutches of the electric torture device and she made a beeline for the house, where she darn near scratched & clawed her way through a two-inch thick solid core door. I brought her inside and attempted to comfort her but the damage was done. In the matter of about 30 seconds she went from a really nice dog to an absolute lunatic. For the next couple weeks (until she made the second half of her round trip away from the dog pound) she wandered around the house with a bad attitude, mumbled to herself, and pretty much acted like the guy that lives under the freeway overpass. But she never jumped the fence.
So after considering my history with dogs, I think we’ll be happiest with a hairless, non-barking, non-digging, non-snoring, non-shedding, non-fence jumping dog that cleans up its own yuck. If anybody knows a breeder with a dog like that let me know, would you?
