The Perfect Pet: Epilogue

This story is 95% true.

Of course I didn’t send Jimmer to Australia. I also fibbed a little about how long it’s been since I’ve had zits.

Okay, maybe 75% of the story is true. I didn’t have a dream about Jimmer using my computer, nor did I give Scott mace as a present. Oh yeah, and the message in the dog food--that also wasn’t true.

So my story is 50% true. Jimmer really did bite Sophie (that is where the whole idea for this story began) and he really would (and still does) stare at me for hours on end without blinking. It is also true that he beheaded the brunette magnet doll, but he did the same thing to the blond and the redhead.

Writing about Scott is really fun, since I didn’t have to fabricate many of the things he said. His quotes about getting Jimmer a mate, his frustration that there is not a dog channel, his admiration for Jimmer’s unique appearance, his delight in Jimmer’s intelligence, etc, etc, etc…these were all things he really said. Most of these I wrote down, word for word in my story, taking liberties only with the context. I read every installment to Scott before I hit the “publish” button.

I did not intentionally put a moral in my story, but looking back, I guess you could say the moral is this: things are never as bad as they seem.

As for Jimmer, he mellowed out quite a bit during the course of this story. Eventually, he stopped leaping up on me and the kids (as much), stopped nipping (as much), learned to calm himself down, and learned a bunch of pretty cool tricks. For instance, I taught Jimmer to fetch the newspaper.

Here is a video on how I did it (7 minutes long): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syftSzQtA0Y

Here is the short version (2 minutes long): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVb1Vtlt5jo

I also taught Jimmer to pick up his “road kill” toys in the yard. I have to admit, he is very smart and very trainable.

There are also some benefits of having a dog that I had never expected. Like meeting new people, for example. In the past three years I’ve walked our neighborhood dozens of times, seeing the same neighbors over and over and giving the same polite smile and wave. But now that I have a dog with me I am suddenly someone of interest. People now stop me to ask about my dog, its breed, his age….and when I tell them his name is Jimmer that begins a whole new conversation and before I know it we’ve laughed together, cried together, talked about the First Vision and I’ve invited them to be baptized. (Here’s a tip, Mormon friends: Name your dog after Book of Mormon characters and/or presidential hopefuls and you are bound to end up talking about the church. I can just see it…. “King Noah” the bull dog, “Mitt” the dachshund.) A dog is a natural conversation piece. I have to admit it is a little fun. To really tell you the truth, more I wrote this story the more I liked Jimmer. Which, at last, makes my story 25 % true.

The final word:

As you might imagine, there are a couple of little readers in my own home that were following this story, and when the final chapter was published there was quite an uproar. They wasted no time in telling me that my ending was unacceptable and that it needed to be rewritten. Ah, critics! But since these critics are near and dear to my heart I will change the ending, just for them. So here is the “real” ending to the Perfect Pet:

Halfway to Australia Jimmer realized two things: 1. that he never wanted to eat peanut butter again for the rest of his life and 2. that he must somehow get back to North Carolina. He knew that he would never be happy without Scott and the dear little Dyrengs. So after breaking out of his crate he found his way to the cabin and charmed the flight attendants into letting him into the cockpit. Once there he hypnotized the pilots and made them turn the plane around. They landed safely back at Raleigh where Jimmer then took a taxi back home and was smiling on our doorstep the next morning, much to the happiness and jubilation of everyone in our family, even me who grasped Jimmer around the neck and cried out, Jimmer, I’m sorry! You’re the best dog in the world!

And they all lived happily every after.

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

“You are going to absolutely love Australia.” I said as I packed Jimmer’s crate full of wonderful things to eat for his journey. Danny, Jimmer and I were all sitting in the kitchen. “There are kangaroos, and koala bears, and crocodiles…and they are always having barbeques and walkabouts.” Jimmer watched me with interest, his ears perked up and his stubby tail batted against the floor. “Australians are hilarious, too. They say things like, ‘that’s not a knife, THIS is a knife!’” And I laughed so hard tears came out of my eyes. Jimmer barked happily, so I quoted more lines from Australian movies. This was the most fun I’ve had in months.

His crate was now packed full of bones, chew toys, rawhides, dog food…I even included a huge jar of Costco peanut butter, without the lid.

“Okay, hop in, Jimmer! Don’t eat all the food at once, now.”

Jimmer bounded in and I locked the crate. I wrapped it with several layers of brown paper and lots of packing tape, making sure to poke plenty of air holes. Danny watched all of this with a perplexed look on his face. He looked up at me with his big liquid eyes. “Da?” he said, patting the box.

“Yes, Danny, the dog is going on a trip!” I said.

I wrote TO ANYWHERE IN AUSTRAILIA with a big red marker. I stood back and looked at it for a moment, wondering if I should add anything else.

Oh yes—THIS SIDE UP, with arrows. Then I lugged Jimmer to the car and went back to get Danny. We were off to the post office.

*****

“Does this parcel contain anything fragile, liquid, perishable or potentially hazardous?” The postal woman asked.

Let’s see, I thought. Fragile? Yes. Liquid? Yes. Perishable? Eventually. Potentially hazardous? Definitely.

“All of the above.” I said. The woman slapped all kinds of placard-looking stickers and stamps on the package.

“Da?” said Danny, pointing to the box. He was in a baby carrier on my back, looking over my shoulder.

“What about insurance?” asked the woman.

“No.”

“Delivery confirmation?”

“No, thank you.”

“All right then, it comes to $100.00, please.”

I gulped. But was my peace of mind worth it? Yes, it was. I handed over my card.

“Da! Da!” said Danny with both arms outstretched toward the box.

“Cute baby.” She said. She handed back my card and slapped on a couple more stickers and stamps. Then she said, “Hugo, will you give me a hand with this box?” A big man came out of the back and picked up the box.

“DA!” cried Danny, panicking.

Hugo took the box away. I turned around and walked out of the post office pretending not to notice my son who was arching his body back toward the counter and screaming, “DA! DA! DAAAAAAAAAA!”

*****

On the drive home I reasoned with myself. Had I done the right thing? Of course I did. I did it out of compassion for Jimmer. He was suffering. He wanted to go to Australia. I could see it in his eyes. Jimmer will be happier there. He’ll find some Australian farm where he can chase chickens and sheep—do what he was bred to do. I took a deep breath. It is all for the best. There was no other choice. Okay, there was another choice, but I get queasy around blood.

By the time we got home Danny was calm again. I knew it wouldn’t take long before he’d forget. The girls would eventually get over it, too. But what was I to do about Scott? The thought of Scott’s reaction made my stomach churn. And what was I going to tell him?

Surely not the truth.

*****

I cleaned out the laundry room where Jimmer’s crate had been. I wiped the muddy paw prints off my kitchen floor. I threw the rest of the dog food in the garbage, and I had just burned Jimmer’s chew toys in the fire pit and was washing my hands when I heard Scott’s car pull up in the drive way. My body went numb. He was home earlier than usual.

Through the windows I saw him walk into the back yard. “Jimmer!” he called, “Jiiiiiiii-mmer!”

What was I going to tell him? That Jimmer ran away? That he had been stolen? That he had contracted a disease and I had to bury him quickly in the back yard before he contaminated anyone? There seemed to be nothing I could come up with that sounded believable.

Outside Scott was holding a Frisbee, looking around, still calling out to Jimmer.

Meanwhile I stood at the kitchen sink like a zombie. I could feel the black sludge of Misery filling my body. Invisible chains were wrapping around my ankles and wrists like Scrooge’s friend Jacob Marley. What a wretched, wretched person I am! He must never find out the truth or he’ll never forgive me!

Scott was standing on the porch, the sun was shining in his hair making him look like Angel Gabriel. I had just sent away Angel Gabriel’s dog. I am a bad, bad person.

I slowly dried my hands and walked outside.

“Hi Scott.” I said, doing my best to control my natural instinct to run berserk down the driveway and never come back.

“Hi Chelsea.” He said. “Where’s Jimmer?”

Yes. Where is Jimmer? Probably somewhere over the Atlantic, by now, I guessed.

I took a deep breath. “Jimmer is…gone.” I said.

Now, when someone tells your pet is “gone” it is different than if someone tells you a person is “gone.” When a person is “gone” it usually means they are “gone to the store” or “gone fishing.” Not so with pets. Gone is gone. Gone is done. Gone is forever.

Scott knew this, so when he looked at me his eyebrow twitched. “Gone?” he asked. “What...what do you mean?”

I felt weak. I can’t take this. This is too much. Please, Earth swallow me! Please Lightning, strike me down! Please Birds, peck my eyes out!

I gripped the side of the house to steady myself. There was really only one thing to say.

“Scott.” I said. “I sent Jimmer away.”

There. I said it. It was the truth. I know it was not the complete truth, but that was as far as I could go at the moment. At least I was able to admit that I was to blame. Baby steps.

Scott just looked at me for a long time. The corner of his mouth trembled a little and then he looked down at the Frisbee in his hands. The Frisbee that would never touch Jimmers lips again. He sniffed. I just knew that Scott’s heart was breaking. I had sent my husband’s best friend to Australia. I am the worst wife in the world.

Scott heaved a sigh. “Let’s sit down.” He said calmly. He sat down on the steps and looked up at me. I wiped a tear from my eye and sat down beside him.

“I know it hasn’t been easy for you to have Jimmer around.”

I didn’t say anything. I am wretched. I have no right to speak.

“You have a lot of things to worry about here at home, and throwing a dog in the mix must be stressful.”

I sniffed.

“But…it’s okay.” He said.

“What?” I asked.

He put his arm around me. “It’s okay.”

I was astonished. You mean you don’t want a divorce? I didn’t say that, though.

“He’s just a dog, Chelsea. He was fun to have around, but at the end of the day, he is just a dog.”

Tears poured out of my eyes and I hid my face in my hands. “You really are Angel Gabriel!” I tried to say, but it just came out in sobs. Scott patted my back.

“I’m so sorry.” I said when I was able to speak. “I just couldn’t handle it anymore.” The truth again. Oh, the truth feels so good.

“It’s okay.” He said. “I just hope the kids will be okay with it.”

“Yeah,” I sniffed.

We were silent for a while. Then Scott said, “Hey, did we get a package today? I ordered a flag for the boy scouts.”

“Ah…a flag?” I asked.

“The boy scouts are doing a culture merit badge and they’ve decided to have an Australia night. I’m supposed to provide decorations, so I ordered a flag.”

“R-r-really?”

“Yes. Did it come?”

I nodded as my mind slowly worked this out.

Scott leaned back and stretched his legs, crossing his ankles.

“Hey, and I found out something interesting today," he said.

“What’s that?” I asked, still disturbed about the flag.

“Did you know that Australian Shepherds aren’t really from Australia?”

What?!

“Yeah. They were actually bred here in America, but they are called Australian shepherds because they used them to herd Australian sheep off boats and the name stuck. They aren’t Australian at all.”

“They aren’t Australian at all.” I repeated.

“Nope.”

Silence.

“Hey Chelsea.”

My head was buried in my hands.

“Chelsea?”

“What?” I mumbled.

“Do you want to play Frisbee?”

THE END Click here for the Epilogue

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