The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 8 of 10

Most little boys want to be like Jimmer when they grow up. Danny does, too. Only not the Jimmer you're thinking of.

*****

“What is this?” Scott asked one evening. He picked up a small wrapped package that I put on his pillow.

“Just a present.” I said.

“What for?” he asked.

“Just because.” I smiled. Actually it was the first step in my “Protect Turkeyboy At All Costs” plan. Though Jimmer had proclaimed himself to be Scott’s Best Friend Forever, I had a hunch that his intentions were not what they seemed. It was up to me to keep my husband safe. Especially since Scott was completely clueless about Jimmer’s mystical powers. Scott spent hours throwing Frisbees to Jimmer, proving that Jimmer had already wiped out Scott’s ability to detect the passage of time.

Scott opened the package.

“A can of mace?” he said, his eyebrows raised. “What is this for?”

I shrugged. “You know…just in case.” Just in case Jimmer decides to go for your jugular, darling.

I pointed out that it came with a nifty little clip that could hook on to his belt loop.

“That way you can take it with you whenever you go outside.” I said.

“Gee…ah…thanks, Chelsea.” He said.

The second part of my plan was harder to carry out: making sure that Scott and Jimmer were never alone together. When I was able to, I would sit outside and watch them play. When Scott wasn’t looking I would narrow my eyes at Jimmer and make the ASL sign for I’m watching you.

You might think this was time consuming and tedious, and it was, but I worked hard to get such an extraordinary spouse, and I wasn’t going to let Jimmer take my husband without a fight. Plus, I had to hang around just to make sure Scott didn’t forget who I was.

One afternoon I was sitting on the back porch steps, chaperoning Scott and his best friend as they frolicked together in the yard. While I watched I reminisced about my pre-dog life and ate chocolate to calm my nerves.

Scott was training Jimmer with the Frisbee, hopeful that Jimmer would someday become the world’s most amazing Frisbee champion. It was hard to tell who was having more fun, the man or the dog. I heaved a sigh when I noticed Scott wasn’t wearing the little bottle of mace I gave him. Well, it is a good thing I’m out here, I thought.

When Jimmer was too tired to run anymore, Scott came and sat by me on the steps. Jimmer squeezed in between us, panting.

“Down,” said Scott. Jimmer instantly flopped to the ground and leaned against me.

“This dog is so smart. He has totally exceeded all of my expectations for dog intelligence.”

“Mine, too.” I answered.

“He already knows five commands, can fetch balls, and catch Frisbees in mid-air. And he’s only 5 months old!”

I did have to admit it was pretty amazing. And ironic. Our son Danny was 18-months-old and he still hadn’t walked yet. (Not only that, but his vocabulary consisted only of “DA!” which, with only a slight change in intensity, meant both “dad” and “dog.”)

I reached down to give Jimmer a pet (I try to pet Jimmer at least three times a day, just for appearances) and as I ran my fingers through his thick coat, thinking how it would make a lovely bathroom rug, Scott said, “He’s so soft, isn’t he? And he always seems so clean. It is like the dirt just doesn’t stick to his coat.”

I nodded and took a bite of chocolate.

“He’s such a good-looking dog, too. Just look at his eyes…you see the see black all around them?”

Yes. I thought. It makes him look like a bank robber. Jimmer looked up at me and his white teeth gleamed. No…he’s too smart to be a bank robber, I thought. More like a terrorist.

“I think he looks like Zorro.” Continued Scott. “You know, I was flipping through the channels last night and I can’t believe there aren’t any dog channels.” He was clearly perturbed about this. He scratched behind Jimmer’s ears and Jimmer gazed at him devotedly. Then after a while he said, “Don’t you think it would be fun to get Jimmer a mate and then they could have a litter of puppies?”

I almost choked.

He smiled, “And I could quit my job at Duke and we could be full-time trainers and breeders.”

I started to cry.

“I’m just kidding, Chelsea.” Scott said, clearly remorseful. “Its okay, I won’t quit my job.” He probably would have put his arm around me, too, if the dog hadn’t been in the way.

After I pulled myself together he asked, “Hey, by the way, why do you put numbers up above Jimmer’s food bowl?”

A few weeks ago I had taken down the dog stew recipe (which Scott didn’t find humorous) and replaced it every day with a different index card. Each card had a number on it, in descending order.

“Well,” I said, “If he’s so smart he ought to know his numbers, right?” I smiled pleasantly. Jimmer looked up at me, narrowing his eyes. He could smell my lie. Actually, the numbers are a countdown. I want Jimmer to know how many days he has left before he is neutered.

“See? You are coming around, Chels. I’m glad you’ve been such a good sport, putting up with having a dog. Isn’t she, Jimmer?”

I got up and left. But not before I gave Jimmer the rest of my chocolate. Click here for Part 9

Here are some videos of Jimmer taking over Scott’s mind. I mean playing frisbee. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM2Q2IbfGWQ&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxX_4b3DB-w&feature=related

SPECIAL NOTE:

Maybe you noticed, but Blogger was down the day after this was posted (5/13/11). The Blogger-people-in-the-sky-took off this post --Perfect Pet #8. Later they put it back, but when they did, all the wonderful comments, especially Angie Kelly's fabulous remark about Scott saying "bad throw" every time Jimmer missed the frisbee, had disappeared.

So I'm very sorry the comments are gone. Comments are pretty special to us bloggers and it is a tragic loss.

I would say blame Blogger, but it is because of Blogger that I've even able to have a blog, so I choose forgiveness instead.

--chelsea, posted 5/13/11

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 9 of 10

By the time Easter rolled around we’d had Jimmer for five months, but it seemed like generations. So long, in fact, that I’d forgotten what normal life was like. The pungent smell of dog food that at first made me sick was now odorless. I no longer scowled at the bite marks on the door frame near his kennel, I didn't mind that Jimmer’s chew toys were constantly strewn out in our backyard like carrion, and my son who used to only drink bottled water now drank regularly out of Jimmer’s water bowl.

This is, perhaps, the reason Danny came down with "acute tonsillitis" one week after these photos were taken.

Three months ago I would have thought this standard of living was unacceptable, but now it had become my new norm.

There once was a time when Scott would come home from work and walk right into the kitchen to see me and Dan. Now he walks straight from his car to the backyard and plays endless rounds of Frisbee with Jimmer, while his only son stands inside at the window wailing, “Da-Da-Da!”

Not only that, but sometimes I’d get these weird thoughts that Scott didn’t like me anymore. That maybe my hair just wasn’t shaggy enough or that I wasn’t athletic enough. Maybe if I exercised more…. or maybe if I spent more time out doors…. or maybe if I could catch a Frisbee with my teeth.

My greatest fear was that someday Scott would come home from work and I would be in a corner, gnawing on a bone, as loony as a border collie, and Jimmer would be cooking dinner. Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

On one particularly low day, I decided to re-visit the website entitled DO NOT BUY AN AUSTRAILIAN SHEPHERD to wallow in my buyers remorse. I read through it again, shaking my head and weeping from time to time. There was a list of reasons to not buy Aussies, only now that I was an experienced Aussie owner I thought it was woefully incomplete. Next to “Aussies are dirty, Aussies are obnoxious,” I could add: “Aussies know witch craft, Aussies break up marriages, and Aussies have the ability to steal your soul.”

While I was in this state of despair there was a knock at the door. I dried my eyes and answered it. It was the mailman, who handed me a package.

“Thanks.” I said and he left.

It was one of those unrippable plastic bag packages. The label said it was from Amazon.com. By moving it around I could feel that inside was something bendable and soft, like clothing or a small blanket, but I couldn’t remember ordering anything like that.

I took the package to the kitchen and got my scissors. Carefully, I cut one end of the package open and looked inside. Dark blue fabric. Ah, yes, I thought. It must be fabric for one of Scott’s hammocks. He was always ordering nylon rope, synthetic fabrics and carabineers on the internet. Then I noticed there were white stars printed in the fabric. That is unusual, I thought. Scott doesn’t usually use fabric with prints on it. Curious, I pulled the fabric out of the package and unfolded it. When I realized what it really was, my stomach did a flip-flop.

It wasn’t fabric for Scott’s hammocks. It was a huge Australian flag.

At first I was angry. Where did Jimmer get the money? He probably used my credit card, the little bandit. And why would a dog need an Australian flag? Jimmer hadn’t seemed like the patriotic type to me.

And that is when it dawned on me. Had I been wrong all of this time? How could I have been so blind? I draped the flag over my arm and took it outside.

With the sound of the door opening, Jimmer came bounding out of the shadows of the backyard, expecting a treat. He slowed down when he saw me.

“Its okay,” I said gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He sat a safe distance away from me anyway.

“Do you recognize this?” I said, holding up the blue flag with the stars and the Union Jack in the corner.

He came closer and sniffed it. He sat down and cocked his head.

“Did you order it?” I asked, trying to not sound accusatory.

He said nothing. Apparently our dog telepathy wasn’t working today. But he did paw at the flag and then look up at me with sad-looking eyes. That was a good enough “yes” for me. I can’t believe we’d spent all of this time together, and I never understood until now what he was trying to tell me. Jimmer wasn't trying to take over my mind. He was just homesick.

I folded up the flag and crouched down so we could see eye to eye.

“Jimmer, are you thinking of your ancestors? Do you miss your homeland?”

Jimmer gave a pitiful whine. He lay down, put his nose into his paws, and rolled his eyes up to look at me. I thought I saw a tear.

It was then that I got the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had in my entire life. An idea that would bring me back from the brink of insanity. An idea that would restore my family to its original glory. An idea that would solve all of my problems. I pressed my face into the Australian flag and kissed it. Click here for Part 10

****

The thrilling conclusion of THE PERFECT PET will be posted on SUNDAY NIGHT.

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 7 of 10

“We feel sorry that anyone in the dog community who could live with dogs and not experience a warm, mutual connection.” My Smart Puppy pg 5

The electric fence drastically improved my mental health. Now instead of having Jimmer in the kitchen with me all day, I could just leave him outside. It was like someone had just released a vice that had been squeezing my brain like an orange juicer. Ahhh….there is nothing like a good fence.

Jimmer seemed happier and more content, too (if you don’t count the first couple zaps). Now I could put his food outside the door and he’d come and eat up and then go off and play in the back yard. He’d tackle his toys and dig in the sandbox and splash in the baby pool…and we could see all of his movements from our back windows. It was actually kind of fun. Like owning my own zoo.

Little did I know that Jimmer was just working out a new strategy to terrorize me.

One busy morning as the kids were getting ready for school, I opened the back door and set Jimmer’s food bowl outside. The back door is right by our breakfast nook where we eat most of our meals, and Jimmer usually likes to sit out there, making sad faces while we eat. But today he busily gobbled up his food and left. After I served breakfast to my family I noticed Jimmer was gone, so I went out to retrieve his dish. I was surprised to see bits of kibble scattered around the bottom of the bowl. That’s funny, I thought. Jimmer usually cleans his plate. I wonder why he didn’t eat it all? Then I noticed something odd. The little bits of puppy chow looked as if they were in lines. No, not lines. Letters. I could feel the orange juicer clamp onto my head again. Jimmer had spelled something.

I slowly walked back in the house, examining the contents of the bowl while my family finished their breakfast. I carefully tilted the bowl this way and that, trying make out the letters. There was an I and an A and an M. I AM… I am what? What was Jimmer trying to tell me? I was looking at the next few letters when suddenly one of my kids stood up and knocked into me, bumping the bowl just enough to obliterate the words.

“Ahk!” I exclaimed, looking desperately at the scattered dog food in Jimmer’s dish. “The message! It’s gone!”

Everyone at the table looked at me.

“What message, Chelsea?” Scott said slowly.

“Here! In the bowl! There were letters! Jimmer was trying to tell me something!” I said. Scott’s gaze went back and forth from my face to Jimmer’s bowl. I knew I must have looked crazy, but at that moment I didn’t care. It was vital to me that someone else believe me.

“There was a message…” I said, the pitch of my voice getting higher and more desperate, “in the bowl…”

Scott pushed out his chair and stood up. He took his plate and fork with him and set them in the sink. Then he put his arm around me.

“Are you stressed out?” he said in the kind, quiet voice people use when they are speaking to someone who is about to jump off a bridge.

“I have no future.” I murmured, still staring into the bowl.

“You know what you need?” He said. His voice was confident, self-assured, optimistic. He gently took the bowl from my hands.

“What?” I asked.

“You need to take a nice long walk.”

“I do?”

“And after that you need to take a nice long bath.”

“Yes.” I said, nodding slowly.

“And after that you need to take a nice long nap.”

I nodded. “Yes.” I blinked and looked up at him, slowly coming out of my trance. That was it. He was so right. I just needed to take a break from life. I was just too stressed. I needed to relax. Oh, what a wonderful husband I have!

I started putting away breakfast. Scott rounded up the kids and herded them out the door for school. I was feeling better, but in my mind I could still see the wobbly dog-food letters; brown against the white ceramic dish. I AM… I AM….I AM HIS B…. What was it? I AM HIS BFF. Yes, that was it. That was what it said! Now what did that mean? I am his beef?

The car keys jingled as Scott snagged them from the hook. He came over to give me another hug.

“Thanks for breakfast.” he said. “I love you, Jimmer.”

I looked at him.

“Oh, sorry.” He chuckled, “I meant Chelsea." He swung his coat over his shoulder. "See ya!”

The door closed.

The house was quiet.

But somewhere in the backyard I could hear a dog laughing.

Scott + Jimmer = BFF

Click here for Part 8

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 6 of 10

“Raising a puppy can sometimes be stressful.” --The Puppy Whisperer, pg 83

You've probably figured out by now that I am not a “dog person.”

But by the time we’d had Jimmer for four months everyone else was in love with him. Our neighbors—every one of them a dog owner—adored him, and watched him longingly, remembering their own dog’s sweet puppy days (their dogs are all close to 100 in dog years). Our girls thought he was the best dog ever and wrote songs about him. He got fan mail from Scott’s grandma and my mom even sent a package all the way across the country filled with chew toys, balls and rawhide strips. And just in case you thought I was exaggerating:

the package

the loot

I couldn’t get away from him. He was there in the house with me all day. Sometimes I would take my younger two children to the park, just so I didn't have to think about him for a while. But invariably while we were out we’d see another dog and then I’d remember the devil voodoo dog waiting for me at home.

Then one night I had the most terrible experience. (Stop reading now if you are easily disturbed.)

It was a dark and stormy night. I awoke to thunder rattling the windows and rain pouring outside like someone had decided to dump the ocean over our house. My clock said 2 am. I couldn’t sleep so I decided to get up and make myself some warm milk.

Without waking Scott, I got up and opened the bedroom door. Thunder crashed, lightning flashed, and a strange glow was coming from the kitchen.

I have desk in my kitchen where I keep my laptop, and I could see that the laptop was open. Why was it glowing? Did I leave it on?

Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed.

Then I saw it. Someone--or something--was sitting in my chair, using my computer. My heart started beating in my throat as I eased my way closer. Please tell me it isn’t…

But it was. There, sitting at my desk was Jimmer, typing something on my laptop. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was seeing things correctly. I walked closer, inching towards him as stealthily as I could. What was he doing? What was he looking at? I had to see! Thunder crashed! Lightning flashed!

Soon I was right up behind him, and I could almost see the screen, but his head and ears were blocking my view. Then, his ear twitched and I froze in place like a statue. Slowly he turned the swivel chair around to face me.

He was wearing my glasses.

And my apron.

“G’day, Mate.” He said.

That is when I woke up screaming.

Scott was awake in a second. “What is it? What is it?” He asked.

“Its Jimmer! Its Jimmer!” I shouted.

“What? What happened? Is he sick? Is he hurt?”

“No!”

“What is it then?”

“I—I—“

“Yes?”

“I—,” I took a deep breath. “I--can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me? I’m your husband. You tell me everything.”

No, I thought, not everything. Not that I think our dog is more intelligent than I am. Not that Jimmer is psychologically destroying me. Not that I think you spend more time with Jimmer than me and I’M YOUR WIFE. I didn’t say any of these things. But I did make Scott get out of bed and make sure that Jimmer was locked in his den.

When he came back he said, “Jimmer is just fine. He was just sleeping away in the crate. Don’t worry, Chelsea. Nothing bad is going to happen to our dog.”

I rolled over and tried to close my eyes. If only something bad would happen to him.

After that I couldn’t go to sleep for a long time. This dog was overtaking my life. Not only was I unable to get away from him during the day, but now he was part of my nights, too.

I kept remembering Jimmer’s threat to me that he was so smart that he didn’t have to “resort to the tactics of lower breeds.” Why couldn’t we have gotten a dumb dog that would have just messed on the carpet or chewed up the couch if he was upset? Why did we have to get a dog that knew how to destroy me from the inside out? And the worst part was, how was I supposed to get help? Who would believe me? Everyone would think I was crazy. And maybe I was.

But then I remembered one happy thing. Tomorrow the dog fence would be installed.

And it was electric. Click here for Part 7

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 5 of 10

"While a dog’s breed contributes to his temperament, breed alone cannot be used to predict whether a puppy will grow up to be a danger to his community." --The Puppy Whisperer, pg 25

Syrena and Jimmer

The next morning I woke with a headache. I haven’t had a headache for two years. I looked in the mirror and I had a bunch of zits. I haven’t had zits for 15 years. My throat was sore, my eyes were red and my scalp itched. I felt awful all morning.

Later I tethered Jimmer on the back porch so I could clean his den. Inside I found one of my daughter's magnetic dolls that she plays with on the fridge. I sighed. Naomi will be so disappointed. It had once been the doll that had dark brown hair, and now it was decapitated. I was about to throw it in the garbage when suddenly I stopped. Wait a minute, I thought.

I have dark brown hair. There are three other dolls on the fridge, one with red, one blond and one black hair. Why did he decide to chew off the head of the brown-haired doll? I went back to Jimmer’s crate to retrieve the head. I took it to the bathroom and held it up to the mirror. I looked at my face, then at the doll’s face. A chill went down my spine. The teeth marks in the dolls face were exactly in the same places as the zits on my face.

Jimmer knew voodoo!

As you can imagine, this was a little unnerving. I worried all day about what to do. And all this time I still had to feed Jimmer and take him out to the bathroom. I did my best to not speak to him or make eye contact just in case he decided to put a hex on me.

Finally I talked reason to myself. This is silly. Dogs can't do stuff like that. My imagination is running away with me.

The next day I saw an article about a man who is trying to convince people of the benefits of dog meat. It is in the Wall Street Journal if you want to read it, and here is the link.

In the article the author included a recipe:

Stewed Dog, Wedding Style

First, kill a medium-sized dog, then burn off the fur over a hot fire. Carefully remove the skin while still warm and set aside for later (may be used in other recipes). Cut meat into 1" cubes. Marinate meat in mixture of vinegar, peppercorn, salt, and garlic for 2 hours. Fry meat in oil using a large wok over an open fire, then add onions and chopped pineapple and sauté until tender. Pour in tomato sauce and boiling water, add green pepper, bay leaf, and Tabasco. Cover and simmer over warm coals until meat is tender. Blend in purée of dog's liver and cook for additional 5–7 minutes.

I cut the recipe out and taped it above Jimmer's food bowl.

P.S. If you try it, let me know how it tastes. Click here for Part 6

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 4 of 10

“Dogs are able to ‘read’ even the most subtle human behaviors…

through our body language, smells and breathing patterns.” ---The Puppy Whisperer, pg 83

Jimmer spends most of his time being tethered up in the kitchen. That means we spend a lot of time together. Usually he gnaws on his chew toys, but one day--soon after our telepathic conversation--he just sat there, watching me. I would be pouring cereal and turn around to get the milk and he would be sitting in front of the fridge, watching me.

I would be cooking on the stove and drop something on the ground, and when I bent down to pick it up I would notice him, watching me.

I would be at the kitchen table, writing a letter and suddenly look over at him, and he’d be watching me like the Great Sphinx,

and his unblinking eyes would be fixated to mine like he was trying to burn holes straight through my pupils and out the back of my head.

He’s just trying to intimidate me, I thought. I decided he needed to be shown who was master. I grabbed the leash and took Jimmer outside.

From the moment I hooked the leash to his collar he yanked on it with his teeth, pulling me down the driveway. I told him to sit and he just looked at me and cocked his head, as if I was speaking Portuguese. “Sit.” I said. “Sit. SIT.” He grabbed the leash again and tugged at it. “Stop it. Give that back. Let go!” Finally I gave up and walked Jimmer back home. (Or you could say Jimmer pulled me back home.) We’d made it to the mailbox and back.

So now we were back to the kitchen again, with me cooking and Jimmer staring. I couldn’t put him outside because we didn’t have the fence installed yet, and couldn’t put him in the crate because he would whine incessantly. I tried to ignore him, but it is hard to ignore anything that that stares, especially if it has sharp teeth.

If this was what having a dog was like, I didn’t want it. Scott wasn’t with Jimmer all day like I was. He doesn’t understand what it is like to live with an animal like this. It was driving me crazy, and my husband needed to know. It was time for good ol' Scottyboy and I to have a talk.

Now, I’ve been married for ten years now, and I know that men don’t pick up on subtle hints, so I decided I would just be straightforward and communicate with him as clearly as I could. As I do with all important conversations that might affect my marriage I rehearsed it first in my head:

“Scott,” I would say, “Jimmer is trying to hypnotize me. I want you to take him to the shelter. Preferably one in a different state. Today.” I repeated that to myself over and over to be sure I would get it right when the time came.

*****

“Scott,” I said to my husband when he came home from work. He bent down to greet Jimmer who was bounding around his knees with the kind of pandemonial euphoric excitement that you only see in lottery winners and people who are being rescued from a deserted islands. “Scott,” I began again, “I want to talk to you about Jim—“

“Just a minute.” He said. “Jimmer wants to do some tricks.” Scott fished some dog treats out of a jar on the counter while Jimmer was still bouncing around like a ping pong ball.

“Sit.” Scott commanded. Jimmer instantly sat. Scott gave him a treat.

“Down.” Jimmer lay down. Another treat.

“Roll over.” Jimmer rolled over. Treat.

“Up. Stay. Sit. Down. Roll over. Up. Jump! Spin!” Jimmer performed every command with the precision of a West Point cadet. I felt at any moment he might salute.

“Good boy!” Scott proclaimed, squatting down and showering Jimmer with treats and pets. Scott looked up at me. “Isn’t he brilliant? I am amazed at how smart this dog is. We are so lucky to have a dog like this, isn’t that right, Jimmer? Oh yeah, Chelsea, did you want to talk to me about something?”

I opened my mouth. What was I supposed to say? Jimmer was sitting between Scott’s legs, panting and smiling up at me like Ryan Seacrest. I closed my mouth.

“Never mind.” I said. I turned and started dinner.

Here is a photo of Scott bathing Jimmer. I am taking the photograph.

Notice when he looks at me his eyes glow red.

You see it, too, don't you? Click here for Part 5

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