Doc, I Need a Dog
My second post-birthday visit to the shrink was last Monday. Naturally, I felt guilty to admit that I had not been attending my Sugar Addiction Ten- Step Recovery Program sessions like the psychiatrist suggested. Besides, after finishing off a whole box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars in one sitting, I really felt cured anyway.
In a cleverly disguised maneuver, I diverted his attention to how much progress I have made on my habit of watching reruns of “Game of Thrones” three hours a night. Unless you want to see pro sports, Egyptian mummies or some home-make-over-on-a-dime show, there is little to choose from. The winter doldrums is when advertisers and consumers have spent out, and the survivor and talent contest shows are reruns. This is when we get focused on THE DOG SHOWS.
Please remember we know next to nothing about pure-bred dogs. But we suffer from a phenomenon described by a psychologist-friend as “Dog Deprivation Trauma,” or DDT. When I mentioned our habit of going from window to window while home on Saturday mornings, hoping one of the neighbors’ dogs will wander by so we can run out and tempt him or her with our stash of doggie treats, he said, “Yep. That’s one of the warning signs of DDT.”
The slick “awareness” pamphlets distributed at the pet food counter of the grocery stores describe other warning signs, including watching dog shows on TV. Watching dog shows is popular with less than 2 % of the population, I read somewhere. We catch ourselves watching reruns of dog shows we have already seen. We watched the Coo-ka-nuba Championship last weekend, and Monday night we were two hours into the rerun when they got to the terrier group. “I bet that cute little Norwich terrier wins,” I commented to Karen. Karen replied, (half asleep) “I won’t take that bet. This is a re-run. The Norwich terrier won “Best in Show” when we watched it last night.” (Sugar addiction compounds memory loss issues.)
Another warning sign is that you tell stories about dogs you owned decades ago. I never miss a chance to bring up my Jack Russell terrier “Hector.” Hector was the cleverest and most hard-headed animal I have ever known. He was an arrogant little tyrant around the house. He could figure out almost anything he would vanish when it was time for his semiannual visit to the vet, but never learned a single trick to gratify his owner. We lived in the country then and bought the kids a lamb as an Easter surprise. In the beginning the lamb was sweet and playful. Unfortunately, he grew up to be a surly ram that bullied the kids. He did inspire some humility in Hector, however. He followed Hector every moment the dog spent outdoors. Hector would refuse to go outside to use the bathroom for fear “Clover,” the ram, would make advances toward him. This was the only time Hector ever showed any humility or spirit of cooperation toward us.
Hector suffered from flea allergies and I had to bath him in the sink nightly and comb the fleas out of his coat. “What’s wrong with a flea collar,” you may ask. Hector ate them-the collars, not the fleas.
Even though Clover chased the children around the yard, we might have let Clover stay just to keep Hector in line. We finally sold the Clover by running an ad in the local paper. When an Arabic speaking couple from the neighboring university town came with a carload of children to buy the ram, I made the mistake of asking (in front of my kids), “Clover is a great pet. Do you have a place to keep him?” “No,” replied the young father as they pulled out of the driveway, “we will eat him.” Hector wore a smirk for days. He could understand English better than he let on during training sessions.
Back to the warning signs of DDT: Saturday trips to Pet Smart when you don’t own a pet. This is where people come to buy their pet supplies and pets are welcome. They also have adoptions on weekends and there are always lines of portable cages on the sidewalk as animal shelters try to find adoptive parents for their sometimes- strange looking mixed breeds. It might be well to keep your fingers out of the cages. In the months after Christmas, overwhelmed owners try to give away that 70 lb. German Shorthair they paid $500 for back in December, only to find that his energy level was that of the Hound of the Baskervilles on steroids. We only go to look because we still don’t have a fenced-in in yard. Back to my visit to the psychiatrist: he wasn’t having any of my digression and ordered me back on my sugar dependency rehab program. I left and I did in fact reflect seriously on his directive as I sat in the Krispy Cream Shop. I always reward myself for being nice in the doctor’s office.
Although I had heard your stories about Clover and Hector previously, I still enjoyed reading about them. I visualized Hector, poor guy, afraid to go outdoors for fear for his life. Your story made me reminisce about some of our dogs who provided both entertainment and love but ultimately sadness when it was their time to “cross over” to dog heaven. Also Mildred and Kilgore, chickens that the kids insisted spend a cold FL winter night in our garage with the pony, cat and 2 beagles. Memories!
As I said in the comment that didn’t get published, Joe, I really enjoyed this post, although it still didn’t make me want to own a large dog. (Note: our best pet was a female cat we “inherited” when her mother died on us–Albie lasted for eighteen years and, once she went to that great Cat Sleepaway Camp in the Sky, we did not look for a replacement.)