The other night I came back through my front door from taking out the trash to find my dog making wet, sloppy love to my trash can.
So I chucked our small, plastic recycling container a good 15 feet in the vicinity of the dog, not to hurt him but to get him to stop licking the trash can. I got the desired effect and the dog dashed around the dining room table towards the living room. I followed him in hot pursuit so I could put him outside. My dog, knowing this, ducked into his kennel.
Like a police officer demanding for a criminal to drop a weapon, I hollared once for him to exit the cage. When he didn’t, I picked up the cage because I knew he would instinctively jump out.
He then dashed toward his pillow on the opposite side of the room. I dove after him and, when he saw me coming, he performed a quick end around past me and headed back safely to his kennel.
Gathering my thoughts and composure, I closed the kennel door, picked it up with my 30-pound dog inside, and carried it outside.
There was a time when my dog didn’t drive me crazy. It was before I had kids. Until then, I had no idea there was such a thing as progressive knowledge.
My dog’s traits – like wiping his butt on the carpet, eating his own feces and old, snotty tissues – were charming, even morbidly endearing.
But when my daughter came, I realized these things were not common. She never wiped her butt on the carpet and, despite being compelled to stick everything in her mouth, was never particularly drawn to poop and tissues.
And I’ve also noticed my daughter has gotten smarter as time has gone on. She’ll get a finger stuck in the door, it will hurt and she won’t do that again. My dog, on the other hand, will continue to stick his head under a roaring barbecue grill and risk singeing his hair on the back of his head, all for some errant grease drippings.
And, the frustrating thing, is, unlike my daughter (who tried this once and decided she didn’t like the taste and messiness of grease drippings), my dog will continue to do this any chance he gets, no matter how I yell at him.
My dog is as smart as he will get. Perhaps it’s annoying because he remains a few steps ahead of me. I’m sure my neighbors have (more than once) caught the sight of me chasing my dog around the backyard in my boxers. I’m not saying it’s a bad sight. This physique comes from six years of deskwork and a lifetime of pizza eating.
Still, its unnerving when I risk freezing to death to clean up my dog’s poop before he eats it, get back in the warmth of my house and look outside to find him pooping again.
Through our group therapy sessions, I’m learning to let my dog be himself. I’m learning about what makes him tick. It’s been a revelation. I can’t change my dog. So I must change.
And you know what I’ve found.
This rubbing your butt on the carpet isn’t half-bad.
