Are You Kidding Me?!

The big white dog ate all the double chocolate chocolate chip cookies this morning, and it didn't kill him.  He's not a dog.  He's a pain in the ass.  The shredded window screens, the scratched up furniture, the stained carpet, and the white fur everywhere - all year,  are evidence of that...to me.  To others in the house, he's endearing.  Are you kidding me?!  It's become a production just to leave the house, and I thought those days were over once the children had grown passed the toddler age.

Whatever happened to the dream of being able to pick up my purse and keys and walk out the door without a second thought?  It got trampled on by a big white dog.  A big white dog that every body in the neighborhood hates.  He barks at anyone who comes up our driveway.  He barks at the big brown truck when it drives down our road.  He fuckin' barks at the wind!  When people come visit, we have to educate them with, "Don't stick your hand out or make eye-contact with the dog.  Let him come to you.  Ignore him."  Once in the house, their hand goes out while looking the dog straight in the eyes.  Even guests don't believe me that he's not a dog.  What ensues happens in a split second causing so much drama.  The big white dog growls, barks, jumps back, jumps to the side, sometimes jumps right into the person.  He brought one woman to tears, another to cross herself while reciting the Hail Mary, and another to jump back and spin.  He scares people - well, most adults.  He tends to like girls.  Add one more thing "to do" before guests come over - put the big white dog outside and let him bark at them as we reassure them that he's behind an invisible fence.  How welcoming. 

It's not that we didn't have him trained.  We did, and he did well.  Then we put him back in his cage.  My question was "How do we BE with this dog?"  Or whatever he is.  After six months, I put him up for adoption.  The stress was unbearable.  My older daughter's response, "If you give him away, then you have to give me away too!"  Oh, boo hoo.  My husband's reaction was that of his heart being ripped out.  Please don't fall for that.  Are you kidding me?!  I called the animal protection league in town and changed our status from fostering the big white dog to keeping him.  That's when the recommendation of a dog-whisperer-type dog trainer came into our existence.  One visit from him showed me that the "being" with the dog was possible.  We, or rather I, worked it with the big white dog and got some results.  He got out of his cage. 

Freed at last - kind of like when he was released from the puppy rescue shelter from where we adopted him. I remember seeing the cute, little, white, 10-week-old puppy galloping (maybe he's really a horse?) right toward our daughter when she stopped at his kennel.  "Ah," I thought.  "There he is.  Our dog!"  I was nervous, because I never had a dog, especially one from puppy-hood.  He was cute, and my husband reassured me that raising a dog was fun.  Chewed up dog-training books, chain-yanking training sessions, dog poop piles throughout the house, and ignoring my "Come here" commands proved otherwise.  Are you kidding me?!  I was sick the first six months of training and attempting to "be" with the then little white dog.  If he weren't so cute...

I often wonder why the hell we got this dog, and then I remember.  He literally got the meanest neighbor out of our neighborhood, restoring peace among others who were tortured by this individual.  The big white dog got out of his invisible fenced in area and went into the neighbor's land.  I was in the house, enjoying my quiet time when I heard an angry horn blaring repeatedly outside my door.  Walking out, I saw the neighbor, raging drunk, screaming obscenities at me with threats to shoot my dog.  Now, as much as I don't like having the big white dog, I don't want him dead, and as much as chocolate should have killed him, I knew a bullet would.  I ordered the raging maniac off my property and called the police.  Once the young policeman arrived, we heard gunfire.  "Back away from the window, ma'am." and out the young officer went, gun in hand, making his way toward the gunfire.  It was around 3pm, the time the kids get off the bus to walk home.  My husband was away on a business trip.  I couldn't believe what was happening.  Are you kidding me?!  After all was said and done - animal control officers, police officers, court dates, restraining orders, and adjusting the voltage of the invisible fence to the max and the pause feature to zero - peace and quiet was restored in the neighborhood.


I claimed my peace of mind by relinquishing my big-white-dog duties.  Sure I'll let him out and let him in.  I'll even refresh his water bowl.  But as far as taking him to the vet (who nicknames him "speedball" and where he rears up like a horse and has to be muzzled followed by a team of assistants getting him on the table), taking him for walks (done with my chiropractor visits after being unexpectedly yanked), cleaning up his shit (after a bout of eating anything but dog food), or cleaning out his self-inflicted wounds (thinks his paws are chew toys), my husband and kids are more than capable.

I was informed this morning that we better hurry and get a new battery for the big white dog's invisible fence collar.  He could get out!  I'm in no hurry.

-LD