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My Dogs: The Idiot, The Bully, And The Tool

I love dogs. For our family, dogs (and cats) are like our brothers and sisters. I don't mind the charge that we are too close to them, because we probably are. My mom called The Idiot "her favorite son" today, and I had to yell at her. Well, I didn't yell. I protested. His real name is not The Idiot, but this is a story; just go with it. Anyway, my mother would probably kill you if you restated the long-standing Christian teaching that animal souls are not eternal; they are completely dependent on the survival of the animal's body. When that body dies, that dog soul ceases. I'm not a philosopher; if you are, fill in the terms yourself. You may also send the angry letters to Dr. Lawrence Feingold, and St. Thomas Aquinas. I digress. I want to tell you about my dogs.

The Idiot is not an idiot at all; he just thinks you are. Or evil. He won't come when you call him, at least not when he's outside the house. We think some evil person abused and neglected him, because he hates leashes, gets freaked out a lot, and likes to run away. Really, we love him more than words can say. He's still learning to trust us. His funny thing is to stand on the deck and stare at you a foot from the door, while you fruitlessly call his name. He's the sweetest dog ever, once he reaffirms that you are not the dog's equivalent of Stalin. We rescued him a day before a vet in another town was going to put him down, because the shelters will not take a dog who won't walk on a leash. We don't walk him; we have a fence. He likes to jump it, but he now always comes back. Do not ask me how I didn't melt into happy tears when telling you all that. I don't know.

The Bully is the smaller of the two Min-Pins we have; The Idiot is a fairly big mutt of some kind. The Bully is bossy, noisy, and kind of aggressive. She's some kind of freak, and won't shut up until you yell at her. If dogs can or could suffer bipolar disorder, this is the dog. (Not that any of you are freaks if you suffer in this way, but you recognize that it is a less-than-ideal state. I sincerely hope you are vigilantly treating any mental illness, as you would for a physical ailment.) She would eat The Idiot's food for the first few days, and he's just so darn polite. Doesn't think he deserves anything. He's a Puritan, this dog. But The Bully loves him. When the two small dogs got into the bad habit of relieving themselves in the house (Mom was gone for extended periods, and we didn't trust The Idiot to come back to me after jumping the fence, though he has never gone in the house) we had a true annoyance. The Bully leaves little presents everywhere. At least The Tool goes to the bathroom in the bathroom. And it's impossible to scorn a dog for going where you do. She's still a tool, and I'm about to tell you why.

The Tool barks at everything and everyone. Don't walk, and don't talk. And don't ever use the word "cookie." We are hoping this jerk doesn't learn to spell. Don't make noise, don't drop things, and don't bark. And she thinks it's always time to eat. If you stand up and walk toward the kitchen, she thinks it's time. She wakes up at 6 AM to bark and go outside. She's like Simba on the day Mufasa was going to show him the whole Kingdom. She's a tool. She didn't used to be like this, but she's nearly 12, and old ladies just don't care anymore. She thinks it's fun to open my door at 6 AM, even though I'm a quadraplegic who will take at least an hour to get up. It is now perfectly normal to be woken up at any obscene hour to tell these yappy dogs to shut their pie-holes. The little ones even trained The Idiot to bark for no reason. The last reason she is The Tool happened just tonight, and inspired this post.

The Tool wanted to go outside. At 11 PM. She was insistent. Unless I like puddles like prizes on Let's Make A Deal, I will oblige. The Idiot is like a young woman; he won't go alone. He's so darn polite. He waits for them, too. The Bully was upstairs with my stepdad, and had no part in the proceedings. Thank Heaven. When I saw The Idiot leap off the couch, I knew I was in trouble. He's gonna jump the fence, I thought. And I neither have the ability nor the time to go out the front door to meet him on the driveway after he jumps it. He was out there awhile; I think he realized I wasn't going after him. Oh, yeah: I HAD TO PEE. But things are not OK until all the kids are in safe. I told you. We're crazy. The Tool was officially chagrined that The Idiot had not returned. She returned to my side and told me to do something. Obviously. But I could do little, other than call him. After some minutes, I noted that The Tool was no longer standing there. Had she snuck back outside to beckon The Idiot? Was I that oblivious? I scoured the house. Meanwhile, the other dog was somewhere in the wild. Thinking the worst, I figured he left, betrayed again by unloving humans who had forgotten him. Even if not, it's dark and cold. This is not good. I decide to meet my needs and wait him out. He returns. O joy! But The Tool is about to earn her name. Where is she? I lurked about the house, finally deciding that she could not have snuck past me. 13 times, lurking about this floor of the house, I searched. I tried The Cookie Bribe. I called her so many times, if she was a woman, I'd be arrested. No barking. No moving. I asked The Idiot if he knew anything. He said, "She's a tool, man. I don't know." Where did this harried man find his disobedient child? Right above my head, as I passed through the hallway to the foyer. The stairs are right above the hallway connecting the foyer to the living room. This tool was laying there in silence, watching me as I vainly called, worrying about a cold, frightened dog for half an hour. I may be an idiot, but I think I'll make an excellent parent.

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