Hearts and Common Sense

My friend, Michael, having more heart than sense when it comes to dogs, sees a picture of a homeless and alleged Chihuahua/Boston Terrier mix with enormous ears and breaks down.  He won’t listen to any of the sane and perfectly reasonable objections I have to a 4th dog and before I know it, we’re on our way to an Arkansas animal shelter.  There’s no logic to love at first sight and knowing when I’m beaten, I give in gracefully.  There’s no point in staging a protest and there’ll be plenty of time for “I told you so” later.

A few hours later, we’re on our way back with a 3 month old brindle puppy who may or may not have either Chihuhua or Boston Terrier in him.  Later I will think that if we were to check his genealogy, we’d find some piranha and likely a little mule, but for the time being, he sleeps peacefully in my lap. When we arrive at the house, Michael actually listens to my advice and agrees to it – I walk the pup while he lets the other three dogs out and then we ease him into a crate for his debut and his own protection.  The mayhem is instantaneous, deafeningly vocal, and more than a little unnerving.  All three dogs gather ‘round the crate like Apaches circling a doomed wagon train.  There is frenzied barking and howling and panicky lunges at the crate but the little one fearlessly stands his ground and will not be intimidated.  He dances around like a mad puppet and barks and howls right back, his entire body trembling with anticipation and excitement.

What do you think?  Michael shouts at me.

I think you’ve lost your mind!  I shout back, Man the lifeboats!

I decide to get while the gettin’s good.

The battle – a steady series of stalemates, standoffs, sneak attacks and skirmishes – rages through the weekend and into the next week but there’s no actual bloodshed and by the fifth day, the brief truces are getting a little longer, primarily due to exhaustion.  The cur dog has decided, more or less, to befriend the small creature, at least up to a point and the pit, older and as a rule more mellow than Coltrane’s jazz, is trying his best to be tolerant.  Only the little girl, antisocial and testy under the best of circumstances, refuses to give an inch.  She will not allow him to approach her without breaking out into very serious snarls and threats and seems to take exception to his presence in the same room.  This, of course, only encourages him more – he dances and lunges and nips at her heels then skitters for cover all the while yelping like a coyote - the decibel level easily reaches ear-splitting then surpasses it.   She snaps right back, her little mouth curves into a nasty grimace and she displays all her teeth while producing the most alarming troll-like noises. The puppy, no intellectual sharp-shooter, I’m afraid, thinks it’s all a wonderful game and persists until the old pit wanders by and then gets distracted and changes his target.  I notice I have a headache.

Stop or I’ll shoot!  I finally yell and slam my hand down on my desk.  There’s a pause and I seize the moment to put the puppy in time out, shoo the pit into Michael’s office and settle the little girl beside me.  The cur dog peeks around the corner.  You’re too late, I tell him sternly, Go lie down.

The fact is I doubt there’s enough aspirin.