Call me na
ïve, but when I finally gave in and said it was OK to get a dog,
I meant a well-behaved, focused sort of dog. The kind that would
run across the farmyard to rescue you from a wild bear or pull you
out of quicksand, much like Lassie.
Call me naïve, but when I finally gave in and said it was OK to get a dog, I meant a well-behaved, focused sort of dog. The kind that would run across the farmyard to rescue you from a wild bear or pull you out of quicksand, much like Lassie.
That said, it should come as a shock to no one that our dog is none of these things. He’s more the sort of dog that, had he been a person, would be the guy at the party wearing a silly hat and Hawaiian shirt leading the conga line.
Now don’t get me wrong, we love our dog, Murphy. He has big brown eyes, a button nose, and a cute little tail. However, don’t let this act fool you. Once on his leash he drops his “I’m a cute little puppy dog” mask and becomes the canine equivalent of an over-caffeinated nutcase. And, no, I’m not exaggerating. For instance, on our last walk (and by “walk,” I really mean “running behind him as my arms are being ripped out of their sockets”) he ricocheted off my legs, the neighborhood trees and all of the cracks on the sidewalk. He walked backwards, forwards, in circles. He went too fast, too slow, too sideways. You get the picture.
So, like any desperate and slightly dog-challenged pet owner I bought the bible of canine ownership “Puppies for Idiots” (or something like that) which, I thought might just teach me a thing or two about dogs in the sort of language a person like me could understand.
And it did. I learned that dogs are in the wolf family. I learned that they are pack animals with strong instincts. And I learned that once they are brought home, they will automatically assume that their new family is their, ahem, pack.
But the most important thing I learned is that our whole obedience problem is because Murphy, much like my teenage daughter, thinks he’s the dictator of The Entire Universe and can do whatever the heck he wants. You see, in Dog World Politics there’s a clear social hierarchy. Which goes: Top Dog (the leader with the most status), Vice-Top Dog (the next in line, but who we all know is merely a figurehead), Assistant to the Top Dog (self-explanatory) and so on down to the lowly Middle Class Dog who does all of the work, but has absolutely no power whatsoever.
So, in short, in order to change our dog’s behavior I’ll have to somehow rise up from my lowly position, overthrow Murphy, and become The Top Dog.
How, you ask? This is one of those things that are much easier in theory. Why? Because according to the experts, the key is to earn respect. From. A. Dog. The very thing I can’t even get from my children. Or anyone else, for that matter.
Apparently I had three choices. I could 1) pay big bucks to send Murphy off to a private Doggie Training Boot Camp, or 2) trade Murphy in for a nice, calm, low-maintenance goldfish or 3) study the book, take lots of prescription medication and train Murphy myself for free. Since, clearly, my family wasn’t going to go for numbers one and two, I was left with number three.
Luckily, according to “Puppies for Idiots,” all I needed to achieve my ploy of respect and total dictatorship was a few familiar strategies. In fact, the very same ones you use teaching children: consistency, routine and praise.
And I’d like to say that now I am Top Dog and Murphy is an obedient, well-behaved, calm puppy that respects me. But all I can say to that is Ha! Ha!
Still, I did get him to finally stop chewing the ottoman and peeing in the houseplants.
Sure, it could all be a big fat coincidence. But, hey, at least it’s progress.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of “Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat.” You can reach her at [email protected].
