Wild Dog (Part II)

By TAD BARTIMUS

The puppy was curled up nose to tail, its gaunt rib cage and filthy coat mute testimony to its desperation. The sad brown eyes barely flickered when my husband said, "good girl." I leaned over her; she flinched as only an abused animal would.

When I'd arrived to pick up my husband on the last day of school he was sitting next to an overflowing trash dumpster, petting this filthy dog. And he had that look in his eye.

"No," I said, and meant it. This wild creature was not going to replace our adored Miss Mollie, for whom we'd grieved these past four years. This mutt had spent too much time living by its wits; we'd never be able to tame her. Besides, we'd already agreed to adopt another smart, beautiful, faithful, obedient Border collie.

"No!" My voice rose an octave. My husband didn't move. The stray stared. Then it wagged its tail Ð feebly, and only once -- but a definite wag.

"NO!"

I was furious -- and trapped. In fifth grade I'd made a plaque that still hung on my wall:

"If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of pity and compassion, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men."

I was sure St. Francis of Assisi had meant women, too.

Lesson No. 1: She hated water. It took both of us to give her a bath. Lesson No. 2: She could leap flat-footed through the window of a FedEx truck (and did). Every day we Ð and anybody who came to visit -- had dirty paw prints on our shirts; we learned to walk around with outstretched arms to deflect her devotion.

"NO!" was not in her vocabulary. Neither was "STAY!" "SIT!" or "BE QUIET!" The vet said she was about nine months old, an Australian-German shepherd/Heinz 57, weighed 23 pounds, had worms and mange. She barked at everything, loved riding backwards in the car and couldn't stand her own smell unless she'd rolled in cow manure.

"She's just a dog!" I wailed to my husband, after wrestling her to the tie-out stake for the fourth time that day after she'd dug up all the new plants.

"So what do you want?" he snapped back defensively.

"I want a dog with good manners and intellectual eye contact," I growled. "I've never had just a DOG-dog. I want a PEOPLE-dog."

"No you don't," he answered. "You want Mollie."

It was true. But since I couldn't have her I certainly didn't want this willful beast with Mr. Spock ears and toenails sharp enough to climb Mt. Everest. I'd lay in bed at night listening to her bark at the moon and wish her gone. Dean named her Daisy; when I spoke to her it all it was to call her "Bad Dog!" He took her on long walks; I barely condescended to feed her. When he added insult to injury by putting Miss Mollie's collar around her neck, I blew up.

"You both deserve to go to the Pound," I yelled, "and good riddance!"

Why was I being so mean? Daisy was so eager to please – not behave, mind you, just please – that she wagged her tail so hard it knocked her over. She was always – well, smiling. She tried to be a lapdog but couldn't help chewing on a wrist or a shirt cuff. One morning we woke up to find all the stuffing from the porch chairs littering the yard like snow. Smart but never humble, she pranced to her own drummer and disappeared every night to run with her pitbull and Rottweiler pals.

Unclaimed cows roam our ranching neighborhood and when we hear shots in the night we know somebody is stocking their freezer. Unfortunately, they're not fastidious about it. Daisy dragged home a different cow leg -- rotting hoof attached -- four mornings in a row. Other body parts followed. She also favored old pizza boxes and tuna cans in lieu of top-of-the-line dog food. Yelling had no effect – she just looked crestfallen that we didnÕt appreciate her gifts.

When Daisy arrived our chickens scattered in a flurry of feathers (thus taking our breakfast eggs with them), our two elderly cats refused to budge from atop the washing machine and we made countless trips to the neighbors to return soccer balls, sandals and, once, a set of car keys. But when the dead baby pig made its morning appearance even Dean gave up:

"She goes to the Humane Society Monday."

I'd won. So why did I feel so bad?

(NEXT WEEK: The conclusion of the SAGA OF THE WILD DOG?)

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