Look Who's Coming to Dinner
She's an alpha female. No, really. She's not very large, weighs about sixteen pounds, lots of black curly hair, big dark soulful eyes, trim figure, and character in abundance. Trust me. She has lots of character. And she rules this roost. Would I kid you?
We've been through a lot together, in the eleven-plus years that she has ruled our lives. 'Twas not always so. I said I wanted a dog. "Forget it" said he. As in He Who Must Be Obeyed. That's a direct formula for action. I remember the day; he was installing a huge pillar in between the hallway leading from the foyer to the kitchen, and the family room. I wasn't helping, and called our daughter to 'take me out'. (I don't drive.) This was a conspiracy, actually. She'd seen a litter of puppies at a local pet shop and told me, and I agreed to go 'have a look'. Only one was left when we got there, a lanky black female Pomeranian-Poodle mix. Our daughter who-knows-everything, told me what to look for: look directly into its eyes; it should look away after a few minutes; get it on its back, and if it struggles to get upright, you're going to have problems. Um, I did none of this, but asked to pick up the dog, and it settled comfortably into my arms, so I said, sold!
It was March, cold as March is wont to be in this part of the world, and I was wearing a white rabbit-fur jacket, so I tucked the little fella into the jacket and we went looking at another mall store for a bed, shampoo, food, toys, essential oil, you get the picture. Then our daughter dropped me off home and sped away. "What the hell is that? asked The Boss, when he finally noticed the little black head sticking out of my jacket. A dog, just a dog, I responded. That's a dog? that's a rat said he, scathingly, and I trounced away with my puppy. Later that evening, as I walked upstairs there they were, the little black puppy and its champion; my husband on the sofa, the puppy on his chest, fast asleep. It's been like that even since.
At just past six months of age we had her spayed. That was hard, on her and on us, because she had to be left at the veterinarian clinic overnight and even though she'd only been with us for four months we really missed her. A scant month later we took her with us, for the first time, mountain climbing. In New Hampshire. She did really well, a game little pup. Of course back then, even only a decade ago we were going up taller mountains than we do now, by half. Back then we were only 57 years old, lots of energy, and her too. At that time we used to go on climbing holidays with our daughter and her partner, and their German Shepherd mix, another dominant female, but the two dogs got along quite well. Button, our (then) 8-lb. puppy, used to hang off Shanny's (our daughter's 68-lb. dog) ruff, as they play-tussled all over the place.
Back then Button knew her place. She'd eat her meal and give no thought whatever to hanging around the dinner table when it was our turn to eat. Mind, she wasn't without curiosity and certainly wasn't averse to doing her own thing. Which, among other things, meant that an untended table set for dinner would arouse her curiosity, most particularly when it held fragrant edibles. To our amazement she was able, back then, skinny and light, to leap from the floor to the top of the dining room table, and of course snuffle around to her heart's content until discovered in the act. But those were aberrations in behaviour.
She loved the smell and the taste of croissants or any other kind of bread I'd bake. I think fresh-baked bread was a toss-up for her with the allure of well-aged droppings deposited in the ravine off the beaten track, which her discriminating connoisseure's nose would sniff out for a delectable taste and roll. Until detected. While the former gave us pause for thought; the thought that even a little dog could exhibit good taste, the latter led us to believe she was irredemiably corrupt, until we learned that rolling in and partaking of disgusting objects (say for example, dead animals, even dead worms for the roll-about, and dessicated poop for the delicious, mouth-watering taste) was a pasttime of many otherwise-normal dogs. Given a choice I'm still not sure which she would select as her all-time favourite snack.
Over the years she had become decidedly vegetarian. We've always given her treats like dog biscuits, but we also developed a kind of feasting tradition where she would be presented with a small bowl of vegetables after her regular doggy kibble. So vegetables such as broccoli, cauliflower, corn, green peas, green beans, red/green/orange/yellow bell peppers became beloved of our Button. No meal could be complete without the salad, and if I were slow in presenting it for her delectation, she would whine until guilt propelled me to action.
Ah, but the last few years have seen a decline in the appropriateness of our several behaviours. One of us, and it isn't me, began sneaking tidbits to Button at the breakfast table, or the dining room table. Breakfast bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, all fodder for her. All of Button's heretofore good behaviour characteristics went out the window. Now she sits patiently beside my husband, occasionally leaning over to nudge him should he forget she's sitting there. I keep pointing out how bad it is for her to behave in this manner and that she would never have begun doing so had it not been for the very obvious encouragement of doling out such goodies to her. To which my (really) better half responds that I'm right and 'we've' got to stop it, but he's got to give her one last goodie. After which he loftily admonishes her, and suggests she gets lost.
When I point out that she's not likely to, since sitting beside his chair has turned out to be so profitable for her, he agrees with that too. And, sighing, repeats that things will have to change. This little conversation goes on ad infinitum. There is no intention on his part to cease and desist, and our little Button stands in dire danger of becoming a fat little Button. But, that's not likely either, given the quotidian exercise that's part and parcel of her life with Riley.
Riley? you may ask, who's he? That's the little guy who really lives the life. Half her size and weight, he provides constant opportunities for her to practise her alpha-ness. And at half her age he's had ample opportunity to pick up all her habits, good and bad. For the life of me I can't think of any of the good ones at the moment.
posted by Pieface @ Saturday, October 01, 2005
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