The dance I refer to is not to be confused with the "Pull-ups Potty Dance" - the most insipid of all insipid TV commercials. You know the one I'm talking about? "Put your left hand out, put the right on top, shake 'em together and do the potty dance - whoop whoop!" - AS IF doing this stupid dance to the most insipid tune ever will somehow entice a small child to ask to go potty. I've never toilet trained a small child, but I'm just saying - I don't think this song & dance number is the way to go.
No, the dance I'm talking about is the nightly jig that starts somewhere between 4:30 and 6:00. EVERY NIGHT. I have no idea how my big, brown, beastly boy knows what time it is, but he does somehow. He's very clever that way. Not that he wears a watch or reads digital numbers from the stove or anything. But every night between the prescribed hours of 4:30 & 6:00 he starts his dance. The first act of this three part number is a little random pacing back and forth between wherever I am and his dinner bowl. "I'm just checking to see if you realize that there are starving dogs on PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND?"
Sometimes the bowl and I are in the same room, but often we're not, resulting in the incessant tap-tap-tapping of dog claws on hardwood and/or ceramic tile. Back and forth. BACK. AND. FORTH. There is nothing quite so nerve-grating as that tap-tap-tap, unless of course it's the mini tap-tap-tapping of his canine sibling, who has now joined the gig and is tap-tap-tapping alongside him.
A brief respite while he relaxes between sets in his bed - where he has been instructed to go - BED! NOW! And I mean brief respite - maybe 1, 1.5 minutes. And then it begins all over again. The second set of his act has a creative flair to it. I call it the I Will Bore Holes in the Side of Your Head with My Kryptonite Stare Until There is Food in My Dish! part of the act. Honest to God, this dog can stare without blinking for 10 minutes straight. It's a wonder he isn't walleyed.
Act three starts with a fake-out request to go outside - "PSYCH! Didn't need to go outside at all, but when I come in the magic food fairy will have visited my bowl - I JUST KNOW IT!" Clearly by act three he is famished beyond all recognition, having shed 48 of his 50 lbs in the mere act of dancing for his dinner. I know, I am a hateful dog owner and should not be allowed to keep one, let alone two animals.
But here's the thing. My big brown beastly boy was a rescue dog. His first owner starved him - daily. The trauma of spending his first 10 months of life never knowing if he would ever be fed again has scarred him in ways I couldn't imagine when I brought him home 10 years ago. We've survived 10 years together where he has been fed two meals a day, plus anything he could steal from kitchen counters, garbage cans and tables, not to mention countless bags of Snausages monthly and STILL he doesn't remember that in our home there will always be food for a big brown beastly boy. Some would say he has issues, and I'd be the first one to agree. But even with all his neurosis (and there are many) I wouldn't trade him for all the little Australian Silkies in the world.
I think this is the best yet, Donna and I have just finished reading your blog and laughing our fool heads off
ReplyDeleteHi, Kim -
ReplyDeleteI'm your cousin, Donna's, friend, Myrna and I'm new to blogging. I have no idea what to enter into the "Comment as:" space, so had to choose 'Anonymous'.
I must have acquired a cousin of your big brown beasty boy. My found hound was wandering the neighbourhood when my significant other decided to bring him in to await the arrival of the dreaded dog catcher. (Actually, she was a very kind lady who always scrounged around till she found someone to adopt her foundlings.)
In the meantime, I decided we should become the adoptive parents. Fearing some poor little child was crying his eyes out for his missing mutt, I took out an ad in the local papers and put up posters all over town. I'm still shocked by my naivete! Found Hound has taken over my household and he's RAVENOUS! No food item is safe if I turn my back for even a second. And he's cost me a king's ransom!
The first time I took him to the vet (AKA the local Animal Health Care Centre - they get to charge more because of the prestigious name) she was concerned because he was underweight. I arranged to have him neutered and I'm not sure he's ever forgiven me. He had been in the habit of lying on his back and displaying his family jewels for everyone who entered the premises. Following The Operation, he slunk around and protected his missing privates from view. He must have reconciled himself to his new status, though, because he's back to his old habit minus his pride(s) and joy(s). However, he has transferred his loyalties to my SOB. Oops, make that SO.
Found Hound grows claws faster than a speeding bullet and hates to have them trimmed. He's too big and strong for me to handle, so once a month we head back to the money pit for a pedicure. He whines pitifully all the way there. The vet and her assistants treat him like a prize-winning purebred despite his questionable parentage but he cowers under my chair as we wait forever in the reception area, coming out only to greet any other canine who happens to enter the joint, regardless of size or temperament. When the veterinary assistant comes to try to drag him into the treatment room, he invariably attempts to hurl his fifty-plus pounds into my lap. (Oh joy! Oh bliss! We have another appointment coming up this week. I'll be coming home no wiser but considerably poorer.)
I need to get some sleep, but will fill you in on more of Found Hound's endearing qualities another time.
I hope you can access computers on your pending expedition so you can keep us up to date on your adventures.