I have two beautiful, loving, but not-so-smart outdoor dogs. We’ve been together for quite a few years already, and those two always make sure I don’t get bored despite the season or time of the day.
One of them is a husky-malamute cross. She was the only pup in the litter and like most spoiled children she matured into a real queen. When she was growing up, gradually developing from a demanding little pup into an adventurous and dominating young adult, our yard looked like a war zone. There hardly was an area that wasn’t dug up or destroyed.
She really liked to dig to under the doghouse. One summer she dug a hole so big that she could easily fit in there. Cursing and swearing I brought a bunch of gravel over, moved the house and started filling the hole. The Saskatchewan sun was trying to melt everything it could reach, so my shades were floating down my face along with the sweat stream. I put them down to get another pail of gravel, but when I turned around (some 30 seconds later) my nice glasses looked like I borrowed them from one of the soldiers who participated in D-Day.
The other dog is a Rottweiler-great Pyrenees cross. He is a mama’s boy. He will do his best to defend me (and I wouldn’t want to see anybody try to get close when he is in a defence mode), but when we put a big piece of ice into his watering bowl and it flipped over, I thought he could make it to Weyburn, so fast he was trying to escape. And he doesn’t like thunder. Every time he hears the skies growling he tries to get away. (I’m not sure if he is trying to find a safer place than home [which is hard to even imagine considering the house set up they have] or chasing a monster attacking the universe during thunderstorms).
These two creatures are adorable and I love them to death. But every so often it seems that I make that little step and find myself hating them as much.
I try to make myself believe that they are not the problem, and it’s all about the bush behind our house. But this explanation works only for so long.
In reality, the problem is that each one of my furry babies has adrenaline addiction. Both of them had to get sedated at least seven to eight times each to have porcupine quills pulled out of their mouths, throats, chests and paws (I don’t even want to think about how many skunk-perfumes we went though already). These two belong to the “don’t learn” category of dogs. So we gave up on the hope that one day they’ll smarten up (or there will be no porcupines in the area) and built a fence. And it seemed that it was working good, but…
I love long weekends. It’s the time when either we go on trips, or we make friends hit the road. However, it seems that the dogs find the long weekend (when everybody feel like a little bit of vacationing time) the most exciting for their little adventures. Unfortunately, this past weekend wasn’t an exception.
Our friends came to visit. The forecast didn’t have any serious weather issues on for Friday night, and we were just hanging out inside. When the time came to lock the dogs for the night (we do it to make sure that they don’t run into trouble when nocturne animals head out), I stepped outside to find that the Rotti’s face was all decorated with quills.
It’s been over a year since the last emergency of this type, but it seemed that he still remembered his role. As soon as I opened the door, he sneaked into the house and headed towards the TV room. I also remembered my lines, so I went to get the pliers. He came to me with eyes saying how sorry he was, how bad the quills felt and how much he wanted me to help him. I did my best, trying to get the most bothersome ones out. But then the pain kicked in and he lost patience. After that as soon as he saw pliers approaching his neb, he would face the corner and wouldn’t let me anywhere close.
So our plans went to pot.
Saturday morning we found ourselves at the Stoughton vet clinic where we were greeted with “Just one of them this time?” The porcupine-fighter again already knew where to go and what to do.
A few hours and a three-pairs-of-nice-shoes-size of a bill later, my doped puppy was on the way home. The rest of the day he looked like he smoked a bit too much and couldn’t really figure out what was going on around him.
But as much as I wanted to be mad at him, I could only feel sorry (and make some fun of him). After all, everybody has weak points, but it doesn’t mean that we are not worth loving.
