My Very Good, Very Bad Dog

by Amy Newmark

  He raised his gorgeous, plumed black-and-white tail. Swallowing, I slithered behind an ancient aspen tree, several more feet away.

  My canine cocked his head and held his ground.

  Suicidal fool.

  “Come. Now,” I squeaked in horror.

  The skunk wobbled forward, and my dog’s growl shifted to frantic barking.

  Oh, this was not good.

  The skunk whipped his rear around and sprayed. Pancho shook his soaked body, whining pitifully while the skunk serenely waddled away — in triumph.

  Pancho eyed me cowering behind my tree and made a beeline to me.

  I panicked. I didn’t want to touch him, so I grabbed a low hanging branch and swung my feet off the ground, dangling just out of his reach.

  Fortunately, Pancho dashed to a thick patch of grass, flopped over, and rolled on the ground. I lowered myself and slipped back to camp. There, I grabbed some defensive tools. The last thing I wanted was for him to spread his stink on the sleeping bags.

  When Pancho slunk into camp, tail firmly between his legs, I was ready — lasso and stick in hand. With my head turned to the side, I prodded him to a bush far away from camp and tied him there.

  Now, all I wanted to see was red — red tomato juice, tomato sauce, tomatoes.

  I scrambled back to my family’s freshly made sandwiches and, in a blur of motion, lettuce and pickles flew over my shoulders. Gleefully, I held up slices of tomatoes. “There you are, you red beauties.”

  Glancing at my stunned family, I asked, “Do we have catsup?”

  The speechless group held their noses and backed away. Apparently, I hadn’t fully escaped the skunking after all.

  I growled. “Well, do we?”

  Finally, my sister rustled in a bag and, with her arm ramrod straight, bravely handed me a bottle. I locked eyes with her, and she froze. “Make me a garbage-bag apron. Dump the stuff out of two plastic grocery bags — no, make that four — and tie them on my hands. Tie my hair back, too. Now.”

  Bless her. She also pinched a clothespin on my nose.

  I turned, ready for battle.

  After Pancho and I both had several tomato and mud baths, we returned from the river, dripping. Pancho smelled less horrendous. Still, he would spend the night whining, tied far away from camp.

  Just as we drifted off to sleep, someone mumbled, “How are we going to get him home tomorrow?”

  Windows wide open — that’s how. We drove away from the serene valley with our heads poking out the windows and Pancho blissfully asleep at my feet.

  ~Sandy Wright

  Reprinted by permission of www.offthemark.com

  Every Farm Needs a Dog

  Fun fact: Up to fifteen percent of dogs may experience some form of separation anxiety.

  Our dog had died the previous year, shortly before we had left to go to Mississippi for a year on a mission for our church. When we returned home, it didn’t feel quite right to have a farm without a dog, but my husband wasn’t eager to start over with another one.

  Then one weekend, when he was at our son’s dairy farm, our son said, “Dad you need a dog. Every farm needs a dog.”

  My husband looked at the four dogs there and commented, “The only dog I would want would be one like old Comanche there. He just lies around and stays out of trouble.”

  They both laughed and went on with their work.

  Comanche, a German Shepherd mix, was a brother of our dog that had died. He was about five years old and well past the puppy stage.

  When my husband returned home, he repeated the conversation to me. We laughed and soon got busy on our mini-farm, forgetting all about it.

  A few weeks later, our son and two of his children were heading south and “just happened” to be coming our way.

  Our son called and said, “We have a surprise for you. Something you really need on the farm.”

  For the next hour, we wondered what we “really needed on the farm.” We should have guessed, but we were so surprised when our son and his children walked in with Comanche in tow!

  Comanche was not an overly friendly dog; in fact, he had always barked at us when we went to visit our son and would not let us get too close. We were not sure that we really wanted this dog, but here he was. And how do you say “no” to two grandchildren who are excited to give you one of their prize dogs?

  At first, my husband was concerned that the dog might run back to our son’s farm if we left him alone too much. So, for the first time in over forty-five years, we had a dog in the house. We let him sleep by our bed the first night, and that turned into the second night, and the third night. He wasn’t really any problem. When he was in the house, he would find a good spot and lie down. Soon, he was following my husband everywhere he went, even if he just went into the next room. I could see that my husband was getting very attached to this dog, and before I realized it, we officially had an indoor dog!

  However, the first Sunday we had a dilemma.

  “Where do we put Comanche while we are at church?” I asked.

  “We can’t leave him outside,” my husband said. “He is not all that familiar with things. And he still might head for his previous home if no one is here for several hours.”

  We decided to leave him in the basement.

  At least, we thought he was in the basement. When we returned home, we found a mess. There were lamps turned over, flower pots emptied on the floor, and curtains moved in every room, even upstairs. As we walked into the kitchen, I noticed my honey-bear jar was on the floor. It usually sat on top of the microwave.

  “What happened to that?” I asked, looking around the floor to see other things in disarray. Reaching down to pick it up, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

  I glanced up and was totally stunned! My mouth flew open, but I was speechless. There on top of the refrigerator lay Comanche. His tail wagged in greeting. All I could do was point.

  “Oh, my goodness!” my daughter exclaimed.

  Suddenly coming to my senses, I hurried for my camera — this scene could never be duplicated. But when I moved, everything changed.

  Comanche carefully slid around and jumped on to the sink and then to the floor. He hurried over to my husband, who was always good for an ear rub. He seemed so happy to see us.

  We discovered that he had opened the basement door and checked out every window. It was as though he had a panic attack when he could not find us anywhere in the house and could not see us outside, so he found a tight place where he felt secure.

  As time went by, we discovered that he knew how to open the back door and the garage door, so he could come in whenever he wanted unless we locked the doors. Fortunately, he also figured out that we always came back once we left, and he did not have another anxiety attack. And we never found him on top of the refrigerator again!

  ~Shirley M. Oakes

  Buried Treasure

  Not-so-fun fact: The side effects of chocolate consumption in dogs can range anywhere from a little bellyache to death. In general, the smaller the dog and the darker the chocolate, the more dangerous this snack is for your pet.

  Droopy was our first rescue dog. He was a Basset Hound with front legs shaped like bananas. His badly formed legs didn’t slow him down and he loved to run laps around the house and play with our other Basset, Buster. Droopy liked to snuggle, and slept in bed with us every night. Apparently, Droopy also had a sweet tooth.

  One evening after we had Droopy for a few years, my husband Brent and I were eating dinner at the kitchen table, and we heard Droopy chewing on something in the living room. When I went to check it out, I found him chewing on a mini Tootsie Roll. After I took it away from him, Brent and I went back to eating dinner. A few minutes later, we again heard Droopy chewing on something. I found him chewing on another Tootsie Roll and took it away. This went on multiple times: Droopy appearing with a Tootsie Roll, me taking it away.

  Finally, Brent and I looked at each other and wondered where he was
getting the candy. Just then, Droopy came walking through the dog door. A-ha! I walked outside, and Droopy quickly followed. Then I saw him retrieve a Tootsie Roll from the yard. When I went to follow him, he led me to Tootsie Rolls that he had buried all over the yard. It seems Droopy had found a bag of candy and had the willpower to bury them all over to save them for later. Each time I took a candy away, Droopy had another one waiting for him.

  I spent the rest of the night outside with a flashlight, searching for Tootsie Rolls buried in the yard.

  ~Kimberly Crawford

  The Tomato Thief

  Not-so-fun fact: The ripe tomato fruit is generally okay for dogs to eat in moderation, but the tomato plant, which contains tomatine and solanine, is highly toxic to dogs.

  I was about to give up trying to grow tomatoes. I had dreamed of delectable tomato sandwiches, bruschetta and more. I planted and fertilized three beautiful plants of the Better Boy variety. But there was nothing delectable about my mostly fruitless plants. I saw flowers… and then nothing!

  By season’s end, I had what my husband described as three of the “area’s most expensive tomato sandwiches” and not much more.

  So what was happening to my sweet, beautiful fruit? I’d always been good at growing plants. In fact, I still maintain a now twenty-two-year-old aloe plant.

  What I didn’t know is that I was competing with another gardener.

  Our five-year-old Pug had been rescued from a North Carolina puppy mill. She was abused and frightened of everything. We adopted her after two previous placements — one foster, one adoptive — proved she needed more.

  We knew the moment she made it through our door that she would spend the rest of her days with us, and an unlimited supply of hugs, love and protection. My husband, son and I took special care to speak softly and not drop any pots or pans. It took months, but finally Dora untucked her tail and displayed its signature curl. That was a teary, joyful day for us.

  Dora had over a half-acre of fenced-in yard as well as our home in which to find peace and security. She also had three defenders whose mission was to make sure that no one would ever hurt her again and that her days of abuse would become a distant memory.

  We watched her blossom, but maybe a little too much! We had a lot to learn about her breed, including the fact that Pugs have no food filters. She was ready to eat at all times of the day and night. At ten pounds overweight, she was now struggling in a different way.

  We researched and realized she could maintain her lust for food with a healthier option: carrots! She lost all the weight and looked like a brand-new, healthy dog. But our Dora is still always on the hunt to find food, and the mischievous nature of her breed has her wanting to find things her humans know nothing about.

  So, let’s get back to the tomatoes.

  Feeling a little deflated about what looked like a sad end to my annual attempt at tomatoes, I left my husband in charge and went to spend a long weekend with a dear friend, who has the ultimate green thumb. I bemoaned my garden, and she tried to assure me I was doing the right things.

  Back home, my husband made a discovery. He was finding half-eaten tomatoes all over the yard. We have woodland creatures, so maybe they were the culprits.

  Then again… maybe not.

  Something flashed in his peripheral vision, and he looked to see where Dora was. He walked toward the flash and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Our beautiful, innocent Pug had dashed behind the box garden so she wouldn’t be seen and then hopped into the box. My husband could only watch and laugh as she went after one of the few remaining tomatoes.

  He most certainly had a dilemma. He didn’t want this Pug that we had nursed into happiness and security to get in trouble, but he didn’t want his wife to continue thinking she was the worst gardener ever.

  He had to be sure it wasn’t a fluke, so the next time he was out, he was armed with the camera on his phone. It didn’t take long to get the evidence proving our sweet Dora had an alternate career as a tomato thief!

  I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard or been so relieved to solve a mystery.

  Dora, who maintained a face of innocence through it all, suffered no major consequence.

  My husband did.

  The very next year, he had to help me fence in the box so we could keep the criminal away from Mommy’s tomatoes!

  The result: I have a bumper crop, Dora stands no chance of tomato poisoning, and my husband can no longer claim he is forced to eat the most expensive tomato sandwiches ever!

  ~Carol Andrews

  The Price of Protection

  Fun fact: Dogs have only about one-sixth the number of taste buds that humans have. Often, they prefer strong-smelling foods since they enjoy their food more with their sense of smell than taste.

  We don’t have a home security system. We have a dog — a good-tempered pooch who sheds a lot, eats a lot, sleeps a lot, and loves us in that uncomplicated way animals have. Whenever he gets into mischief, my husband reminds me, “One day, he will save your life.”

  I’m not so sure. He seems more concerned with his stomach than our security. If he’s done any guard-dogging, it hasn’t been in my presence.

  One evening, my husband and I were running the kids to various activities. I arrived home first with our older daughter. It was dark, and when we pulled into our driveway, we saw the interior door was open. My daughter panicked.

  “We’ve been robbed!”

  More likely, the last kid out was running late and forgot to shut the door. Still, I needed to exercise caution. I opened the car door, and my daughter grabbed my arm.

  “Mom! Don’t go!”

  We have a dog, I told her. He’s either in the house or not. If he’s not, I’ll come back.

  She looked at me as if she might never see me again. She nodded her head, and then locked me out of the car.

  I approached the house, calling my dog. Nothing. I opened the storm door and called again. Still nothing. I poked my head inside and saw a flash of tail scurrying behind the television.

  Phew.

  Then, I saw the problem.

  We have a split-level home, which means I can see into my kitchen from the front door. And in the kitchen, all over the floor, was garbage. Apparently, my nine-year-old “puppy” was taking advantage of our absence to nibble the trash. Now, guilt-ridden but not terribly sorry, he was hiding.

  Never mind if there was an axe-wielding burglar in the upstairs bathroom.

  I called his name, trying to hide my annoyance. The dog wasn’t fooled and remained hidden. I looked at the car. My frightened teen peered back at me. I looked at the tail behind the television. Unbelievable. It was a dog’s shining moment — the moment my husband had alluded to for years — and our dog was cowering in the corner.

  I entered the house, walked to the fridge and opened the cheese drawer. My dog knows the cheese drawer. Sure enough, he bounded over the trash-strewn floor and sat like a prize show dog. My champion.

  Holding the cheese in my hand, I inspected the house. Every room he entered with me, he got a bit of cheese. My feelings were conflicted. On one hand, I was bribing my dog to protect me. On the other, I did feel safer entering those dark rooms with him at my side.

  Once I confirmed the house was safe, I got my daughter and swept up the garbage in silence. My dog watched me expectantly.

  Was he in trouble? Was he a hero? Was he thinking, “Eat trash, get cheese?”

  My husband returned. While the dog circled his legs, I explained what happened. He frowned at his trash-eating pooch, but couldn’t resist patting the dog’s head.

  Granted, it only took cheese to get him to come with me. And cheese is cheaper than a home security system. Let’s just hope his loyalty doesn’t hinge on who’s holding the cheddar.

  ~Nicole L.V. Mullis

  Backyard Buddies

  Fun fact: All dogs have pink tongues, except for the Chow Chow and Shar-Pei, which have black or purplish tongues. Many dogs
have black spots on their tongues, though.

  Lacey, our female Yorkie, saw me opening the front door to check the mailbox and took that opportunity to slip out into the yard. She was usually very good about staying in the house, but she had an incentive to escape that day — our neighbor, Sarah, was in the front yard watching her son ride his new bike up and down the sidewalk while she fed her toddler.

  Lacey was a mousey little dog who did not come into her own until she had a litter of puppies. She was a great mother and truly enjoyed taking care of her brood. She had three litters with our male, George Mutt, before we had her spayed. She had adored being a mama, but during her last pregnancy she had come down with milk fever and we decided it best not to breed her again. Her mother instincts still lingered, though. Every time she heard a puppy cry — even on television — she would search for it so she could “mother” that baby. Her maternal instinct went beyond puppies, too. She would mother all young things, from kittens to human babies. When she heard any distress call, Mama Lacey was there to comfort and quiet the little ones’ fears.

  That day, Sarah’s baby, Kim, was teething and fussing as her mom attempted to feed her. When I opened the front door, Lacey heard the baby cry and was gone like a shot to help. Before I could stop her, Lacey had run next door to where Sarah and Kim were on a blanket on the ground. Lacey immediately stood on her hind feet and started licking Kim’s face. The child was startled at first and drew back. But I said, “It’s okay, she won’t hurt you. Those are just puppy kisses.” Kim relaxed, stopped fussing, and began to pet Lacey. Sarah was relieved — she said it was the first time that day Kim had settled down. When it was time to go, I literally had to pull Lacey away from Kim’s grasp to take her home.

  After that incident, when both our dogs and Sarah and her kids were each in our fenced-in back yards, Lacey would always run to the fence, wag her tail and excitedly greet Kim, who always responded with a smile and an outstretched hand. If she could reach Lacey to pet her, Kim would. Sarah and I thought this bond between dog and baby was delightful. We were glad the two had found each other.