Dog’s sad eyes worse than his bite
Lori Borgman | Monday, Oct. 11, 2010
If dogs aren’t smarter than humans, why do
humans leave their homes every day to go work, while dogs stay
put and sleep in the homes the humans are working to pay for?
We have been dog sitting for our son and daughter-in-law’s Chicago mutt
while they are on a short trip. The dog is not only smart, he is manipulative.
When they got the dog from a rescue shelter he had a bad hip, no hair on
his tail and low thyroid. He turned on the charm and they bit. We can only hope
that our son will be as good to us one day as we, too, start falling apart. (We
are working on our charm.)
The first
thing the dog did when he bounded in our house was jump on the couch. He gave me
a defiant look that said, “I’m away from home, the ‘rents are gone, I’m lonely
and insecure. You’re not so cold as to make me get off the couch, are you?”
“Off the
couch!” I barked.
I wasn’t
going to stand guard in the family room, so I opened magazines and spread them
all over the sofa as a deterrent. Score one for the humans.
When I
came home that afternoon, there was the dog paging through a Talbot’s catalog.
He had also pulled a membership card out of America’s First Freedom, a
publication of the National Rifle Association.
I was dog-tired and wanted to sit down on my own sofa, but every time I
picked up a magazine to clear a space for myself, the dog jumped to his feet. I
put the magazine back on the sofa, the dog sat back down.
I walked
over and sat down in a chair that has never interested the dog. Quick as as a
wink he was on my lap. Smiling. Panting. Gloating. He had me now because,
technically, he wasn’t on the furniture -- he was on me, the owner of the
furniture. Score one for the canine.
That night
the manipulator padded into our bedroom about 1 a.m. “What’s the matter?” I
asked. “The rug by the front door isn’t good enough for you anymore?” I turned
on the light. It looked like a tear glistening in his left eye.
I suddenly thought of my brother-in-law who is not a dog lover. He used
to smile at their dog and say, “You’re going to die before I do.” The dog did
die. My sister-in-law had the dog cremated and put his ashes in an urn, which
now sits next to a framed portrait of the dog on the top of the entertainment
center. I often wonder if my brother-in-law will fare as well.
I dutifully dragged myself out of bed, got the dog a towel and put it by
the closet door. “Make yourself at home,” I said.
I turned
off the light and heard a scratch, scratch, scratch. I turned on the light. The
dog had moved the towel next to my side of the bed. He looked at me pleadingly,
longingly.
“No,” I
said. “Go to sleep.” I could feel his brown eyes staring at me in the dark. I
was determined the dog with the bad hip and low thyroid would not make me feel
guilty in my own home. At peace with my conscience, I fell right back to sleep
in only three hours.
The first thing the next morning I removed two magazines from the sofa.
