Bitches And Bells

When my husband and I changed our life for the better, I had no clue. Natch, since having clues is not something I am known for. My gifts lie in being shrill and bitchy, and also making really good fudge. (I stole, yes, stole my mom's fudge recipe and have never repented. And I never will. Cue evil laugh.)

I'd finally talked my husband into getting a dog. Because when there is a pre-schooler, a new baby, and a slooooowly thawing turkey in your life (it was Thanksgiving weekend), of course you want to throw an incontinent six week old puppy into that mix. A co-worker's neighbor was giving away a litter of half German Shepherd, half Border Collie puppies. Or, as Anthony saw it, half Awesome and half Awesomer.

So we went to the farm and picked the ball of fluffy black fur we liked best. But first we sympathized with the dog's owners. One of the owners. Apparently their German Shepherd was expensive and they'd been looking forward to breeding her for big bucks when the husband left the backyard gate open. Enter the neighbor's Border Collie, who was all, "S'up, gorgeous? How you doin'?" It was West Side Story meets Lady and the Tramp, with a side order of The Dog Whisperer. The Border Collie had his happy ending; the Shepherd and her humans, less so. That irritable bitch seemed pretty sick of her puppies when we saw her, and that was nothing compared to the wife. Because even then, half a year later, his wife was still mega-pissed that their breeding plot had been co-opted by a canine lothario. Strangers who only wanted to get a dog were able to pick up on this. Strangers. So: that poor man! Also: grab that puppy and let's get the hell out of here.

Was she gorgeous? Natch. Turquoise as an eight week old puppy was a ball of fluffy black fur, with big dark eyes and enormous ears: she looked like she had a pair of fuzzy black sails on top of her head. In time she would grow to be the size of her German Shepherd mother and would also inherit the pointed muzzle, the big eyes, the sharp white teeth, the fierce bark. She would come to be a scary-ass looking/sounding dog who was incapable of hurting anyone.

That was all in the future, though; our current focus was discouraging her love of shitting anywhere that was indoors and carpeted. We had an early warning system whenever she had done this; at the end of the day, cue my husband's breezy, "Hey, guys, I'm ho—aaaiiiggghhh!"

Smart? I'd never known a brighter dog. My husband had the idea of hanging a bell from the door we would open to let her into the back yard. Not even seventy-two hours later, Turquoise had made the connection between 'ding-ding!' and 'now I must poop outside'. Sure, there were accidents and positive reinforcement took time, but she moved in Thanksgiving weekend, and by Sunday was nosing the bell to go out. I was giving serious thought to hanging bells on the shovel: soon my husband would equate 'ding-ding!' with a neatly shoveled driveway. It worked! Fast-forward a decade, you don't even want to know where I'm hanging bells...

Sweet? You've never met a dog with a sweeter nature. Which was hilarious because she looked and sounded like she could leap upon you ("Rrroowwwll!"), sink her teeth in your throat ("Gggggnnnnn!"), then spit out your larynx ("Ptui!"). She'd belt out fierce booming barks and fluff out her fur to make herself look bigger; it was like being confronted by a bean-bag chair with teeth. But once she established that you weren't a serial killer, or at least a serial killer who didn't have dog treats, she'd let you do whatever you wanted. She'd scare children, then apologetically follow them around. And because she was part Border Collie, she'd try to herd them. A children's party, a Slip n'Slide, and Turquoise made for a diabolical recipe. Even today, when I see a Slip n'Slide I break out in a cold sweat and then crack up. (It's why I was discouraged from shopping in Target's toy section.)

A census taker or child or vet could do anything with that dog. Our vet loved that she equated him with indignities like inoculations or heart worm tests or the like (She did not like having her temp taken. At all.) but was glad to see him anyway. In fact, our vet is the mildest of men who always has a smile for his patients, and the only time I heard him even raise his voice was over Turq. He was doing a blood draw, but when the needle went in his assistant's grip on the dog slipped. Turq didn't take the chance to pull away or snap or growl; she stayed put but made a sort of whimpering desolate cry that got to everyone in the room: the doctor grated, "I said. To. Hold her." Mental note: do not hurt animals when this guy's in the room.

Which brings me to our son, our pack, and the things Turq let him get away with. Maternal? This dog made the Octo-Mom come off as a sociopath. (That might be the wrong example.) Dogs see their humans as their pack, with a strict hierarchy, like on The Office. There was AM (Alpha Male), AF (one guess), and everyone else. Liam was six months old when we brought Turq home, so in her mind he wasn't my baby, he was The Pack's puppy. And when my son was learning to walk, I'd come in and see he was keeping his balance by gripping the couch cushion while standing on Turq's back. Or neck. And possibly sometimes her head. But never a growl, never even a whimper. Just what I took to be long-suffering good humor, as if to say, "Oh, there you are, AF. Nice of you to remember you're one of the parents around here. Say, not to change the subject but have you noticed the big fat white hairless puppy standing on my head? Because I have. FYI, I thought he was your standard fat white quadruped, but it looks like he's going biped. I guess it's a lifestyle choice. Anyway, glad you're back. Finally."

It took me years (Years; I am not the brains of this outfit.) to notice she followed us upstairs every night when it was my son's bedtime. My daughter, who loves all things canine including non-fiction tomes on same, explained: in Turq's mind I was the alpha female. The AF bangs the alpha male and pops out the puppies; the beta female guards the AF while she nurses the pups. When the AF finally gets off her fat ass and gets back to bringing home the bacon, the beta female basically runs the canine daycare. Which brings me to...

Protective? Bet your ass. Even a big sweetheart like Turq would occasionally be moved to do some ass-kicking on her puppy's behalf. One of our fave places to bring her was a dog park twenty minutes down the road. No leashes, and a field and woods to run through. Liam was a pre-schooler by then, and because it was winter he was doing his impersonation of a short Michelin Man. Remember that scene in A Christmas Story? Not the "you'll shoot your eye out" scene, the one where the little brother is so layered with snow pants and scarves he can't put his arms down? Like that.

Anyway, one of the dogs got a little aggressive and knocked Liam down and, more startled than hurt (he bounced like Silly Putty), he burst into tears. Which sealed the other dog's fate: Turquoise did the canine equivalent of "oh no she dih unt!" and took off like a streak of hairy black lightning: ears flat. Muzzle pulled back, exposing big white teeth. Totally focused on her target; we could read her intentions, and also her mind: "Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" The offender was bowled over so hard, snow flew like shrapnel; he picked himself up and fled. I think he's still fleeing; we never saw that dog again. And the other dogs gave off "holy crap, don't mess with that bitch's fat white hairless biped puppy!" vibes; nobody messed with Liam again, or got in Turq's way.

Turq was bad at physics, and acting her age: even at the end of her life she'd frisk around like a puppy. (An example: the weekend before she died she spent at our cabin up north, playing submarine in the snow.) So a few years ago, we started thinking we should get another dog so she'd have some companionship. Or, as we now think Turq saw it, "I've done something horrible. I can't remember what it was, but it was pretty damned awful because now this annoying thing is living in my house."

Pearl joined us four years ago and brought all the enthusiasm a new puppy tends to bring. Annoyed at first, Turq tolerated IB (Interloping Bitch) and eventually grew fond of her, though she had some stern questions for us, so to speak. "Really? What, you guys thought having a dog who poops outside got boring? It's too quiet around here what with the warm house, steady meals, and calmly joyful interactions? So you bring in a new bitch? And I didn't get a vote why, exactly? Hey, you know what? Maybe I'll start pooping in the house without consulting you about it. See how you like it. Tables are turned, bitches! I hate you. Oh, fine, I love you again. But don't be having any more of these so-called 'family meetings' unless the whole family's there! You people!"

Pearl misses Turq, of course, and I think it might be worse for her than us; we at least know what happened. And she is a great comfort to us; the kids (including my husband, ahem) are letting her get away with stuff that they should not. (They think I haven't noticed our couch suddenly has an all-black fur coat. As if someone with black fur was on it. A lot.) And we'll probably get another dog in time, to keep Pearl company if for no other reason. But for now we're indulging the dog we've got left, and remembering "Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" and bells and dear friends who are gone but never, never forgotten.