COLUMN: It's Our Third Dog

Image by Yersinia via Flickr

By Tobin Barnes

Okay, so we got another dog.

She’s the third dog we’ve had in the last year. Actually, we’ve even got some time to go before that year is out. It’s been such a short time, my wife forgetfully calls this third dog by three different names at various times.

The other two dogs died in our care.

I think our history might be making the third dog a tad nervous.

Of course, we had nothing to do with the other two dogs’ deaths. The first one died last spring of kidney failure and old age. Alas, so it goes.

The other dog—a fun, frisky pup—died of some strange, rare disease. Again, not our fault unless unbeknownst to us, we’re host organisms of strange, rare dog diseases. Only time will tell on that one before we have definitive proof. I hope it doesn’t take too many dogs.

We loved both those dogs and hated to see them go, especially the pup, so far before its time.

The third dog’s nervousness can’t possibly come from knowing our recent history. Couldn’t have anything to do with it. Unless…unless…. Dogs do have an amazing sense of smell. Perhaps this dog smells death upon us—dog death, and she has drawn her own conclusions.

Anyway, we’re starting with an adult dog this time, as opposed to starting with puppies as before. Puppies, outrageously cute though they are, can be tough on the nerves, and they’re a colossal time drain to boot. I had documented both those difficulties in a prior column last fall.

Therefore, we decided to see if we could skip that part, as well as the so-called, dog- teenaged time, and move on to the more contemplative moods of responsible dog adulthood. So now we have an instant three-year-old dog, pre-named Molly (but sometimes known around here as Matty or Scout). And she’s everything we were looking for, except maybe that she’s a little too tense and a good ten pounds overweight.

In addition to being pre-named, Molly was pre-packaged with fat, maybe in case survival in the wilds of Alaska became an issue. We feel like we rescued her from the fat farm where she evidently got little exercise, but extensive grazing rights at an all-inclusive, well-stocked dog buffet.

So now Molly’s adjusting to life at the Barnes Boot Camp. It’s probably been like going from the penthouse to the outhouse as far as ease and calories are concerned. From her point of view, she’s lately been sorely under-fed while heartlessly over-exercised under our regime. She might even think that this is what killed the other dogs that used to live here.

Nevertheless, she seems to be a very obedient and submissive dog. Either that or she’s petrified that the end is near amongst the cruel hard-hearts here at the sweatshop.

She watches us like a hawk, and the least sudden movement on our part startles her into life-and-death preparedness like she’s trying to survive amidst rush-hour traffic.

But gradually, it’s been getting better. Hopefully, she’ll learn to trust us.

As I said, she’s exactly what we were looking for, especially when it comes to leash walking. We never did get that aspect right with our first dog, Matty. Evidently, through our bumbling efforts, we taught her to be a first-class sled dog that could pull cargo through the worst blizzard the Yukon could offer. But that kind of torque never really worked for casual walks through the park.

And leash walking our three-month-old puppy? Forget-about-it. We were still in the realm of future aspirations on that one.

With Molly, on the other hand, it is loose-leash heaven, just like out of the dog books. No tugging, no pulling, no tests of brute strength that pit brute against dog. But there’s just one thing. She always walks behind us, not beside us. And when we turn to see how she’s doing, she tucks herself around behind us again. In actuality, we don’t see much of her on the typical walk.

Perhaps that will change when Molly realizes that she just might survive here, despite all evidence to the contrary.