It's a Dog's Life

I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever owned a dog before now. Sure, I’ve lived with some dogs (most of them four-legged), but so few of them displayed typical canine behavior that I’m not even sure of their true nature. Yes, there was Ginger, the persnickety poodle who snipped and growled her way through most of my adolescence--but, really, what adolescent doesn’t need a little snipping and growling? After Ginger, though, our string of family dogs displayed behavior more often associated with ganja-smoking Rastafarians than canines.

Heck, we even named one of our dogs Rasta. And she lived up to that name, her mood always mellow, her needs mostly food-related. Same goes for Hobbes, who seemed more like a tired British gentleman than an animal even remotely related to a dog.

Then along came Finn. . . . Frenetic, hopelessly devoted, funny-as-heck Finn. Finn, who growls at men and pees whenever Mark looks at him. Finn, who hops on our furniture as though it’s exercise equipment and folds his body up like a fairgrounds contortionist.

My God. Is this what it’s like to own a dog? Is it really possible that I had to go through four furry friends and turn 50 before I landed upon the quintessential “dog” experience?!

You can understand if I feel a bit resentful, like the mother of two who discovers, after her second child is born, that nothing she learned the first time applies anymore. (Hey--I’ve actually been that mother before!)

Maybe “resentful” is the wrong word, though. Maybe what I’m feeling is an odd mix of joy and bafflement. Finn’s most frustrating behaviors--his noisy, sometimes negative reaction to visitors and his free-flowing, submissive wee wee--require more parenting than I thought I’d have to give. I can deal with that. I think.

But his delightful behaviors--his devotion, his utter joy, his sparkling humor--are like magic fairy dust, smearing the edges of my rougher memories until they no longer matter anymore. This dog--who was advertised as a Wheaten Terrier (like Hobbes) but who has no more Wheaten in him than I do--this bill of goods who showed up with a kink in his tail and no way to tell us his story--has dug his too-long claws deep into our hearts.

I, for one, welcome his dogness with open arms--and a wary eye on his water-logged wee wee.