Dog Ownership II

-posted by Olivia-

I plead guilty as charged to lobbying for a dog. My punishment? Getting to live with what I lobbied for.

Bob Dylan was awfully cute and frisky at the breeders. We picked him out of the tumbling pack of pups because he seemed to be the most outgoing. He was just a bit bigger than his brothers and sisters. The biology major in me should have known—he was a dominant male—but I was taken by his friendly tail and curiosity.

All through chief year, my stay-at-home husband looked glummer and glummer as the winter months marched by and more and more muddy paw prints accumulated on the linoleum and wood flooring. I could tell how many times Matthew had to clean up after “THE DOG” by the tightness of the lines on his face when I walked in the door after work.

Like a good working spouse, I pleaded Dylan’s case. “Let me work with him,” I’d say, remembering with fondness my preteen years with Banjo, my childhood Shetland Sheepdog. Banjo and I were great buddies. I taught him to sit, shake, and even jump through a hoop. I dreamed of dressing as a clown, with Banjo doing tricks as a sidekick. I even checked out books about magic tricks at the library and gave a matinee with my obliging cousins as an audience. We were both innocent of the great cataclysmic turn my life was about to take: late adolescence with its hours cooped in my bedroom, studying, practicing the violin, and dreaming about guys.

I thought I could still codger up some of my old dog-training finesse, though. Armed with Matthew’s hand signals and leash, I took Dylan on a walk. Did I forget to mention I was pregnant at the time? I thought my lower back would never recover. By then, Dylan was a good sized adolescent Golden Retriever. He pulled me around the block, and almost induced a healthy episode of emesis from his expecting companion when he made a healthy deposit on the sidewalk. “You mean,” I the working spouse thought to myself, “Matthew has to scoop this stuff up with a little baggie every time it happens?”

Needless to say, I didn’t walk Dylan much more after that. Even the removal of both of his testosterone producing organs could not quell his spirit. My abdomen only got more ponderous, and Maggie was soon born, so I had plenty of excuses. When Matthew had his last Existential crisis with the DOG question, I decided I had to be more helpful. We bought a training collar, and I resolved to learn to use it.

Dylan has been making slow and steady progress with Matthew’s training, and they (usually) have mutual love for one another. I harbor a sneaking suspicion, however, that Dylan has viewed me as “one of The Master’s pups” ever since he laid eyes on me. Whenever I try one of Matthew’s hand signals, Dylan gets a big grin on his furry face and maws at my hand. When I try to make him sit to put on the training collar, he deftly chomps on the collar and tosses it effortlessly away from my frantic graspings. “No, Dylan, Off!!!,” I squeal.

Usually, I come into the house in despair and enlist Matthew the Master’s help.
Today was no different. I got past my habitual fears of running in the cold. “Do I have to run outside today?” I ask Matthew. “Every time you come in from running outside, you thank me for making you go,” he replies. I bundled up to face the November chill, and grabbed the leash. FAILURE. Every attempt to place the training collar over Dylan’s head was met with happy, chomping teeth.

Matthew came out onto the porch with his flannel pajama pants and sweatshirt on. “You’ll have to be more stern with him!” he said, invoking the usual argument we have over dog parenting. (He thinks it works to spank, and I don’t). “That doesn’t work for me!” I glare. Matthew stands by while Dylan—now obedient in the presence of the Great Master—allows the placement of the collar. We are off!!!

We jog over the mighty Susquehanna, and down a side road with old houses on one side and a field on the other. I remind myself not to panic with the cold blasts of air and the tightenings of my stomach muscles as I breathe. I practice making my voice deeper, more assertive. “No Dylan, HEEL!” I think about how stressful it is to face exasperated parents, how much I wish I could do everything perfectly, and how deeply I wish people would forgive me when I can’t. I remember an article I read from a journal for women in the medical profession. The author writes about female physicians needing to lobby for workshops in assertiveness training at their workplaces.

“Hey,” I think to myself, “Dylan is my own personal assertiveness training!” Dylan and I jog down the road. He buries his nose in the snow like a doggy snowplow as we trek along. I feel refreshed, renewed, and ready to face just a few more days of coughs, runny noses, and tight schedules.

We round the corner, and there are the remains of a dead animal on the road. Dylan is overcome with glee. He rubs his head and body repeatedly in the roadkill before I can realize what is happening. A greasy man in a pickup roars by, grinning at me, the yuppy with my disobedient dog. I try to grin—assertively—back. “No Dylan,” I squeal, dragging him away from the grime. He continues to seize in pleasure. “NO Dylan!” I squeal a little louder. The doggy seizing continues. I reach into the deepest hollows of my soul, past my anxieties, past my niceness, and pull out a roar, “NO DYLAN! COME!!!” He stops seizing, rights himself, and resumes a trot by my side.

We re-cross the Susquehanna and turn down the block toward home. We have a lot of work to do, but I am grateful for this furry beast and the lessons we have to learn together.