Play One on TV

My wife has asked my why I have never blogged about the dog. I could say, “it’s been done before” but it’s not like the blogosphere is exactly riddled with originality. Therefore, here is my official Dog Blog™.

My wife and I are both pet people. At the present moment, we have two non-human dependents: a cat, named Alisa, and a dog, named Aussie. Aussie is the loveable pile of shedding fur depicted at left.

My wife and I both grew up as pet people. She grew up with little yappy dogs and I grew up with big “I want to herd-your-sheep and kill-your-intruder” dogs. As a married couple, we compromised by obtaining a dog sturdy enough for demolishing small housing blocks.

But let me start with the cat, as she was here first, a fact that she would point out to you if: A. you had bothered to ask her, and B. she could grant the time out of her busy schedule to tell you. She’s the loveable pile of indignation at right.

Editor’s note: A cat discussion in a Dog Blog? Now that’s original.

Alisa was given to my son when he turned five years old. She was a pound kitten, rescued from the evil clutches of the Oklahoma City Animal Shelter, whose advertising slogan is “we produce more ammonia than Mister Clean.”

We had an unusual means of picking out a cat from the many varieties at the pound (well, two varieties — ugly and not-ugly). My wife had read somewhere that you could discern the potential skittishness of any cat by turning them upside down. After a few false starts involving some reacquaintance with certain aspects of first-aid care, we found Alisa. Not only did she react well to being held in a recumbent position, but she could do a fair imitation of that boneless-cat thing from the Peanuts comic strip. We decided that any cat that could tolerate this could tolerate our son.

Alisa is good-natured, for a cat, which is to say she ignores you pretty much the same way that cats have ignored mankind throughout the ages, all the way back to the days of the pharaohs. (I can see it now. Ramses II, Lord of All He Surveys and the Pyramids too, crooks his Egyptian-crook thingie at his loyal pet and bids him come forth to the throne for a little “scratchy-watchy”, at which time the cat slowly turns its head and blinks, exactly once, as if to say “Uh, not in this dynasty, bub” and then proceed to dig scratch marks in the Royal Coffee Table of Ra.)

Perhaps I ought to explain my personal feelings about cats. I think that cats are the stupidest animals ever allowed to grace a human habitat. They are difficult to train, don’t come when called, and cannot seem to grasp the concept of “thou shalt not scratch the stuff”, not even at the point of a water pistol. There are some that would chalk this behavior up to the “independent feline nature” or the idea that cats are too contemptuous of us humans to obey our orders. Not me. I am convinced that the little shrimps are simply too stupid to learn.

Still, as far as cats go, Alisa is more affectionate than most. She was allowed to keep her claws, yet she seldom, if ever, uses them on us. She does use them on the furniture, but I feel this is mitigated by all the water pistol practice this imposes on me. She loves to sleep with us and is bright enough to get out of my way when I roll over. She generally enjoys being with us, I think, but for all I know she could be secretly planning the downfall of all mankind. Or maybe dreaming about the next can of tuna. Possibly both at once.

Her one major saving grace? She purrs. This purring thing is probably the single reason I allow cats to share my abode. When an animal purrs at you, all is right with the world, if only for that moment.

On the other side of this furry coin is our dog, Aussie. He was yet another birthday present for Matt, this time when he turned eight. We had tried dogs twice before, and both had regrettably failed the “don’t eat my son” test (Laika tried to eat Matt’s ankles when he was three, and Spencer gave Matthew his first experience with stitches at age four). We wisely decided that Matthew needed to be older before we tried the dog things again — old enough to defend himself, and old enough not to pull the tail of the nice doggie with sharp teeth.

Aussie is what is known as an Australian Cattle Dog, sometimes referred to as a Blue Heeler. The “Blue” is somewhat of a misnomer, as they also come in red, and this is Aussie’s coloring. He is a mutt, but Australian Cattle Dogs breed so true that any other dog genes tend to cower in the recessive corners of his cells. He could have a Chihuahua somewhere inside him, battling to get out and star in taco commercials, but we’ll never know.

Aussie was acquired from a local pet rescue organization, and we assume he was about nine months old at the time. Matt didn’t choose Aussie - Aussie chose him. Aussie literally grabbed Matt’s legs with his paws and wouldn’t let go until Matt agreed to wrestle with him for about 20 minutes. It was love at first juicy lick, and it was obvious to us that this was the dog for Matthew.

All 40 pounds of him.

Aussie is… well, exuberant would come close to describing it. His preferred greeting involves knocking you over and licking your face until first-degree burns set in. His tails wags hard enough to knock over unsecured pieces of furniture. Thankfully, he has learned enough about inanimate objects in the last few years to keep me from going broke in the “replace this household fixture” department, but when we first brought him home, I didn’t know if we had purchased a dog or an enforcer for a Mafia protection racket. (Nice little television youse have here - it would be a pity if somp’in were to happen to it, ya know? *crash*)

To make matters worse, Aussie is intelligent. Like most herding dogs, Aussie has a lot of instinctive smarts buried in his genetic makeup. Those of you with intelligent dogs (collies, retrievers, hounds, but not dobermans) know that intelligence is a two-edged sword. Smart dogs pick up concepts quickly and easily, like “fetch the ball” and “do not pee in Daddy’s shoes”, but if they are left long enough without stimulus, they will find something to do. Anything.

In Aussie’s case, finding something to do is equivalent with finding something to destroy. It doesn’t help that he has jaws strong enough to crack engine blocks. Aussie can, and does, disassemble things for fun. Fortunately, we recognized this tendency early on, and we were able to train him to stay away from important things, like shoes, furniture, and the Nissan. However, there are a few items in the backyard that have become, over the course of time, his and his alone. Suffice to say that my son’s old Tonka dump truck won’t roll in a straight line anymore.

Aussie takes canine affection to absurd heights. Dogs are pack animals, and they thrive on companionship. Aussie must have scored an A+ in this course at Doggie University, because he plainly lives for the possibility that someone in this house might actually be within ten feet of him at any given time. If you are in the room, he is right there next to you, as close as possible. I mean close. He presses up against you as if he wants to reassure himself that you’re there and not going anywhere else. I think the only thing that keeps him from getting any closer is the fact that nuclear physics won’t allow his atoms to fuse with mine.

Aussie is also fiercely protective. He isn’t an incredibly noisy animal, but if anyone who isn’t on the guest list comes anywhere near the house, he is already on a buildup from growl to snarl to “I’m going to eat you now” barking. He especially hates the postman, which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s read one too many Marmaduke strips.

Aussie is also extremely good with children. The only problem is that he is a herding animal. His ancestors were raised to herd cattle, a creature that is a monument to the inverse proportion of size to smarts. If a kid tries to go off and do his own thing, Aussie’s herding instinct takes over, and he promptly wraps his paws around the kid’s leg and refuses to let go, or pushes the kid in an opposite direction.

Fortunately, we have this “alpha male” thing all settled. We’ve gotten to the point where a single harsh word from me will flatten his ears, roll him over on his belly, and convince him that my righteous indignation will bring about the Apocalypse if he doesn’t change his ways right now. As long as we have this understanding, Aussie does just fine.

Alisa (cat) will quickly disagree with just about everything I just wrote. I think she has never forgiven us for bringing the 40-pound brakeless wonder into our home. In fact, for the entire first week of dog ownership, our cat went out of her way to treat me to several unappetizing views of herself licking body parts that, on me, never even get looked at, not even in a mirror.

Alisa and Aussie get along okay. They tend to avoid each other, although Aussie cannot resist occasionally chasing her about the house. When he catches her, he usually slobbers on her and tries to pick her up with his mouth. When Alisa decides she’s had enough, the claws come out and Aussie learns, for the umpteenth time, that cats do not equate “having a good time” with “being in a dog’s mouth.”

Both animals have a special place in my heart, one that would not be easily filled were something to happen to one or both of them. I also believe Matt is a better person for having pets who depend on him for companionship, love, feeding, and general care. So I have to put up with hair all over the place, a continually-wet kitchen floor where the water dishes sit, and a regular supply of carpet cleaner under the kitchen sink. It’s worth it, if for no other reason than it’s nice to have something in your life that loves you no matter what you look (or smell) like at 6:00 am.