The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 3 of 10

“Every interaction you have with your puppy teaches him something. There is no “small” interaction.” --My Smart Puppy, pg. 3

Weeks passed. I was intensely motivated to successfully house train Jimmer, since the only way I could be at ease was to make him a good, obedient dog around my children. All the while I day-dreamed of ways Jimmer could accidentally pass on to that great dog park in the sky. [Animal rights activists, please close your eyes for the next two paragraphs.]

What if he happened to be let outside at the same time the garbage truck rolled by? What if he got tangled up and strangled in his tether? What if someone accidentally mixed chocolate chips in with his dog food? A lot of chocolate chips?

I admit I wasn’t as careful with him as I ought to have been. I didn’t take plastic bags away from him when he started chewing on them or stop him from eating the bits of playdough that fell under the table (which he later threw up all over my kitchen floor in seven long, drawn-out heaves). I would never actually try to harm Jimmer on purpose. (I did have my marriage to think about, you know.) But I wasn’t going to stop him if he found a way to end his life on his own.

Then one day, as I was cleaning the kitchen and Jimmer was tethered nearby I heard something. It sounded like my name. I turned and saw Jimmer looking at me.

For one small moment I could read his thoughts. He said:

Why do you hate me?

The question was simple enough. We lived with each other 12-7, he had a right to know the truth.

I don’t hate you, I answered back. I just resent you. You are not a priority to me.

All I want is love and attention, he replied, cocking his head and letting out a whine.

I reserve my love and attention for family members, I responded.

I am a family member.

No you aren’t. You are a dog.

I am adorable. He said.

That doesn’t change the fact that you are a dog, I answered back. I will feed you, clean up after you and put up with you. From time to time I will pet you. But I cannot love you.

How can you say that? Everyone loves puppies. What kind of person are you?

I am a mother.

He was silent for a while and then he finally said, I see how it is.

I nodded. Yes. So you’d better behave.

Who says? I’ll do whatever I bloody well please. (I forgot to mention he had an Australian accent.)

Not in my house, I said.

Watch me.

What are you going to do? Run circles around me? Howl? Bite me? Remember, buddy, I control your food.

Ha! He smurked, I’m a herding dog. I’m much too smart to resort to the tactics of lower breeds.

I narrowed my eyes. What do you mean by that? I asked.

Then, all of the sudden the moment was gone, and there I was, standing in my kitchen, glaring at my stupid dog.

Who knows what really transpired between me and Jimmer during those few seconds, but after that moment one thing was certain: our enmity for each other was mutual. Click here for Part 4

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 2 of 10

“As wonderful as those moments are when you feel all warm and happy inside watching your puppy chew her toy, slide across the kitchen floor, and pounce on your shoelaces, there are the other times…” --The Puppy Whisperer, pg 4

Within days we taught Jimmer to “sit,” “lay down” and “go to your crate.” He was smart as a whip. Every 2-3 hours I put on his leash and ran him out to the predesignated potty area we prepared for him in the back yard. At night Scott and I took shifts taking Jimmer out to his “spot,” even in the pouring rain. This was quite miraculous since Scott seldom got up with our own babies. One day I came home to witness yet another miracle: Scott bathing Jimmer.

It was around this time--week two--that my relationship with Jimmer began to change. Perhaps it started with the article I found on the internet titled DO NOT BUY AN AUSTRIALIAN SHEPHERD or it could have been the teeth marks on the special stool my father had made for me before he died. But my opinion of Jimmer really started spiral downward when he started nipping.

He nipped a lot. Jimmer pulled on my pant legs and the girls’ dresses, sometimes ripping them. He even caught a hold of my seven-year-old’s arm and wouldn’t let go and drew blood. When I confronted Scott about it he said Jimmer just made an honest mistake and thought she was a chew toy. A chew toy?? Sophie was upset at first but proudly showed her battle wounds to her 2^nd grade class the next day.

(Here is a photo of my kids and the neighbor's kids with Jimmer. The neighbors kids are smart; they wear helmets around dogs.)

I knew that nipping was a normal part of a puppy’s development, but watching my children getting bit made me feel uneasy. Granted, he didn’t seem to be intentionally hurting the kids; it was all in play. But every time he nipped for a piece of food in the girls’ hands and bit their little fingers or jumped up on them with his mouth open towards their face my apprehension grew.

The dog is teething, said the vet.

It is normal, said my friends.

He’ll grow out of it, say the books.

Yes, yes, I reassured myself. Nipping is just an instinct. But you know what? I have an instinct, too. It is called a maternal instinct. And every time he made one of my kids cry, a strange, hot feeling started to bubble up inside my chest like a volcano.

At first, the awareness of this primal urge thrilled me. I had often wondered how far I would go to protect my children from harm, and now I knew I really could throw myself in front of the gaping jaws of animal to save them. I really could! This was quite a rush. I got another rush thinking of my children’s superiority to this animal. That dog was nothing compared to them. His life meant nothing to me compared to there’s. If he harmed them he might as well go find a farm and walk right into a moving combine because once I got a hold of him I would rip him to pieces with my teeth like a grizzly bear until there was nothing left but little bits of silky fur and his multicolor eyes, rolling around like two cheap marbles.

My resentment for Jimmer grew. Daily. Hourly. Minutely. I didn’t enjoy having violent feelings of aggression on a day-to-day basis. I had worked very hard my entire life to be a very mellow and composed person. But just the thought of that dog made me sprout horns and fangs and flames started shooting from my ears. I said things to that dog I would never say to any other living thing, in a tone I would only use for rapists and murders.

The fact that Jimmer was going to be a part of my future was sinking in. A future with Jimmer meant a future of having the smell of dog food constantly permeating throughout my kitchen. A future of trying to juggle four little kids along with a four-legged animal. A future of ripped hems and muddy foot prints and dog hairs on my black pants and greasy jerky treats in my pocket. Not to mention a future of having to regulate my maternal instinct which went nuclear every time Jimmer got close enough to sniff baby Danny. This already was quite exhausting.

And then there are the trips to the vet….

For all you non-dog owners (bless you….may you remain as you are), puppies require a series of vaccines and boosters, just like people. Then you also have to get them spayed/neutered. All of this means that I had to take Jimmer (along with my preschooler and my one-year-old) to the vet almost every month in the first six months. Not only that, but each visit costs an average of $100.00. That is a lot of money. Money that could be used for a lot of other important things. Like shoes.

About the third time we were at the vet, he asked if I wanted him to implant a microchip in Jimmer just in case he was ever lost. I said no. If Jimmer gets lost I want him to stay lost.

What about a tag for his collar? They asked me. I thought I probably ought to do that, I reasoned. If he does get lost it will be good for his new owner to know Jimmer’s name. They asked me for my phone number to put on the reverse side of the tag. I gave it to them, but changed one digit.

That night I talked to Scott.

Me: I’m not so sure Jimmer is right for our family. He's a lot of work. Plus he jumps on the girls a lot and he's nipping all the time--I don’t even dare put the baby near him.

Scott: Oh, he’ll grow out of it. Remember, he’s just a puppy.

Me: True. But what if this continues, and instead of being a puppy jumping up and biting our kids, he’s a big dog jumping up and biting our kids?

Scott: Jimmer is too smart for that.

Jimmer’s too smart for that. Words that would later haunt me.

TO BE CONTINUED....Click here for Part 3

The Perfect Pet, part 1 of 10

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale

—Written in serial form—

By Chelsea Dyreng

Several months ago my husband brought home our family’s new dog. He was an eight-week-old Australian Shepherd. It was January and the 2010-2011 college basketball season was in full swing, so of course we named him Jimmer.

We have four young children, and we thought this would be the perfect time to get a puppy. We’d spent the month before researching the different breeds, trying to decide what type of dog would best compliment our family. We wanted a fairly active dog, a medium sized dog, and a dog that looked unique. Most of all, we wanted a SMART dog. Australian Shepherds fit all of our criteria and before long we found a breeder who had a puppy available, and we took the whole family out to see him.

He was adorable. We couldn’t take him away from his mom until he was 8 weeks old, but the breeder promised to post photos of him on her website, updating them every week. Scott and I each added hundreds of hits to her site as we salivated over our puppy’s cuteness.

As the day of our puppy’s arrival inched closer, we were determined to be prepared. Scott bought three dog training books and a DVD. We called our brothers and sisters with news of our upcoming family member and received mixed reviews. Scott’s brother and my mother were thrilled. But when I told my older brother about getting a dog his comment was, “I think that is a very poor decision,” as if I had just told him I was running off with a Hell’s Angel.

When I called my sister, her reaction was the following: “You want to get a DOG?”

“Yes,” I responded, “But not just any dog, we are going to get a SMART dog.”

After which all I could hear were five minutes of hysterical laughter.

But he would be smart. Jimmer would be the smartest dog ever. The very fact that he was named Jimmer destined him for greatness. He would be agile and fast, yet he would sit when commanded. He would jump up to retrieve balls, but never jump up on people. He would be able to distinguish between friend or foe and bark accordingly. My husband and I fantasized about having him catch not one, but several Frisbees in succession, about having him balance things on his nose and perhaps leading us across busy intersections, in case either of us should suddenly go blind.

So it was, late in January, with those great expectations that we welcomed Jimmer into our home.

Scott brought him around the back of the house and one of the girls caught sight of him through the window and squealed. In a moment all three raced outside and surrounded the puppy, crouching down and whispering, just like we’d taught them. Jimmer was adorably shy and bashful and wove in and out of Scott’s legs, glancing up at him every now and then for reassurance. He was perhaps the most beautiful dog I’d ever seen. His merle coat was grey and dappled with chocolate-colored splotches. He was as fluffy as a polar bear with a snow white fur collar around his shoulders and a white blaze down the center of his face. His eyes were exquisite; they were half green and half blue. Click here to see more photos of him when he was little.

It didn’t take long before he felt aquatinted enough to jump around and mouth our hands. His little stubby tail wagged feverously as I ruffled his thick coat. His fur was the softest thing I’ve ever felt, like I was running my fingers through waves of silk. He seemed to be everything we’d hoped for.

He was a perfect dog. The perfect pet to go with my perfect family.

TO BE CONTINUTED…..Click here for Part 2

Tornadoes

A friend of mine (Tara) asked me in the last blog post if we were doing okay in light of the recent and bizarre herd of tornadoes that swept through the entire central part of North Carolina.

Well, we are doing fine. We live in Hillsborough which the tornadoes grazed on either side but thankfully left us alone. During the action I was driving my kids to ice skating lessons and looked up at the sky. "Look at those clouds, girls! They are moving so fast!" I said. Little did I know that to the east and to the west they were moving A LOT faster.

Here is a picture of a Lowes store in a city near us.

Can you imagine being in a Lowes store during a tornado? With hammers, nails, 2x4s, lawnmowers, toilets flying all around? Here is the story of how the managers saved the people inside: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=135498048

I have heard several Carolina natives say these tornadoes were worse than anything they've ever seen before in North Carolina....including hurricanes.

I guess it could have been worse, though. Naomi keeps telling people that North Carolina was hit by a bunch of volcanos.

Once a Grandpa, Always a Grandpa

I haven't been posting much because I am working on a *TOP SECRET* project that will be revealed on my blog soon. In the meantime, I just wanted to share with you this special photo of Naomi.

Naomi is in a stage where she gets really scared at night. I told her she didn't need to worry because my dad (grandkids called him "Big Dad") is an angel and he is alwasy watching over her. I found this framed picture of my dad and put it in her room and told her she could look at it when she was scared. About two weeks ago I found Big Dad in her bed and I took this photo. Since then, she's slept with Big Dad every night. When she's really scared she'll come down stairs to our bedroom, bringing her blanket, her bear and....Big Dad. During the day she sets Big Dad up while she is playing so he can watch her play.

My dad died 8 years ago this June, long before Naomi was born. She has no memories of him. I've always been sad that my kids never knew my dad. But in a way, I guess Naomi will have memories of Big Dad.

(By the way, I wouldnt' tell Naomi stories about angels watching over her if I didn't believe they really did.)