For Love of a Dog

During break time at obedience school, one dog said to the other:  "The thing I hate about obedience school is you learn ALL this stuff you will never use in the real world."

Chaim, Nati and Percy sharing a pillow

My three chihuahuas failed obedience school. My mother claims I have a special talent for picking out stupid dogs. Chaim, Percy and Nati are cute and loving, but they will never bring me my slippers or learn how to use the doggie door. I’ve given up trying to potty train them. I just make sure they go out often. My preferred method is to keep the door open at all times. I know if I’m not diligent about it, they’ll just go where it’s most convenient, which sadly most often is the living room.

Chaim and Nati on a walk

I love my dogs. I know I’ve repeatedly claimed to hate them and have offered them numerous time for sale with the added bonus of a free food bag. Altogether, in the grand scheme of things, I am very fond of my dogs. I think they’re atrociously cute. And there are actually long periods of time in which they do not pee or poo in the house, and wonderfully delicious nights when they sleep quietly all the way till morning without requiring that I get up to let them out. So most of the time I tend to have warm fuzzy feelings for my dogs.

There are many reasons why I love my dogs. They are cute and pathetic-looking. My heart melts when they stare at me with those lovelorn eyes and beg to be petted or fed. I feel good about having taken them from the shelter -- I’m their rescuer, and they certainly treat me like that. Aldous Huxley said: "To his dog, every man is Napoleon; hence the constant popularity of dogs." And that is true for women as well. I’m the pack leader of three chihuahuas, and that makes me feel like a duchess, a queen, the goddess of their world.

Sunning themselves

When I divorced nearly seven years ago, having two dogs in the house was a comfort. I felt safe knowing that they would bark and scare away unwanted visitors. The house felt less empty when the kids were away with their dad, but the dogs were always there, ready to welcome me home with licks and barks and tail wags. Dogs are nice to talk to. I can tell them anything, and they will still love me. As Christopher Morley said: "No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does." And my dogs look at me when I speak to them as though I’m the incarnation of Cicero, Winston Churchill, or Charles de Gaulle.

I cannot end better than with the words of Edith Wharton who said: My little dog -- a heartbeat at my feet." My chihuahuas and their beady adoring eyes -- what can I say, I’m a sucker for anyone who looks so sweet.

I found the doggie quotes and jokes at these two sites. Dog proverbs and Fun Dog Quotes.

Chain Control

El Capitan under the clouds

The night before Dar and I were to leave for Yosemite was a dark and stormy night. Well, dark except for the flashes of lightening which slashed the cloudy sky, illuminating the trembling white faces of the oak trees in our yard. At five a.m., as rain fell violently from the heavens, the three chihuahuas decided it was time for a bathroom break. They were willing to relieve themselves in the living room, but I felt strongly against, and so we all went outside.

As we came back in, unrelieved but wet, my phone chimed. A text message. “It’s really stormy out there,” my friend wrote. “Maybe postpone?” I was touched. She has two teenagers to worry about, and yet she thinks about me in the middle of the night! I texted her to go back to sleep. We’re planning to leave at noon. Let’s see then.

We left at noon. The sun shone feebly through massive clouds. A dramatic sky stretched before us as we made our way to Toyota to buy the extremely difficult to find snow chains for my car. Dar watched the movie explaining how to use the chains. Just in case, I watched from over his shoulder. After all, better make sure he does not forget any critical detail.

Rain overtook us as we crossed the great valley. Lightening chased the thunder, like a movie playing on the cloud-shrouded horizon. Inside the car I stayed warm and carefree. As we climbed the Sierra Foothills Dar kept watch over the temperature display and the altitude. “I think we’ll be good,” he said once in a while. Of course we’ll be good! I thought to myself and petted his shoulder. We’re going to be just fine.

We stopped for gas at Oakhurst. “You need chains seven miles up the hill,” three men loitering inside the store advised us. Eight miles later Dar breathed out a sigh of relief. “I think there must have been an accident earlier,” he speculated, “and they saw cars stopped. We won’t need the cha...” and before he could finish his sentence, there was chain control before us, waving us off the road. May I just say with pride: it took my man less than five minutes to put those chains on, wearing my purple gloves!

“That was easy,” Dar commented as we began to rattle up the hill. It was certainly easy for me. I didn’t need to do a thing! And suddenly the realization hit me. I sat in the car as we drove for three hours through rain and lightening and now snow feeling utterly protected, and why? Because I trusted Dar to drive us safely to Yosemite. I trusted him to know how to put the chains on (well, I did need to remind him about putting the tensioner on the right way, but I’m sure he would have eventually figured it out). In short, I had faith in Dar to take me to Yosemite and back home safe and sound. And he did. Trust.