The Dog Knows

Dogs know when they look ridiculous.

When I was a teenager, my mom took our very fluffy Keeshond to the groomer for a summer shave.  The resulting look was a lion head with leg warmers.  He hid for days.

I tried many costumes on Chase.  He cheerfully wore them in the house, sheltered from the judgement of strangers.  He had a tuxedo, a wizard hat, bunny ears and red, glittery devil horns.  My vacation to Key West happened to occur during their annual Fantasy Fest.  All the glitter and gaudiness was out in full force.  I thought it was a perfect moment to debut the devil horns.  Chase allowed me to put them on his head.  He obediently followed me out the door and down the brick pathway, lined with privacy fencing to the street.  Upon reaching the street, he violently tossed his head back and forth until he was free of the horns.  Undeterred, I put them back on his head and began dragging him toward Duval Street.  Chase tossed the horns again, pressed a paw on the top to secure them in place and ripped them to shreds.  Bits of red material and white fluff littered the street.  I have never made him wear another costume.  Ever.  

"They say the smart dog obeys but the smarter dog knows when to disobey".  Amy Hempel

A Root Beer Note

Many years ago when I was in high school, my dad decided to make root beer. I’m not sure why but suspect the Amish in nearby Lancaster, Pennsylvania may have held a bit of inspiration for him. Maybe he thought he could perfect their imperfect recipe. To me, Amish root beer truly tasted like roots and I preferred the crisp, bubbly flavor of A&W root beer in a can.

Dad made his root beer and lined old fashioned brown glass bottles with the plunger tops along a section of the kitchen counter. The bottles were to remain on the counter for an undetermined amount of time in order to magically turn into soda.

Typically, my sister and I were the first members of the household to arrive home in the afternoons. Our job was to walk the dog and, at the very least, clean up whatever mess he may have made during the course of the day. Liz and I were very good about pretending not to see any mess that Drummer had created in our absence and avoided the area until after our mother arrived home. Locked in our rooms, diligently concentrating on our homework, we could hear her sarcastic comments regarding our temporary blindness as she cleaned up his gifts.

I don’t believe Drummer was a counter surfer like my dog Chase. He was a timid dog, easily startled by any loud noise. One afternoon, Liz and I returned home to find broken bits of bottle mixed with a brownish yeasty smelling liquid on the parquet floor. We eyed Drummer, who was quivering in a corner, as the most likely suspect and cleaned up the mess before my father could view the damage to his precious root beer collection. The next afternoon, we came home to the same scene. This repeated over the next few days and we couldn’t understand the dog’s fascination with root beer and realized the rapidly depleting collection of bottles would be difficult to hide from Dad if it continued. Finally, one afternoon, while watching TV, Liz and I heard several bottles explode in the kitchen. The remaining bottles had rapidly bubbling liquid that seemed angry and alive. We quickly uncapped all the bottles in order to spare the neurotic and whimpering family pet additional stress.

To our relief, Dad did not attempt to recreate or fine-tune his root beer adventure and eventually moved on to an assortment of various hobbies through the years: model ship building, soap making, needlepoint, non-exploding Amish 3-bean salad, bread making and wood working. I am pleased to report that none of his current hobbies terrorize his dog or mine.