I suppose at my age, it should come as no surprise that when I met my partner, she would come with some…well, let’s not call them “baggage,” but rather “passengers.” She does not have children, just two dogs. Olive and Mabel are A Lot. Not in a bad way, but in many unexpected ways. I just didn’t expect to be a Person to some dogs at my time of life.
Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not one of those people who dare to claim that dog stewardship is anything like parenting. I have a very dear friend who is both a professional dog trainer and a mother of two. Even casual conversations with her inform me there are similarities and transferable skills, but they are not equivalent. It’s the difference between Guitar Hero controller and a 1959 Gibson Les Paul. Only a fool would confuse the two.
The aforementioned partner is very committed to volunteering with the local Humane Society. They run a shelter here in town and every Saturday they have a program called Cardio For Canines. People show up and walk a shelter dog for an hour or so in the nearby park. She goes every Saturday, which means for the last two years, so have I. Both of her dogs were adopted out of the program.
To be perfectly fair to the hapless strangers who come to the house and the agents of the Postal Service, they do not always sell themselves well. When I first met them they barked and bayed as if I would be chewed to death four times before I hit the ground if I dared cross the threshold. I admit it was off-putting. It was all just for show, but I could be forgiven for not recognizing that fact right off the bat. In spite of their intimidating act, their true natures were soon revealed. Olive and Mabel are, in fact, very sweet. Dumber than a sack of hammers, but sweet.
I Fell In The Pit, You Fell In The Pit
Olive was adopted first. She’s a pit mix, and when we go on walks I sometimes do feel the prejudice against pit bulls. People look at her askance, as if she would suddenly slip from her harness a la Houdini and attack them. Which is hilarious, because twenty seconds with Olive will dispel that nonsense permanently. She is not aggressive violent, just aggressively affectionate.
Every morning she comes into the bedroom to make sure I’m still alive. The Aforementioned says Olive is just making sure I’m there, but I’m reasonably certain that to a dog, being there and being alive are basically the same thing. Once she has proof of life her goals change. Then she wants attention. She never gets this on her schedule, as I am not a morning person. At all. Olive responds to this by ramming her skull into mine in the most loving manner possible.
Mabel Is A Verb
Mabel is the younger of the two. She is a hound mix, which is to say she is a mix of different hound breeds. Broadly speaking, hound breeds fall into two categories: scent hounds and sight hounds. As the name suggests, when a scent hound smells something, they get excited and feel compelled to follow the scent relentlessly. Sight hounds (or “gaze” hounds) feel an irresistible urge to investigate anything that moves or seems otherwise out of place. Put more simply, scent hounds go nuts for things they smell, sight hounds go nuts for things they see. Mabel is a mix of a scent hound and a sight hound. Which means if she sees or smells anything even slightly out of the ordinary she must follow and investigate. Put more simply, Mabel goes nuts. Pretty much any time she leaves the house. She whines nearly constantly on walks, barks at and chases anyone on the wrong side of the backyard fence, etc etc.
She loves riding in the car with us, which is a sentiment we often have trouble reciprocating. Imagine what riding in a car with the windows cracked is like for a dog like Mabel. The air is carrying an absolute riot of smells into the car at thirty miles an hour and THE ENTIRE WORLD is moving.
But never mind that, she’s incredibly sweet and she tries incredibly hard to do what everyone wants her to do. She doesn’t do terribly well at it sometimes, but it’s never for lack of trying.
Another Day Of Wine And Roses
I’ve made them sound incredibly difficult and burdensome, but the truth is they aren’t. Somewhat in spite of myself, I love their dumb, goofy faces. The only trouble they ever really cause is usually somehow tied to their wanting to be where I am, doing what I do, or they want me to stop doing what I’m doing because they want to be loved RIGHT NOW. I’m not saying it isn’t annoying, but it’s very hard to hold it against them. They are delightful.
Except for the farts.
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