George Carlin has said that “Life is a series of dogs.” My own life thus far has been touched by a Domino, a Scooter, a Pepsi, a Lucky, a Buster, a Suka, a Marley, and last but certainly not least, a Daisy. Each dog was certainly an individual, with unique quirks and talents ranging from disco dancing to possum wrangling.
I was originally going to write a very sad post about my first puppy—the first dog that truly belonged just to me, whose complete care was my sole responsibility. But it’s a depressing tale. Marley, the sweetest little furball of Cairn Terrier ever, died at twelve weeks of age from kidney failure.
I’ve discussed my current Cairn (Daisy…gee, isn’t that a clever name?) at length on my own blog: her tendency to bark at anything that isn’t nailed down, her hatred for certain theme music on public radio, the way she leaps as if spring-loaded, growling, in front of the television whenever an animal comes onscreen. She is a tennis ball Nazi, an all-around grump, a despiser of sneezes.
Daisy is an excellent alarm clock as well as an excellent weather station and calendar. For example, when the temperature drops below thirty degrees, she begins to use the throw rug in the back hall as her own personal toilet. (She’s not keen on being outdoors in the cold weather for too long.)
So who needs a calendar to know when to defrost the turkey and hang the lights on the tree when you have a magical defecating dog to tell you such things in a very special and personal way?
Daisy’s other hobbies include a desperate yearning to have her tummy scratched by any human being in the world, coating every surface in the house in a fine layer of blonde dog hair, stealing socks, tearing up fabric softener sheets, destuffing toys, and being a very adorable pain in the ass. Especially when she wakes me up at four in the morning with a series of teeny, tiny disgruntled “Hmmphfffs!” next to the bed. These “Hmmphffs!” are the signal for me to get out of bed to lift her highness up into bed with us. Or, sometimes she wants me to chase her around the room and play. Which is always fun, particularly when I have an important meeting at work mere hours from then and I’d only fallen asleep thirty minutes prior to her signal.
She is also an excellent writing buddy, sleeping beneath my computer chair whenever I clack away at the keys. Unfortunately, I need to alert her before I get up, as her shaggy hair has, on numerous occasions, gotten caught in the casters of my chair. Which always leads to a pleasant, low-decibal reaction.
She will only kiss boys, actually turning her head away disdainfully when I lean in for a kiss on the nose. (Cesar Milan would say she’s asserting her dominance over me.) You always love the ones that play hard to get, so of course I dote on her. She’s a clever little monster. She’s trained me well. I’m a bit worried about her reaction should we expand our family to include a non-furry two-legged little creature, but I’m hoping that should such an event occur, she will welcome the noise-making New Human Food Distribution Device with open paws.
In the meantime, Daisy will remain our only child: the spoiled, well-loved Fur Kid with the sh*t-eating grin. And oh, how I wish that were only a figure of speech.