by Bark Editors
You ever get a sweater for Christmas? What kind of present is that, clothes? [big sighs] Ask the kids at your house how elated new socks make them at Christmas. And what’s up with those sweaters—unless you’re a little spare in the hair department, like some of you shorties. You know what I hate? Having to wear one of those (bleep) sweaters and it starts to rain. Hard. Try walking around with ten pounds of stinking, soaking-wet wool clinging to your body. And it’s November, but you’re still wearing your Halloween sweater so you look like a melted traffic cone with jack-o’-lanterns that escaped from Edvard Munch’s The Scream. And what’s Mom saying? “Hurry up, do your business, hurry!” Well, I’d like to see her try to go, wearing a ski jacket and pants in the middle of a pelting monsoon.
Just wait till we get home and get that thing off of me. Like Jerry Lee Lewis sang, there’s a whole lotta shakin’ going on.
[yelps and nose-whistles, crowd stands up and circles in place]
Thanks a lot, you’ve been a beautiful audience. Who says you can’t do a sit for more than two seconds? You’re beautiful!
We’ll be selling personally paw-printed CDs in the lobby. And hey, hold off on the water till you get home. Don’t drink and ride on a full bladder. I want to see you next weekend at the Komedy Kennel in Cincinnati!
Good night, boys and girls. [wild howling and barking, tornadic tail wagging]
How to Tell the Difference Between Your Mother and Your Dog
[Henry Alford]
THE DANGER IS all too real: you’re driving down a quiet country lane, conversing with the greatest source of unconditional love in your life, when something outside your car requires that you pay full attention to the road before you. Taking your eyes off your interlocutor, you’re suddenly unable to remember whether this individual is the woman who reared you, or the one whose left hind leg flails wildly when you scratch her skritchy spot.
Alternatively, your confusion might be date-specific. Although it may not be a problem right now, it is very possible that on or around May 14 the seasonal burst of intimacy that you experience with your mother will allow you to see that the similarities between her and your dog are profound. After all, consider them individually. There is your dog: easily distracted, increasingly prone to taking long afternoon naps, eager to impress upon you how little he’s been eating. And then there is your mother: easily distracted, increasingly prone to taking long afternoon naps, eager to impress upon you how little she’s been eating.
It isn’t that your mother isn’t beautiful. It isn’t that you don’t respect your dog for his essential doggishness. It is rather that the world is so oversaturated with phenomena that it is sometimes difficult to keep the most disparate things apart, let alone two things that, on a very foggy day, might actually resemble each other. The more information in your brain, the less at your fingertips; indeed, as a result of information overload, facts that were once at your fingertips can retreat into your person, whereupon they become lodged in your elbows.
Fortunately, help is available on the mother versus dog front. But before you can articulate the differences between the two entities, you must first articulate the similarities, so as to establish the playing field. To wit:
Similarities
• have proprietary attitude toward garbage and its disposal
• are responsible for the proliferation of small oval area rugs
• are sometimes asked to stay indoors due to inability to mix well with others
• are uncomfortable with the concept of a Kawasaki Vulcan
• are unable to pivot—must bodily complete large circle in order to turn fully
• would relish the opportunity to have all the living room walls painted bone
Startling, no?
But fear not. The differences should set things right.
Differences
* * *
MOM
DOG
Is interested in portion control
Is not interested in portion control
Does not like to spend a lot of time in time in the basement, lying on the cool cement floor
Likes to spend a lot of the basement, lying on the cool cement floor
Is no stranger to emotional blackmail
Is no stranger to public cleaning of own genitals
Has a food-preparation disorder
Has a greeting disorder
Wonders if her new dress makes her look fat
Wonders why Saran Wrap exists
Wonders if, when you meet TV anchormen, their makeup is distracting
Wonders if, when licking TV anchormen, their makeup is like butter or frosting
Would like to buy the new holiday album from that Betty Midler, who looks like such fun
Would be willing to lick Bette
Likes to impart guilt
Likes to lick any spots on a kitchen surface in an effort to find a food source
* * *
In conclusion, though the similarities between your mother and your dog are considerable, there are enough differences to keep you from embarrassing yourself. For instance, while both these individuals like to be petted, I can report with a certain amount of authority that your mother prefers that any such ministrations steer clear of her lower belly.
However, for some people, confusion between these two entities may still exist. If you notice that the object of this confusion is staring at you ominously on May 15, and seems to be filled with intense expectation about how you might be making her life a little more wonderful, then wait a week. If, after a week’s time, you’re still getting these looks, then the individual in question is probably your dog: Mother’s Day comes but once a year, but a dog’s day is every day.
Two Pooch or Not to Pooch?
[Jon Bowen]
ONE YEAR AGO after three years of cordial cohabitation with our yellow Labrador, my wife and I disappointed our mothers again—our grandmothers-in-waiting—by forgoing the baby option in favor of bringing home a little brother for our pooch. This first year of living with two dogs has been, essentially, an exercise in chaos control.
Having survived, however, I now offer these words of counsel to the single-dog family contemplating an addition, from one who lived to tell.
The road that leads to your second dog purchase is paved with great myths—falsehoods perpetuated by animal behaviorists and obedience school Führers—and they should be faced and debunked before you enter the state of pandemonium that is two-dog life.
Myth 1
Your older dog will serve as a role model for the younger dog and teach him, by adult-like example, to abandon his puppy ways in favor of more mature canine behavior. Nope. Your older dog, witnessing the puppy’s boundless capacity for disobedience and his no-holds-barred spirit of carpe diem, will experience a flashback to his own infancy and instantaneously and wholly will nullify all your years of diligent training. Begin rehearsing the “No!” command now. Stock up on stain remover.
Myth 2
Your new dog will provide constant camaraderie for your incumbent dog, relieving you of the guilt associated with your failure to be an adequate playmate for Dog Numero Uno. Not really. The only thing dogs like more than playing with other dogs is playing with humans. So when you set your hounds loose in the yard to play with each other, rather than frolicking together they will turn around and stand still and stare at you, waiting. “Go on. Play!” you’ll say, shooing them on from the door, and their sad, supplicating eyes will seem to say, “But we want to play with you.” Consequently, your guilt is not cut in half but doubled.
Myth 3
Your dogs will entertain each other while you’re away, cutting down on episodes of delinquency. Nope. The capacity for destruction in dogs increases in exponential ratio to the number of dogs assembled at the moment of wrongdoing. Where one dog might be satisfied to simply chew awhile on your sofa pillow, two dogs will shred, unstuff, and scatter the pillow tatters around the house. (The two-dog owner’s dilemma, of course, i
s that when you come home to the wreckage you’re never sure which dog, if not both, committed the evil deed.)
Myth 4
Your dogs will fight. No, they won’t. Dogs are much more efficient than humans in establishing a tranquil, well-regulated hierarchy. Your older dog will claim his ancestral rank as alpha dog, the puppy will instinctively fall in behind, and they will quickly marshal their forces toward the immediate task of dominating you. The first time you have to command your dogs to quit some bit of mischief they’ve gotten into together, you will see them look at you, then look at each other, and you’ll realize in the bottom of your heart that you are outnumbered, outweighed, and out-willed. Be strong in that moment. If you falter, you will die a thousand deaths.
Myth 5
Owning two dogs really isn’t much different from owning one. No. Owning two dogs is like owning two dogs. Be prepared to accommodate a radical contrast in personality and emotional temperament, even within the same breed. Our two Labs, who could pass for identical twins on appearance alone, are as different in their souls as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The three-year-old is dignified and defiant, scholarly and aloof, unmoved by affection, wont to wandering off by himself. On the other hand, our one-year-old is perpetually overjoyed and randy as a frat boy, though prone to crippling fits of unwarranted guilt. He’s mischievous and lewd, confident to a fault, iconoclastic in word and deed. (If you want to have fun owning two dogs, start practicing anthropomorphism now.)
Myth 5, Addendum A
Cleaning up after two dogs really isn’t much different from cleaning up after one. Wrong. Be properly equipped for the twofold increase in poop—especially if you favor larger breeds—or your yard will quickly become as treacherous as a war zone’s minefield. As far as clean-up implements go, I recommend the user-friendly combination poop scoop, available at many pet stores. It’s a sturdy mini-rake paired with a chrome-plated scoop, both pieces outfitted with long wooden handles. In a pinch, a garden shovel works fine. You’ll also see a twofold increase in shedding, which will transform the inside of your house into a furry cave, unless you act swiftly and regularly to suck up those stray hairs. Get a good dog brush, use it often, and get a powerful vacuum.
Myth 6
You’ll regret it. No, you won’t. The hardships of a two-dog life are always considerable but never insurmountable. You will learn to adapt to the doggy difficulties that arise. For instance, on walks our older dog likes to loiter while the younger one is forever lunging wildly on, nearly asphyxiating himself on his collar. Solution: By knotting their leashes together—by yoking the puller to the lollygagger—I can leverage the equal and opposite forces of motion and inertia, thereby creating a perfect equilibrium in which one hound counterbalances the other for the duration of our pleasant stroll.
In the end, there’s nothing in the list of life’s rewards that compares with the deep, abiding, unconditional love that is unique to dogs. Besides, if it’s true that people who own dogs live longer, your second dog will push you that much closer to immortality’s door.
I Done Them Wrong: How I Wrecked My Daughter’s Self-Esteem and My Dog’s Sex Life
[Cathy Crimmins]
MY DAUGHTER, AN only child, has been deprived of sibling rivalry, so she does what comes naturally: She takes it out on The Dog.
“You love him more than me,” she’ll pout, and of course most times I protest that it isn’t possible.
But who could blame her for suspecting differently? When she was nine, Kelly even caught me singing her “special” song to the dog. That was a bad moment. I never confessed that her anthem was once her father’s particular song in our halcyon childless days, and I had just adapted it for her. Kelly also went to pieces whenever I called the dog by her affectionate nickname, “Tootsie,” and I admit that I sometimes did it intentionally—what fun is being a mom if you can’t glory in a bit of passive aggression?
Interspecies relationships are hopelessly muddled in any household, especially since a family usually gets a dog for a kid. That’s a big mistake, because young kids don’t really like to take care of a dog and tend to tire of them the way they lose interest in the newest PlayStation game. I ignorantly passed down the kid/puppy tradition from my own family: I had received a puppy as a gift when I was eight, so I promised my kid one at the same age.
At the time, I forgot that I’d never once taken care of my dog, even though my family lived in a rambling exurban community where dogs didn’t even have to be walked. Filling her water dish was my only responsibility, but I still couldn’t hack it—at one point, after paying rapt attention in fourth-grade science class, I tried to convince my mother that my dog’s water dish was empty because of evaporation, not neglect. And so it went with my kid, who foisted off the dog care on me on his second day with us.
Sitting every day with me in the home office, the little dog became inordinately attached to me, as creatures are wont to do when you walk and feed them. But I felt swamped with duties, and it was a terrible recipe for family friction, going on for years as I struggled to do my work, stay interested in my marriage, prepare meals, help my kid with her homework, and walk and clean up after the dog. The puppy, a pudgy, short-legged Jack Russell Terrier named Silver, became the most pleasurable part of the domestic equation, providing endless hours of writerly procrastination. But when it came to my other duties, I was frequently seething in that way only moms can seethe—in a deep Vesuvian mode where the steam coming from one’s head is always present, threatening imminent eruption.
I don’t mean to suggest that the dog was perfect, but he was certainly the least demanding member of the household, and, being smart, he caught on to the family dynamic right away. Silver the Dog knew that the kid was important, and he had to pretend to like the young hairless pup, even though she moved quickly and unpredictably and mostly tortured him. As a canine actor, Silver rivaled Brando or De Niro—he was positively Stanislavskian—and any visitor to our house would think he adored the kid. He would let her pick up and fondle him while he fell limp in her arms and traveled to his Canine Happy Place, wherever that was. Maybe it was a mountain made out of rawhide, or, more likely, a wonderland with unlimited access to all of her stuffed animals. But after Kelly fell asleep or let him down from the couch, he would immediately go upstairs to her room and destroy whatever toy she loved the most. It was uncanny—he always knew, and he had puppy teeth that could cut through granite. In a way, he was a doggy Mahatma Gandhi, practicing an extreme form of passive resistance. Hold me, hug me, bug me—but in the end, I will destroy the material goods you hold dearest!
Once, when my kid was thirteen and the dog was five, she started descending into her customary self-pity.
“You love Silver more than you love me,” she said, waiting for the usual reassurances.
That day I’d had some lousy phone calls and, later, a few glasses of wine. My kid was a teenager, so I figured she might as well know the truth.
“Oh yeah?” I hissed. “You think I love you more than The Dog? Yeah, you’re right—why wouldn’t I adore The Dog? Why not? He’s always happy to see me when I come home. He eats anything I put down, and he listens to anything I say. AND I don’t have to put him through college!”
Even I felt crummy during the stunned silence. I still feel crummy. That’s why, now, four years later, I am offering an olive branch, an apology of sorts. Well, actually, I’m offering my daughter something I think she will enjoy:
However badly you feel about The Dog, and my attachment to him, and however much you might resent him, consider this: I once threw away our dog’s beloved sexual partner right in front of him. Be glad that I can never do this to you.
Yes, it’s true. When I was moving from the East Coast to California, I stood in my daughter’s bedroom, took a large plastic bag and threw a big carnival stuffed bear into it. As I turned around to take the bag downstairs, I saw Silver. He was sitting quietly, looking on, and I know I’m anthropomorphizing, but I could swear I saw
a small tear roll down from his left eyelid and hit his furry snout. I was discarding the only animal he’d ever truly loved.
Some background here: of course, my dog was neutered, as all good doggies should be, however traumatic it is for their human relatives. My own mother didn’t trust me to neuter my dog, so she offered to take care of Silver when he was five months old, and when she returned him, he was missing some gonads. I thought he was much too young, and was vaguely upset, but figured she was probably right—I might not have done anything until a fellow doggy-park regular showed up on my doorstep with a strange litter of half-and-half Jack Russell Terriers and German Shepherds. Because, from the beginning, Silver had sexual charisma, attracting girlfriends twice and thrice his size. He was a regular Don Juan–Napoleon type with a seemingly high libido for a puppy, and I have the bad back to prove it: one morning at the park, Silver’s earliest girlfriend, a Mastiff puppy named Gertrude, ran right through my open legs trying to get away from my dog’s advances, and I ended up on the operating table with a shattered disk. Silver always went for the tall girls.