I Remember When Our Family Got Our First Dog…
The family pet: best friends or worst enemies, but probably a little of both. (photo by codepad – Fotolia)
I remember when our family got our first dog. I was hiding behind the water heater during spring break when my kids accosted me. They were looking for Daddy to ask if they could please get one of those darling little German Shepherd puppies So-and-so was selling.
We’d gone down this trail before and all the landmarks were familiar. All too soon, cuddly little puppies grow into big, ugly dogs requiring time and care that rapidly leave young attention spans. Until the pooch actually gets its green card in Aholand, the kids will promise vehemently to walk, brush, feed and empty him religiously.
After the mutt had staked its claim on my favorite sofa, their tune changed to: “It’s not my turn. I walked him yesterday. They weren’t my shoes. I’ll clean it up after supper.”
Once, my ten-year-old daughter brought our first dog to Show and Tell, where he became an instant legend by showing too much and licking it as well. Social grace is not a strong point among dogs.
Take our current dog, Gustaf, for example. The pooch can be the world’s laziest creature, (with the possible exception of my cousin, Carl) and even he requires feeding, brushing, ear-scratching and regular emptying. (The dog, that is.) Soon after we acquired Gustaf, I realized that our fates were inexorably intertwined as my list of chores became unwittingly longer.
Even when Gustaf was a pup he attracted more attention than a tree-hugger at a gun rally, partly because he is kinda large and partly because he could pass nothing without sniffing it, especially people who sometimes produced something edible.
“What kind of dog is this?” a portly man in a business suit asked me as Gustaf rubbed hair all over him.
“German Shepherd,” I replied, dragging the rude mutt off the man’s leg.
He looked surprised. “Do you have papers?”
“All over the house,” I assured him.
Being substantially less than intelligent and occasionally hyperactive, Gustaf needs to be under constant supervision when at large to prevent them from knocking over garbage cans or sub-compact cars and eating the contents.
Gustaf can be playful and even taught to fetch things. You can throw a stick over a fence and watch him bring back a rake. Sometimes, he ducks out of the yard and trades a steaming pile of too-rich fertilizer for a sizzling T-bone fresh off someone’s grill. When such things happen, Gustaf needs to be incarcerated in the cellar until the sirens stop and the neighbors put their weapons away.
Of course if our house was ever broken into, Gustaf would be expected to spring into action in defense of his favorite food source. A few years ago, a couple of scruffy-looking characters knocked on our door, hoping to use the phone to call a tow truck for their broken-down Chevy. Gustaf sauntered over and one of the men scratched him playfully behind a huge ear.
“Be careful,” I warned. “He’s a savage killer. Down boy! Heel!”
“Oh yeah?” asked the stranger. Gustaf broke wind.
“Yeah,” I assured him. “The other day I had to pry his jaws apart with a wrecking bar to get him off the mailman’s calf. The poor guy needs skin grafts.”
As they were leaving, I heard one of the men say, “Sheesh that was scary.”
“What that mutt?” his partner wondered.
“No, the owner. That guy is nuts!”
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