We got a dog. At least I’m told it’s a dog.
The dog, or canis lupus familiaris (Latin for large, eating, pooping machine which, if properly provoked, can bite off your leg) is a domesticated subspecies of the Gray Wolf. As such, a true “dog” cannot be carried around in one’s coat pocket, nor shuttled about the house in a baby carriage. A “dog” doesn’t go to the beauty parlor. Nor does a “dog” deserve equal privilege when it comes to familial membership or affairs of state. (“Who should we vote for?” “Let’s ask the dog!”)
The acquisition of our “dog” was the result of my nine-year-old’s insistence that if she didn’t get one, she would run away to join the circus. I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, wished her good luck growing a beard, and sent her on her way.
My wife, on the other hand, is one of those sensitive, nurturing types who actually cares what the children think. As a result, our house is now home not only to four humans, but two hamsters, two parakeets, several fish, a few tadpoles, a guinea pig (the other white meat), and Taffy, the “dog.”
All the aforementioned are females (except the tadpoles and me who are of no discernable gender) and each possessed of far greater social and sentimental stature within our tribe than their adult caregivers. (Egyptian pharaohs had less elaborate funerals than those routinely conducted by our daughters for an expired goldfish.)
Don’t get me wrong; I like dogs. What’s more, most dogs like me – no doubt because at some fundamental level, I’m made of meat. Even so, I have been accused throughout this ordeal of not being a “dog person.”
I disagree. Wet nose and floppy ears notwithstanding, I am a dog person. I nonetheless feel compelled to help my misinformed family understand that Taffy is not a dog – or at least no mutation of the species I’ve ever encountered – as she simply does not meet the classic definition of “dog.”
The mere ability to bark and growl is not sufficient proof of one’s dog-ness, as our neighbor’s cat does both. Authentic dogs live idyllic existences of unfettered leisure. They spend their days sleeping, eating, chasing the occasional stick, offering a perfunctory “woof” as the ice cream truck drives off with the neighbor’s kid. What’s more, they’re known to be brave, resilient, and of rollicking good humor. (See “Lassie,” “Rin Tin Tin,” “Scooby Doo.”)
Taffy is nothing like this. Pampered, spoiled, and aloof, she despises getting wet, refusing to go outside in the rain. She spends her days comatose on one of the girls’ beds, or preening herself on the back of the couch as she gazes sleepily out the window, no doubt plotting her escape from captivity.
At night she shakes off the fatigue from her day to prowl the dark recess of our neighborhood, skulking around corners, twitching nervously at every sound, and poking about in the shrubbery. If the veterinarian hadn’t convinced us otherwise, I might have believed she was a large house cat, Paris Hilton, or a US Congressman.
Clinically speaking, Taffy is a Yorkie-Poo, an apparent eponymous appellation based on the breed’s ability to detect the intoxicating aroma of other creatures’ filth from miles away, and likewise their insatiable appetite for the stuff.
Scientists say a dog’s nose is 10,000 times more powerful than a human’s, which explains why Taffy’s primary skill appears to be sniffing. According to my wife, just because she is wont to spend half an hour walking in circles searching for a worthy patch of earth to defile with excrement* is no reason to consider her unusual. (*Unless she’s indoors in which case any old Persian rug will do.)
Of course owning a dog does have certain advantages. Not only are my toes always clean, but in terms of home security, a dog has no equal.
Her keen senses ever tuned to the many dangers which threaten our safety, we have come to depend on Taffy to warn us of squirrels trespassing in our yard, robins lurking in the garden – that the guinea pig is awake, or the goldfish swimming – along with countless other admonitions vital to the well being of our family.
She’s also been a terrific learning experience for the girls. Not only has caring for Taffy taught them responsibility, but owing to their gratitude for finally getting a “dog” (and recent news reports of a nearby cougar siting), I no longer need threaten to smear Taffy with bacon grease and chain her out back at night to get them to behave.
Our experiment with dog ownership is a work in progress. And although I don’t consider Taffy a “dog” in the strict sense of the word, I am learning to accept her. For the benefit of the kids, I’ve even been teaching her a few simple commands like “heel,” “sit,” “baa like a lamb,” and “taste like chicken.” It seems she gets a little better (and more plump and juicy) every day
The dog, or canis lupus familiaris (Latin for large, eating, pooping machine which, if properly provoked, can bite off your leg) is a domesticated subspecies of the Gray Wolf. As such, a true “dog” cannot be carried around in one’s coat pocket, nor shuttled about the house in a baby carriage. A “dog” doesn’t go to the beauty parlor. Nor does a “dog” deserve equal privilege when it comes to familial membership or affairs of state. (“Who should we vote for?” “Let’s ask the dog!”)
The acquisition of our “dog” was the result of my nine-year-old’s insistence that if she didn’t get one, she would run away to join the circus. I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, wished her good luck growing a beard, and sent her on her way.
My wife, on the other hand, is one of those sensitive, nurturing types who actually cares what the children think. As a result, our house is now home not only to four humans, but two hamsters, two parakeets, several fish, a few tadpoles, a guinea pig (the other white meat), and Taffy, the “dog.”
All the aforementioned are females (except the tadpoles and me who are of no discernable gender) and each possessed of far greater social and sentimental stature within our tribe than their adult caregivers. (Egyptian pharaohs had less elaborate funerals than those routinely conducted by our daughters for an expired goldfish.)
Don’t get me wrong; I like dogs. What’s more, most dogs like me – no doubt because at some fundamental level, I’m made of meat. Even so, I have been accused throughout this ordeal of not being a “dog person.”
I disagree. Wet nose and floppy ears notwithstanding, I am a dog person. I nonetheless feel compelled to help my misinformed family understand that Taffy is not a dog – or at least no mutation of the species I’ve ever encountered – as she simply does not meet the classic definition of “dog.”
The mere ability to bark and growl is not sufficient proof of one’s dog-ness, as our neighbor’s cat does both. Authentic dogs live idyllic existences of unfettered leisure. They spend their days sleeping, eating, chasing the occasional stick, offering a perfunctory “woof” as the ice cream truck drives off with the neighbor’s kid. What’s more, they’re known to be brave, resilient, and of rollicking good humor. (See “Lassie,” “Rin Tin Tin,” “Scooby Doo.”)
Taffy is nothing like this. Pampered, spoiled, and aloof, she despises getting wet, refusing to go outside in the rain. She spends her days comatose on one of the girls’ beds, or preening herself on the back of the couch as she gazes sleepily out the window, no doubt plotting her escape from captivity.
At night she shakes off the fatigue from her day to prowl the dark recess of our neighborhood, skulking around corners, twitching nervously at every sound, and poking about in the shrubbery. If the veterinarian hadn’t convinced us otherwise, I might have believed she was a large house cat, Paris Hilton, or a US Congressman.
Clinically speaking, Taffy is a Yorkie-Poo, an apparent eponymous appellation based on the breed’s ability to detect the intoxicating aroma of other creatures’ filth from miles away, and likewise their insatiable appetite for the stuff.
Scientists say a dog’s nose is 10,000 times more powerful than a human’s, which explains why Taffy’s primary skill appears to be sniffing. According to my wife, just because she is wont to spend half an hour walking in circles searching for a worthy patch of earth to defile with excrement* is no reason to consider her unusual. (*Unless she’s indoors in which case any old Persian rug will do.)
Of course owning a dog does have certain advantages. Not only are my toes always clean, but in terms of home security, a dog has no equal.
Her keen senses ever tuned to the many dangers which threaten our safety, we have come to depend on Taffy to warn us of squirrels trespassing in our yard, robins lurking in the garden – that the guinea pig is awake, or the goldfish swimming – along with countless other admonitions vital to the well being of our family.
She’s also been a terrific learning experience for the girls. Not only has caring for Taffy taught them responsibility, but owing to their gratitude for finally getting a “dog” (and recent news reports of a nearby cougar siting), I no longer need threaten to smear Taffy with bacon grease and chain her out back at night to get them to behave.
Our experiment with dog ownership is a work in progress. And although I don’t consider Taffy a “dog” in the strict sense of the word, I am learning to accept her. For the benefit of the kids, I’ve even been teaching her a few simple commands like “heel,” “sit,” “baa like a lamb,” and “taste like chicken.” It seems she gets a little better (and more plump and juicy) every day
