I Love You But I Don’t Love Your Dogs
They’re All Out To Get Me!
I don’t hate dogs. Truly, I don’t. I just don’t trust them.
I assume that any pooch I encounter intends to tear chunks from my leg. When I see a dog being walked, I discreetly cross the street. Sometimes this is not possible and I tremble as Fido barks insanely and strains at his leash.
“He won’t bite you,” says Fido’s owner. You know this for a fact? Has Fido given you a signed affidavit? Dogs were once wolves, and the killer instinct never goes away, not even in Poopadoodles, Goldenrods, or other cutesy Frankendogs.
Social obligations, unfortunately, require visits to friends and family members, who all have dogs. Well, one or two have cats, but as long as you don’t annoy a cat, she won’t scratch your eye out. Dogs do not wait to be annoyed.
The terror begins as I ring the bell and hear crazed barking and Rex thundering toward the door. My host opens the door, and Rex, berserk, tries to get at me. “Stay!” my host commands.
This is as effective as telling a tornado “Stop spinning!” I edge through the partially open door and as soon as I’m halfway through, Rex is upon me with a mighty leap. “Get down, Rex!” my host commands. This is as effective as telling the rain “Go back up!”
Rex keeps leaping on me as I make my way into the house. “He just wants attention,” my host assures me. If he wants attention, why doesn’t he tap my leg politely with a paw? Rex doesn’t act like he wants attention; he acts like he wants to tear my face off.
This is usually not true, of course. Rex probably wants to lick me (and draw blood as his claws rake my chest). But I can’t be sure. Eventually, I make my way to the sofa. Rex is delighted because now he has less distance from the floor to my face. “Get down, Rex!” my host keeps commanding, uselessly.
If Rex is feeling playful, he’ll spring onto the sofa and trample on my delicate parts. With luck, Rex will tire of assaulting me and take a nap. Without luck, my host has to lock Rex up in his crate. “What? Did I do something?” Rex whimpers for the next hour or so.
A host who is a friend or family member will at least try to rescue me. A host who is neither of the above will not. Some years ago I was at the million-dollar Scottsdale AZ spread of a friend’s cousin, who kept four Great Danes. The cousin assumed we would love their company.
As we dined, they circled the table like direwolves circling prey. The cousin seemed unaware that this might make his guests uncomfortable. Then a guest cried out “He bit me!”
The cousin’s expression seemed to say “And your point is …?” When I left the house, I kept expecting these hounds of hell to come bounding after me, while the cousin cried “Kill! Kill!”
Okay, you say, Rex and the Great Danes were big dogs. But what about adorable puppies? Same torment in miniature. Like Rex, Little Fifi commences leaping up on me as I open the door.
Of course, Little Fifi can’t leap very high, but she’s more energetic — “hysterical” might be a better word — so her paws keep ravaging my kneecaps.
I bend down to pet Little Fifi, but being in a frenzy of adoration, she does not stop flinging herself at me long enough to be petted. When I am seated, Little Fifi tears around the room in circles, like one possessed. Her route takes her up and over chairs and sofas, and my poor lap keeps getting pummeled.
If I’m holding a plate of hors-d’oeuvres and/or a beverage I have to carefully time Little Fifi’s demonic circumnavigations and lift my food out of the way. The snacks cannot be put down on the cocktail table because Little Fifi will devour them. And then throw up.
And I haven’t even mentioned the unaccompanied and unleashed dogs who tear ass after you, teeth bared, as you pass by, the dogs who chase your car, the dogs who bark and howl incessantly in the backyard (“Oh,” the owner sweetly says when you complain, “She likes to bark.”)
Again, I do not hate Rex or Fifi (the Great Danes yes). But if you invite me over, maybe you’ll keep Rex or Fifi crated while I’m there. Or maybe train Rex or Fifi to behave. Oddly, doggie owners never seem to think of that.
