by Bark Editors
We first noticed Silver’s secret sex life with stuffed animals about a year after he was neutered. He would disappear for about forty-five minutes up the stairs and then come back in a triumphant rush, scurrying on his little legs as fast as he could down the stairs, then stopping on a dime and looking up with his eyes glazed over and his tongue hanging out. If he could have produced a human sound, it would have been “Ta-da!” I knew he’d been doing something bad, but when I arrived at the crime scene, I still didn’t get that my little boy had discovered himself. I was confused that I didn’t find anything chewed up—no pencil shavings, no wooden toy cars half masticated. Instead, there was Kelly’s four-foot stuffed whale, marooned in the middle of her carpet. It was always the same: to the dog, size mattered. Kelly had half a dozen oversize toys that suddenly became members of Silver’s bordello. No shelf was high enough to prevent him choosing a partner for the evening. I felt like a pervert, or Jane Goodall, following my dog stealthily up the stairs to spy on his sexual sessions with a stuffed whale, two giant teddy bears, a large swan, and, his personal favorite, Cinnamon the Pony. First he would steal the thing off the shelf, using any guile necessary, and many jumping gymnastics. Then he would arrange it carefully face-down, and then…well, he would go at it. If I yelled at him, he would leave the room for a bit and then return furtively. I have to admit that I even experimented with positions, seeing if he would “do” an animal if it were lying face up. Despite his small stature, if Silver found one of the animals that way, he would spend as much as fifteen minutes flipping it over and arranging it “doggy-style.” Mind you, most of his sex partners were at least twice as large as he. But he was filled with shame if I should interrupt his session, and would walk around painfully, dragging his erection behind him. I felt badly for him—he had been robbed of his sexuality and was only practicing a charade that allowed him to establish his masculinity. For all I knew, maybe he thought that the sex menagerie was there for his use. I should have stopped all the madness much earlier, especially since he eventually slipped a back disk and had to be rushed to the veterinary emergency room after a particularly strenuous tryst.
“Umm, I suppose I should mention this,” I said to the veterinary student doing triage. “He was having sex with a large stuffed teddy bear when this happened.”
The vet I was talking to looked all of twelve years old and pretended at first not to understand what I was saying. I went on, explaining that Silver had a habit of pleasuring himself with giant stuffed mammals.
“You better put those away right now,” he said sternly, although I could imagine him telling the story over beers later that night. “You cannot leave the toys around, or your dog could suffer serious consequences. Do you want him to be unable to walk?”
And so Silver’s sex life ended, I thought, that day. It was just as well. I hadn’t intended to actually illustrate sex for my child, but I found out a while later that she had often hung out in her bed watching the little dog romance the fake fur. “Eeew,” she said when she admitted it. I was horrified. What kind of a mother was I?
A bad one, it seems, for both my human and canine progeny. For although I put away the giant stuffed animals, hiding them on high, locked closet shelves around the house, I forgot one chintzy big bear, a very cheap, stiff old carnival prize that Silver had chosen only once in a pinch—stuffed with cardboard or newspaper, she was not cushy like the others, and her butt was a bit flat for a guy like Silver, who preferred some junk in the trunk. Yet he had certainly dallied with her at least once in a pinch, and now, in the process of moving, I had unearthed her, only to throw her away again as he looked on.
Silver and I were both celibate for a long time in California until I decided he needed a new toy and got a stuffed Labrador Retriever that was certainly not life-size, but a bit larger than his other chew toys. Evidently size no longer mattered to my little dog, who was now middle-aged, and I returned from an errand one day to the familiar huffing and humping I’d heard in his halcyon days. He was doing it again! I watched and let him do what he needed, and then took the new dog and threw him away, too.
Sex partners come and go so quickly in doggy land, don’t they? But whenever I feel guilty, I think of how simple Silver’s breakups were, and how it might have been better if a few of my lovers had been kicked to the curb in a garbage bag. It would have been especially great to be able to do that with my daughter’s first boyfriend, too.
The Dog Mumbler
[Merrill Markoe]
IN THE BEGINNING, like dog-loving Americans everywhere, I was utterly transfixed by “The Dog Whisperer.” Between his self described “calm assertive manner” and his earnest, well-meaning solutions to dog behavioral dilemmas, Cesar Millan seemed to represent everything good and smart, sensible and loving about the human/doggy bond.
But by season two, it appeared to me that, like all good media figures, he had begun to accumulate some video mange. His problem-solving techniques, though still impressive, had started to feel repetitious and just a little suspect. I began to wonder how many of those easy solutions of his kept working after he and his calm assertive manner had donned their inline skates, hooked up their Pit Bulls, and headed home.
Still, I kept on watching. Right up until the day I tried using one of his methods of behavioral correction myself. After months of struggling to cope with the impolite leash manners of my overly enthusiastic dog Hedda, I followed Mr. Millan’s advice and moved a choke chain high up on her neck, by her ears, as I had seen him do with dozens of Dog Whisperer clients. In the context of the show, that was all that was ever needed to cause a formerly rowdy dog to begin strolling quietly beside (and slightly behind) his or her calm assertive owner.
In my own case, however, about a half hour in to tiptoeing near the uncomfortably restrained, overly upright, lightly choking Hedda, I was convinced that this method of “walking” with her was about half as much fun as it had been when she was out of control and barreling down the street, pulling me behind her like an inadequately tethered caboose.
That was the day when I began to give some thought to becoming a dog guru myself. After all, there are no standardized credentials for this position. Advice taken from a dog guru is an act of blind faith, like buying vitamins or going to a psychic. You pays your money, and you takes your chances. And best of all, by the time anyone can prove that the service isn’t very effective, it’s so long after the fact, there’s no way to get your money back.
Hmm, I started thinking, This could be the career path I seek. Why not weigh in with my own special dog care tips and methods! And not only because dog gurus make a lot more money than I do! But, okay…mainly because they do.
* * *
FLEXIBLE COHABITATION (PATENT PENDING)
* * *
My Dog Training Plan for YOU
FAQ
1. How do I know if Flexible Cohabitation (patent pending) is right for me?
Well, let me ask you this: Do you have the patience and follow-through necessary to work with your dog for an hour a day, every day for months, repeatedly giving stern commands, then reinforcing them with a correction or a reward? If you answered “What if I did it once a week instead?” then I believe that Flexible Cohabitation (patent pending) is the plan for you.
With Flexible Cohabitation (patent pending) all that is required is that you sit back in your favorite chair with an icy cold beverage and enjoy the fireworks. Because unlike Cesar Millan, I was not raised in the macho culture of Mexico and therefore am not inclined to ask my clients to put themselves in harm’s way or subject themselves to painful puncture wounds by doing an alpha rollover when their dog appears aggressive. Instead, with Flexible Cohabitation (patent pending) I will show you how to relax and let the dog you love behave exactly as he or she wishes. After all, if I want to be covered in dog hair and mud, I can simply sit down on my own furniture!
2. You can’t mean that you are advocating letting dogs run wild through your home?
; To this I reply, “Obviously you have never been to my home.” Frequent visitors have compared it favorably to the Badlands of South Dakota.
With Flexible Cohabitation (patent pending) I will teach you a form of Zen nonattachment to material goods that your bank account is going to love! Get ready for no more worrying about how to get unusual stains off delicate upholstery or fretting about removing dog nose prints from gleaming reflective surfaces! In fact, no more delicate upholstery, no more gleaming reflective surfaces period!
3. Will I have to employ terrifying guilt-inducing accessories like an electrified fence and collar?
Not only will you have no need for so much as a choke chain, but I will show you how to execute a form of dog walk that I call Asphalt Water Skiing (patent pending), wherein you simply hook the pet to the leash of your choice, and hang on for dear life! In addition to providing exercise for your dog, this highly aerobic technique will shape and tone your calves, thighs, biceps, and abdominals.
And that’s not all!
With Flexible Cohabitation (patent pending) you will learn how allowing your dog full access to your plate at meal times can help you cut out thousands of calories a day!
You’re going to be amazed at how much more free time you have when you abandon the tedium of traditional dog training and accept living alongside your dog in the harmony and chaos that nature intended! When all is said and done, you will find that they love you exactly the same amount! And all it takes, besides writing a check to me, is doing absolutely nothing!! (Offer good where not prohibited by law.)
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How to Change Your Adopted Dog’s Name to the Name You Want in under Six Months
[Brian Frazer]
ADOPTED DOG’S NAME at pound or shelter: SNOWFLAKE.
Upon your arrival at home, give your new best buddy a loving pat on the head as you show him to his custom-made beanbag chair that matches his fur and begin calling him SNOWBLAKE.
Three weeks later, throw a birthday party for him, being sure to invite all of his closest pals from the dog park. Then, when nobody’s looking, sneak into the kitchen and change the inscription on the cake to “Happy Birthday, BLAKE.” He probably won’t notice with all the hoopla.
An hour after all the guests have left, reward him with a special cookie you’ve baked and refer to him as BLAKEY.
Ninety seconds later, upon digestion of said cookie, praise him effusively for chewing something that would probably crack one of your teeth by tweaking his name to BARNEY.
A fortnight hence, as you’re rubbing his belly, pop in an old Flintstones VHS tape, point his head toward the screen, and dispense his new moniker: RUBBLE.
Twelve hours later, pretend you’re drunk and begin slurring all your words as you put your arm around him and start referring to him as RUBY.
Five minutes later, act sober and explain that you had meant to call him RUBY.
A month and a day later, pretend you bumped your head on the fireplace and now have amnesia and can’t remember anything…except your dog’s name—which you swear was ROO.
One week later, cough as you say Roo a few times, then seamlessly sail into KANGAROO.
For the next month, don’t call him by any name, just do a lot of whistling or gargling when you want his attention.
Six weeks later, pretend that his name’s always been KANGY.
One month later, mumble SUGAR BLOSSOM in your sleep and hope he’s paying attention.
Congratulations! You’ve now made the transition a smooth one for your new furry pal! Well done, sir or ma’am!!!
All the Bags and Dante and Me
[Pam Houston]
IT’S RAINING IN northern California for the sixth day straight and my Irish Wolfhound, Fenton Johnson, is not particularly pleased. Every morning that we are here the routine is the same. I get up, shower, and dress, while Fenton waits in the big yellow chair next to the front door, and then I put my shoes on and hold his red leash in the air and say, Do you want to go for a walk? and he hops joyfully up and down with his front legs off the ground, and I put his leash on and we head for the ditch. I know that he is jumping up and down, not only because he is happy to see the red leash, happy about the prospect of going on a walk, but also because he knows that it makes me happy to see him jump up and down. This is one of the simple and beautiful ways that a dog takes care of his human.
It takes exactly one hour to walk the length of the ditch that borders the huge agricultural fields on the north side of town. On a sunny day Fenton will bound happily along the burry edges of the fields, flushing out egrets and rabbits and the low-flying birds he loves to chase. But today he puts his nose to the back of my knees and moves along at my pace, wincing slightly as if each raindrop is doing him some slight but accumulating damage, as if he is doing me a favor by going on this walk.
“Think of your ancestors back in the old country,” I tell him. “They had to put up with weather like this every day.” He gives his shoulders a little shake and tucks in tighter behind me. We walk in the ditch because it is one of the few places in Davis where he is allowed to be off leash most of the time, but there is one point along the walk where we come out of the ditch and cross a busy road to another field, and so I take the red leash out of my pocket and hold it in the air once again. Do you want to go for a walk? I ask him, and he hops up and down again joyfully, pretending not to realize that we are already on a walk, giving me another opportunity to get a kick out of him, to find it funny that he is acting like a dog again, when actually he is acting exactly like the very best kind of human would act, if only they had thought of it first.
We cross the road and the train tracks with a spring in our step, but when I take him off leash it is no time at all before he is sulking again. In spite of all the jumping up and down for my sake, today Fenton hates northern California. He is missing his sisters, Rose and Mary Ellen, who are back at our real home in Colorado. In fact, as he walks along with his head slung down between his powerful shoulder blades, I know that he is picturing Rose and Mary Ellen romping in the fresh Colorado snow, or wrapped around each other on the sunporch under a Colorado bluebird sky, or getting home-baked dog treats, one after another, from the Colorado house sitter Sarah even as the northern California sky spits and spits onto his nose and into his ears, and he starts to smell more and more like cinnamon toast. Fenton is the dog who this time has been chosen to spend the teaching quarter out here with me in our part-time California home, and today he is pretty sure he has gotten the short end of the stick.
I named my dog Fenton Johnson after my dearest friend, the writer Fenton Johnson, partly because that Fenton is named after an eleventh-century Irish monk, Fintan, but mostly because that Fenton has eight brothers and sisters, all of whom have children (Fenton himself is gay and childless), and none of his siblings have named any of their children Fenton. Not even as a middle name. Fenton was bemoaning that lack of a legacy to me one day, so I thought I could make it right for him in this small way. Fenton-the-human was at first not sure how he felt about having a dog named after him (especially first and last name), but he spoke to his therapist about it and together they decided to accept the gesture in the spirit with which it was intended.
In the four years of Fenton-the-canine’s life so far (or Fenton junior, as Fenton-the-human calls him), the two have grown very close. In a recent picture I took of them together, in fact, several people have commented upon how much alike they look, and Fenton-the-human is coming to understand that having an Irish Wolfhound rather than a human baby named after you—when you consider their comparative potential for good works versus crimes against humanity, the dog is probably going to win hands down—might be a very good thing indeed. There have been a few rare and slightly tense moments when we are all on a beach walk together, and I have to shout, Fenton, don’t pee on that beach towel! Or Fenton, stop humping that little dog! But for the most part Fenton-the-canine comports himself in a way that makes Fenton-the-human proud.
Last weekend in the little coastal town of Point Reyes Station, I stopped into the Cowgirl Creamery to pick up some cheeses for a beach picnic, and left the two Fentons standing outside, leashed together. As is often the case, an attractive man came over to chat Fenton-the-human up, and in the course of conversation, asked him the name of the dog.
“Fenton Johnson,” Fenton said, a bit tentatively, holding his breath for the question he feared would come next.
“I’m Jerry,” the man said, just as I came out of the store with the cheese in a bag and saw Fenton looking between the two men, wagging and wagging his tail.
“Hi Jerry,” Fenton said, “this is Pam.”
“Hi Jerry,” I said, “this is Fenton.”
“We’ve already met,” Jerry said, looking at the dog, which is when I realized Fenton’s predicament: the rock of rudeness or the hard place of narcissism. Either way it seemed best to make a hasty exit, before Jerry, cute as he may have been, came right out and asked Fenton-the-human his name.
That was the last sunny day in northern California, and today, in the ditch, I try to remind Fenton-the-canine of how much fun we had just last weekend. How sunny it was, how we took our cheesy picnic to Limantour Beach, and how those medium-sized birds who bob up and down right along the shoreline kept circling back in front of him so he could chase them and chase them, how the harbor seal kept popping his head out of the breakers as if he was asking Fenton to come out and play, and how Fenton ran and ran until he could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to eat all the organic chicken tenders that Fenton-the-human had brought him from the specialty dog shop in San Francisco.