That is not my dog

I don’t have a dog. I had a dog once—Katie—a 10-pound humane society poodle-type mutt that pooped on the driver’s seat of the car if we ever left her alone. A dog that jumped off the third floor of a friend’s office building and survived. But that was many, many years ago. I have no dogs. Dan has dogs. The dog-faced boys took the place of our real boys once they moved out, greeting Dan at the door every night like it’s Christmas morning. Attacking his mittens as he shovels snow. Waking him up at 6 every morning at the cottage for a long walk—waiting until the pot of coffee is ready before howling at the door. And the dog faced boys tolerate me in the house. They listen—sort of. They get out of my way—if I insist. They feel they run the house when Dan’s not around, and while I hate to admit it, they sometimes do.

A few months back one of the dog-faced boys decided the antique love seat wasn’t comfy enough. He dug at it, ripping a hole in the fabric and releasing a storm of feathers that covered a good portion of the living room. This may have been the same dog that chewed the wood trim on the love seat. It may also have been the same dog that clawed the decorative front off the antique “rolled paper” sofa and chewed one of the pillows to shreds. Or, it may have been the other dog. I know for certain it wasn’t my dog, it could only have been Dan’s dog.

The dog-faced boys are Otto and Ripley, two rescue Dobermans. The size of small ponies they run wild in the house. They have a “toy box” full of eviscerated stuffed animals and enough bones to reassemble a cow. They demand affection. Their one skill appears to be an ability to assist any vehicle with a siren by launching into an insane howling. 

I keep waiting for the big payoff, the reason for having giant dogs in the house. I thought dogs would be a deterrent to break-ins. Not so, as evidenced by the intruder who found his way into the house, helping himself to a few items and a hiding spot as police combed the neighborhood. And where were the dogs? At the cottage, with Hunter, frolicking in the lake and running wild in the woods. I’d like to think the dog-face boys would have barked him down the back stairs and out the door, but I’ll never know. In the meantime, they continue to consume a 40-pound bag of dog food every third week.

And this brings me to the care and maintenance of these creatures. For the most part it’s “never my turn”. Dan runs them, picks-up after them and feeds them.  Feeding requires trips to the pet shop for “high-protein, low output” food, low output being a critical factor when the dog can build a turd big enough to trip the unwary. Fortunately we are able to participate in a frequent buyer program. With the purchase of each bag the store makes a note on an index card.  Buy ten bags and the next bag is free!

Again, Dan buys the food. It’s something I insist on after the name change. Dan had grown frustrated with the 5-minute search through all the Johnson’s for the our index card. Having purchased a tenth bag he decided it was time to make things easier. Weeks later I stopped to pick up the food and had a moment of absolute embarrassment when asked for my name. There I stood with a blank look on my face. Finally I said “I don’t know—my husband changed it.” The clerk stared at me, then laughed and said “you must be Mrs. Zzyvox!” Yes...of course I am.

Two dog morning.

The dog-faced boys and I do have one thing in common. On weekend mornings they wake Dan for a quick trip outside. Once back in the house they race up the stairs. I let them settle in on the bed for a good snuggle and some serious sleep. Now these are MY dogs.