The W.C. Fields of Canis familiaris

Go away kid, you bother me!

~W.C. Fields

I would really like to like our dogs.  Honest.

The Jack Russell I've almost got licked. 

I've gone from bitterness stemming from the usurpation of my spot in the bed while I was working out of town a couple of years ago; to a grudging acceptance of an oversized white rat cleaning up whatever food falls to the floor at dinner (some demonstrated use, at least); to a general ambivalence about his existence in the same house with us; to what I would call an acquired affection that has developed in spite of the multitude of neuroses with which he is afflicted.  The vet has clinically diagnosed him with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder.

He abhors violence.  The opening jingle of a commercial on TV that has stylised violence selling a product has him up, ears perked, barking at the TV and then sprinting circles (ALWAYS counterclockwise) in the living room until the violence goes away.  I've heard it said that dogs can't see in 2-D and therefore cannot distinguish objects on television.  They've never met Jango the neurotic Jack Russell.

His spot in our bed was the largest, uh, bone of contention, during his days as a puppy.  It's hard to kick him out when that's where he's encouraged to sleep when the dad's away.  We finally arrived at a compromise with a doggy bed at the foot of ours, to which he took immediately.  I think he knew his life was in jeopardy if he didn't.  You think I'm joking.

He still finds himself, or more accurately, we still find him, under the covers when we awake in the middle of the night.  Jack Russells have ninja-like stealth abilities, did you know that?  But there's a balance there now too.  An admonishing finger pointed sternly back at his bed, accompanied by a low, throaty growl has him turning circles complacently and then plopping down back in his own bed.

He's still back under the covers when I wake up to the alarm.  God grant me the serenity...

And then there's Farley.  The Boxer.

I still have to physically restrain myself from committing violence upon an eight month old puppy.  Again, you think I'm joking?  I assure you I am not.

I seem to have decided what the priorities are in my life at this point.  And what aren't. 

Wife and son are number One.  Forever and ever, Amen.

NOTE:  Truthfully, I am the number one priority in my life.  But all the things I do to feed that are themselves of greater and lesser value to me.  Of those, my immediate family will always be the omnipresent mirror into which I gaze and see the reflection of how I am doing.  (Given this perspective, and assuming that one's dogs are part of one's immediate family, I'm not doing so shit hot.)

Secondly, and this is truer than I'd care for it to be right now, is my work.  I spend upwards of 50 to 60 hours a week engaged by my employer.  There are, in fact, a number of things I will be getting done tonight, Sunday, in order to get a better start on the official work week tomorrow.

So, the narrow focus of my life right now is comprised almost exclusively of my family and my work.  Into that, the presence of a completely dependent, whiny, mis-behaved, rambunctious and intrusive Boxer dog is, euphemistically, unwelcome.

I mentally curse her when I'm tip-toeing around the minefield in the backyard, cleaning up her shit.  I mentally curse her when I'm on my hands and knees, blotting up her piss stains in the living room.  I mentally curse her when she's in her kennel and just Won't. Stop. Barking.  I mentally curse her when I don coat and hat to trudge outside to salvage what remains of the mess of our Christmas lights.  (I stop short of pining for electrocution or swallowing shards of broken bulbs.)  And then I mentally curse her for so many other reasons that really need not be listed here ad nauseum else I completely lose my humanity.

I didn't start to like our Jack Russell until he was mature enough to exhibit consistency and dependability in his personality.  I wasn't at all willing to put in the time necessary to essentially raise a small child through the dependent years.  I don't know where I seem to have lost that realisation, but it was sadly lacking when, collectively, my wife and I decided to get the Boxer.  Now that sensation is back in spades.  I fear that it'll be another two years now before I can admit to an ambivalence towards the Boxer on par with that for the Jack.

Quite frankly, I feel sorry for both of them that they're stuck with me as their alpha.  Sucks to be them.

This afternoon, eating lunch around the kitchen table, Amy glanced into the living room and proclaimed how cute Farley looked, all curled up on the sofa in a beam of sunlight.

Then she glared at me and said, "Or did you poison her and she's just lying there dead?"

I admitted that I saw her chest rising and falling with her breaths, so she was just asleep.  Not able to leave well enough alone I added, "It must not have kicked in yet."

What I seem to want is the addition of a fully functional and largely independent member of the household.  Lassie can move in any time.  Though there are no wells near our house nor boys named Timmy whose wont it would be to fall down them.  The sewer grate at the foot of our driveway could pose some threat.

In the stead of a fully grown, well-behaved dog who is willing to follow the social niceties expected of it, I seem to be willing to wait for the grudging acceptance that will come with the slow maturing of our puppy.

Somebody pour me a scotch.

Comments

[Hazel Hazel]

Your banner picture? Possibly the cutest kid I've ever seen.

[Paul]

You do know that Lassie wasn't born saving the day, right?

[Simon]

Paul, that sort of pragmatism will put a damper on my wallowing.

[Mark]

Ah, yes, the joys of having a kid and then still trying to tolerate pets. We had our cocker 11 years before our first (and only so far) child was born. She's taken a way-far-back seat to The Boy. In fact, she's not even in the same vehicle. Maybe she's in the turtle shell storage compartment on the luggage rack. At least you know from the Jack that it gets better when they're no longer puppies. Good luck.

[Émilie B.]

Ahhhh... and to say I never wanted a dog. Just goes to show how entirely right one can sometimes be. *grin* Thank you for confirming an already secure notion of mine.

Émilie - proud owner of two adult, fat and very lazy cats, who don't move a whole lot.