Tinkerbell or Jezebel

Our dog is dumb. It’s a sad fact. Don’t get me wrong, I love her. But she’s dense.

Our first Lab was an alpha female field Lab—the most stubborn animal ever created (once she got angry at me and peed on my feet to assert her dominance), but she was smart. Okay, maybe not so smart because after the peeing incident, I got angry and made her spend the rest of the day outside. But she knew who and what was a threat.  She had four levels of intruder alert.

Level One, nothing. Not a threat, no barking.

Level Two, intruder nearing our property, possible security violation. Initiate rumbling growl.

Level Three, intruder has crossed the threshold of our territory and doesn’t appear to be bringing us a package. Begin deep, threatening bark.

Level Four, intruder is trying to come into the house without proper authorization from the master (or the woman who thinks she’s the alpha female).  Let loose with I-eat-human-flesh-for-breakfast-because-I-am-a-creature-from-the-pit-of-nightmares.

Perfect. This is what an intelligent dog does.

Our current black Lab has no idea.

In all fairness to her, she’s not a heavy barker. And she doesn’t bark because she’s bored. She barks because she feels it’s her duty to protect us. And I understand how she can be confused about the Pomeranian who sometimes prances past the house. Is it a dog? Or a cat with pretentions? Or a rat who’s poorly disguised?

And I understand that she’s got to let the Dobermans know when they’ve violated her turf. (They’re nice dogs who escape their yard on a regular basis and come to visit me. I pet them and wait until their owner noticed they're gone.)

But no matter how many times I tell the dog that the little old lady across the street with a walker is NOT a threat, she still has to bark like she’s a fiend from Hades. And the toddler holding his mother’s hand—he’s NOT going to come and steal the dog food.

On the other hand, I appreciate knowing when the UPS truck arrives. But I knew he was a afraid of the dog because he'd just slide the package onto the porch and hightail it back to his truck. Once time I caught him as he was making a delivery. I told him, “Really, she’s a nice dog. Her name is Jezebel.” He gave me a fake smile and backed away. Slowly. Now he just throws the package at our door from the sidewalk. 

Hmm. Maybe we should name our next dog Tinkerbell.

Here's Jez.

Yuck.

This morning I went to get our dog Jezebel and give her breakfast. (She sleeps in the boys’ bedroom.) When I opened the door, I was assaulted by a horrid smell—though “horrid” barely scratches the surface of humidity + closed doors + really sick dog. I have no doubt Jez tried to wake the boys up when she knew she was getting sick. But they’re 16 and 18—and nothing wakes them. I’m convinced a mariachi band playing in the center of their room wouldn’t cause them to twitch. I’ve even found my 18 year old sitting up sound asleep because he was reading when he fell asleep and didn’t move during the intervening 8 hours.

In any case, even though my eyes were watering, I saw well enough to notice that Jez greeted me with her I’m-so-ashamed-I-wish-I-could-fix-this sad Labrador retriever eyes. I wished she could too. But she couldn’t. So I turned to the next best thing. My husband.

It was 6 am and he was already working at his desk, but I said, “Uh, the dog puked and had diarrhea during the night…” Cal stood up, gathered a trash bag, paper towels, and cleaned the floor. Then, he mopped it with bleach and soapy water. And me? Wimp that I am…I held the flashlight—though turning on the light probably would not have woken the boys from late adolescence-induced slumber—because, you know, I had to try to “help.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, Cal is working hard to get serious “good husband” points before we go to Paris. And he did. I told him so.

I’ve always said I’d rather have a husband who’d clean up vomit without complaining than one who’d make big romantic gestures. Apparently, I got both. Hmm…I wonder if he’s up for defrosting the freezer on his day-off. That’s the next nasty chore on my to-do list.

No photos today because…well, yuck.