Craig, a friend of A-Dog’s, is the guest contributor today.
He features his dog, Max, from the fun choice of a puppy vs. the reality of a dog.
We’ve owned Max for almost 10 years now. When we bought our first house, things must have seemed bigger. I suppose moving from our apartment to a house made everything look roomy and spacious and we needed to fill that space with more than just furniture. My older daughter had been asking for a puppy, so to kill two birds with one stone, we used a puppy as a Christmas gift for her, and I went out to find the right one. I had some fantasy of getting a big, fun dog that would walk with me and heel on command, play fetch until we were both tired, guard the house and be a companion to the family like all those dogs in the Herriot books. I liked Labs, so I drove 45 minutes to find a breeder and looked over her selections.
She had about 10 Chocolate Labrador puppies in a small pen, and I and several others played with them as we all decided which one would be the perfect dog for our families. They seemed to be going fast, as I heard one or two of the other prospective owners selecting theirs. At least one of the contenders I had in mind had already been taken, so I needed to act fast. In retrospect, these other people were probably shills, friends of the breeder who, like a snake oil salesman in the Old West, had her accomplices make everything look so attractive I would be forced into a hasty decision before my opportunity ran out. One somewhat fat puppy shied away from me, and I didn’t select him. He has since been dubbed “Schmoey” (rhymes with Joey) by my wife, who when she is lamenting my choice of Max (and I have heard several times about my choice) often pines for the serenity Schmoey would have brought. To make a long story short, with Christmas a few weeks away, no other litters in sight and no present for my little girl, I walked away $600 poorer, and one family member richer.
My daughter dubbed him Max Joseph on Christmas morning. He has since chewed through a few baseboards, dozens of rawhide toys, several stuffed animals, and at least two computer mice wires. His nails click clack on our hardwood floors in the most annoying tap dance rhythm you have ever heard. He drinks in threes, and by that I mean when he drinks, he laps three times, waits a beat, laps three times, waits a beat, then repeats 100 more times. It may take a minute to notice, but once you do it gets under your skin and drives you mad.
He’s not always good, and he has run away plenty of times. Before my neighbor blocked off the other side of his backyard, Max would lull you into thinking he was going to sit quietly with you in back, and then quick as lightning jump on the retaining wall, around the neighbor’s house and off he’d go. He never left the neighborhood, but would run up and down the street barking at passers-by. When you would walk to get him, he would stare at you and wait, and as you approached and were almost close enough to grab him, he’d take off down the street. He always came back eventually, head down, knowing you were angry with him. These days when he squeezes under the hole in the back gate to make his getaway, he still runs from you if you walk to go get him. But I have discovered that all I need to do is hop in the car, drive to where he is, throw open the door and he hops right in.
He still barks like mad when someone is at the door, but where he used to take a long time to calm down when guests arrived, now within 5 minutes he is over the distraction. He has mellowed considerably with age. He doesn’t chew anything inappropriately anymore, and in fact raids the girls’ rooms to bring down stuffed animals which he lays by his bed. We say he is looking for companions when we are all out working or at school. He’s pretty calm and quiet these days, and mostly just looking for someone to scratch behind his ears. I wonder if Schmoey turned out as well?
