The Last Dog I'll Ever Own

To tell you about the last dog I'll ever own, I must first back up a bit...

Once upon a time, I adopted our first dog (as an adult pet-owner) for Jennifer. Charlie was kind of a nightmare. He was sweet enough, but he'd been abused and neglected, and he was a terribly fearful dog. He barked at EVERYTHING. He was even deathly afraid of Brian, in spite of our best efforts to hug him and treat him like the pack leader in front of Charlie.

Here's Charlie, looking the happiest I ever saw him. We were camping at Carpinteria, where he was actually more relaxed and cheerful than at any other time in his life. At his very best he looked, well, not suicidal... and he HATED cameras. I think it was a fear of the flash, which, like many things, terrified him. Every time I brought out a camera, he'd slink away and hide.

His allergies (and perhaps phobias) caused him to lick his paws until they bled. This led to my ever-patient husband's incredulous cry: "Are dogs even evolved enough to have freakin' allergies????"

Mercifully, Charlie didn't last long with us. After only a couple of years, he developed several serious health problems that caused my vet to surprisingly recommend against tossing my whole wallet to him (more on that later). We petted Charlie as he drifted off to sleep at the vet's office, and we assured Jennifer that they would bury him at Pelican Hill (see my blog, "Parenting and Pets", for more on Pelican Hill).

Not long after that, I'm not sure what came over me. It may have been Becky and Jennifer begging for another dog. It might have been the niggling feeling that I could have done better with Charlie. After all, I was by now a Cesar Millan Dog Whisperer aficionado. We are avid fans. We even took a homeschool field trip to Cesar's Dog Psychology Center, where we hung out and talked shop. He comforted me by agreeing that a fearful dog is the very hardest to rehabilitate...

So I knew the drill - that any dog, given exercise, discipline, and affection (in that order), can become a balanced dog.

Maybe it was hormones or a brief bout of insanity. But for whatever reason, we found ourselves at the Long Beach animal shelter on Valentines Day of 2009, adopting another dog. Brian came along with us. In fact, he drove the car. And paid. To this day, we still argue about this. He claims he was overruled by the three of us. That against his express wishes, we insisted on bringing this dog home. I can't imagine this being the whole truth. Although I suppose the persuasive power of three women against one man must be overwhelming. After reading my first draft of this, Brian says we told him we were taking him for a "Valentine surprise". When he realized we were headed for a shelter (which ended up being TWO shelters), he says he tried to turn around but we all whined and cried until he gave in. And we told him we weren't going home until he picked the one he liked best. His version actually seems legit.

Nevertheless, the deed was done, and we adopted a dog who had beautiful green eyes, wasn't afraid of Brian, and played happily with us in the play yard -- as opposed to other rescue dogs who would just slink around the prison yard suspiciously and pee in every corner.

When we had him vet checked and neutered, they diagnosed kennel cough, so they wouldn't let us take him home until he had been on antibiotics for a week or so, as I recall. That should have been my opportunity to sprint for the chicken exit. But no...

This is one of the first pictures I posted of him on Facebook when he finally came home:

The caption reads: You'd never know by looking at this picture that he has peed all over my living room! Jennifer says he has "Harborlites Green" eyes!

The girls wanted him to have a name from literature. After some discussion, we settled on Bingley, after Mr. Bingley of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. After all, he was a most jolly fellow, always cheerful and completely unspoiled by his wealthy surroundings. I recently posted a picture of him next to his namesake - you can see the resemblance:

I found this picture from April - just two short months after we got him.  The caption reads:  Winking at me because he has a stinkin' eye infection. Why did I get a dog, again?...

As I'm writing this, I'd completely forgotten about that extra vet trip...

Shortly after this, I think, is when Bingley was being walked around at our homeschool park day by one of the young boys, who proclaimed, upon returning him, that he had "swallowed a whole bird skull".  Awesome.

That night, the explosive barfing and pooping started - fluids shooting out of every end.  He was sooooo sick. And in between vomiting and spraying diarrhea, he'd stretch carefully and miserably, as though trying to stretch his abdomen out. I could just picture that little bird beak perforating his intestines as it worked its way through the digestive system.

So in the morning, I took him to the vet. They rushed him to the back room, and then the vet came back and informed me that they'd like to do a CT scan, and ultrasound, IV fluids and antibiotics, and keep him overnight. In short, it would run me about $650 just to find out what was wrong with him.

At this time in our lives, we were living on one very modest income. I was homeschooling Jennifer, and we did NOT have an emergency fund for things like this. Plus, we have a family rule that any trip over $300 to the vet is a one-way trip. I've negotiated extra a time or two, but it's a good rule.

I have never thought of this dog as a "fur child" or treasured family member. So I looked that vet right in the eye and said, "Just put him to sleep. I can't afford this, and I don't want him to suffer."

What happened next was the most surprising and appalling thing ever. And I'm passing this information along to all of you who think your vet is your pet's best friend. Never forget that this is BIG BUSINESS. The vet looked at me and said, "Well, hold on a minute. Let me see what I can do to help you." He disappeared into the back room for an eternity -- JUST LIKE A FREAKIN' CAR SALESMAN going to see his manager.  He came back after a long time with a neatly listed menu of options, in order of importance and starting with lowest cost. The list included something like these options:

1. Stop the spewage (I could do this at home, making sure he didn't keep eating his own vomit, which had apparently happened all night and was causing some of the problem. Dogs are awesome).

2. Guard against dehydration (he said I could do this at home, checking him for symptoms and giving him subcutaneous injections of fluids they'd send me home with).

3. IF that didn't work, take x-ray (which would only be about fifty bucks).

4. If x-ray is inconclusive, proceed to all the butt-expensive stuff he tried to sell me in the first place.

The kicker? All this, he said, could wait 24 hours. In short, if I paid the $65 they wanted just for walking in the door, I could leave and take my chances with Bingley at home. If he wasn't any better in 24 hours, we could start the fluids and move progressively onto the big ticket items.

Sooooo, in short, if the vet knows you're not some animal-worshiping sucker who is going to throw your whole wallet at them when you rush in, you'll receive excellent, appropriate care for your pet, at a reasonable price. This has borne itself out in every interaction I've had with vets since. I'm onto them, and they know it.

Anyway, I took Bingley home and together we hunkered down in a sleeping bag on the living room floor for the night. He slept inside it, at the bottom, and every couple of hours, he'd shakily crawl out, drink some of the water I'd left nearby for him, then dive back to the warmth at my feet.

By the next morning, it was obvious he was going to pull through. Glory be. Total cost: $65 and a whole lot of stress and cleaning products.

This dog has energy. Boundless energy. In true Dog Whisperer fashion, I faithfully walk him at least 2.5 miles every day, while he wears a backpack that's loaded with sand-filled water bottles. This, according to Cesar, doubles his workout. When we get home and I take off the backpack, he still zips around the house as though he just woke up -- like Superman, relieved of kryptonite. I cannot imagine what a spazz this dog would be if I didn't give him this much exercise.  Here he is wearing his backpack and his usual crazed facial expression:

He's also, incidentally, wearing the little blanket we made for him. He used to get cold, being short-haired and a total freak. I simply REFUSE to put clothes on my dog. I find it degrading for canines to walk around wearing tutus and hoodies. So, Brian created a sort of horse blanket from fleece. My friend Danae, seeing this picture on Facebook, hilariously proclaimed him "Dobby the House Elf", and I realized we'd picked the wrong name for him. Here's a picture of his Dobby look:

Our best guess is that he's a miniature pinscher mixed with dachshund. And, as a little dog, he's a strong-willed little jerk. I do NOT, however, allow him to ACT like a jerk. So many owners of small dogs let them snarl and lunge at the leash and bark at other dogs and bite kids. Not my dog. I'm all over him like a drill sergeant to be a good citizen. From the first, I took him just about everywhere with us, and I made sure that he knew how to act in public.

Here he is with my grand-niece, Lola, with whom he is a completely different dog. Totally calm and sweet. Mostly. I never turn my back on him, though...

I call Bingley my "overnight success that took three-and-a-half years". Slowly, so slowly I hardly noticed it, he's become reluctantly compliant to almost my every command. We've gone from needing a muzzle and two assistants to clip his claws -- as he struggled frantically, red-eyed, smacking his muzzle against my arm in an effort to kill me -- to a nervously tense but unmuzzled, submissive dog who'll lie stiffly while I clip his claws, unaided. He just waits for that treat.

I have never seen an animal more driven by the quest for food. He will eat ANYTHING he can swallow.  He doesn't chew things so much anymore. But any food left within his reach is doomed. Including veggies and fruit. And don't get me started on cat poop ("kitty roca") and cat barf. This is why he sleeps in the garage, in a cozy blanket-filled crate. I've spent too many nights and mornings being awakened by his barfing/diarrhea bouts, having to mop up the results of something evil he ate. And if I give him any treat, he acts like a crack addict for the rest of the day, waiting anxiously for his next fix.

Once, for reasons we won't go into here, Brian left a full cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips on our bed. Bingley waited til his back was turned and devoured the entire cup of chocolate AND all of Brian's cookies. Now, as you may know, chocolate is toxic to dogs. Not wanting to spend money on an emergency vet trip (because of course, this happened on a Sunday night), I called the vet. After giving his weight and the amount of chocolate he'd eaten, they recommended I bring him in. I Googled how to induce vomiting in a dog. It suggested using hydrogen peroxide. But, the website warned, there is a risk that the dog will aspirate his vomit and die. I resignedly told Brian this and that we were on our way to the garage to give it a whirl. He replied, "JUST TAKE HIM TO THE F*****G VET."

The vet whisked him "backstage", then returned after a few minutes and told me that they recommended inducing vomiting. However, they warned me, there was a risk that he'd aspirate his vomit and die. Soooo, I coulda just done it at home. For free. Well, at least now somebody else would clean it up.  So, 135-bucks-and-no-dessert-for-Brian later, Bingley came home with an empty stomach. I declined the vet's sweet offer to keep him overnight "for observation".

I think it was shortly after this that I began referring to him as "the last dog I'll ever own." Wait, no. Maybe it was after he ate the crotch out of my favorite pair of panties. Or when he smeared blood all over our cream colored carpet when Jennifer was playing with him using a laser light and he apparently bit his own tongue.

And no one told me about a special problem that little dogs have. Delicately put, his butt leaks. Apparently, small dogs need to have their anal glands periodically "expressed". On the rare occasions when Bingley finally relaxes -- usually while lying on my bed -- this horrendous, fishy smelling brown liquid leaks out of his butt. It's horrifying. Again, we are not a family that has a budget for dog grooming. And I'll be darned if I'll squeeze his bottom for him. I'm told that there are people eager to do this at the pet store, for just a few bucks. But so far, I haven't caved in to the hassle or expense of having this done.

My sister Diana, who is a lifetime dog owner and lover, has said, after watching Bingley with me, "It's like he constantly challenges you." She assures me that it's not DOGS I don't like. It's just that I have had the perfect storm of two dogs in a row that were a complete pain in the butt. She might be right. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have gotten a great big, couch potato of a dog. A dog who has energy equal to or lesser than mine (which is what Cesar recommends, I learned too late). A dog who's happy to obey me, instead of reluctantly waiting for his chance to wreak havoc when my back is turned. People ask me about Bingley's backpack when we're out walking. "That backpack," I tell them, "is the only thing standing between him and total world domination." And it's really true.  He'll definitely survive the apocalypse. Most likely by killing and eating us, his caregivers.

For now, though, the last dog I'll ever own bides his time, pretending to be "calm-submissive". He watches the Dog Whisperer too, so he knows how to play the game -- for now. But he doesn't have me fooled. Not one bit.