Going to the Dogs

After all the seriousness of the last few weeks, I decided a little levity was in order. I hope reading this blog does you as much good as writing it did for me.

In August of this year, our fourteen year old Labrador, who had been suffering with respiratory problems for many months, had to be put down. Losing her was traumatic for all of us as we had always thought of Maggie as a person and Maggie certainly considered herself to be one. After her death, her “daddy” (my brother-in-law Billy C Farlow) was inconsolable, or at least he was until this past week when he appeared in the yard with a two month old black Lab in tow. He promptly christened her Pollyanna. We were a family again.

As “Aunt” Penne, my role is similar to that of a fairy godmother. It is my job to indulge children, grandchildren, and pets and provide rewards and pleasures of all description. Since the Farlow house is less than a football field from mine, little Polly shows up at my door every morning for her daily treat. She has not yet learned to respond to commands, so my hands are bloody from gesturing for her to sit and fending off her razor sharp teeth and claws, and my clothes are beginning to resemble those of a bag lady.

Energetic and enthusiastic to a fault, little Polly runs, leaps, grabs, tears, chews, and in short, destroys everything in her path (inside and out) until she falls exhausted into her box.

Yesterday, my sister called me to say she and Billy C felt like Abraham and Sarah, far too old to have a baby. Billy C added that he felt like Abraham in Romper Room. I was very glad that I was only Aunt Penne, but still my responsibilities regarding the training of little Polly weighed heavily on my shoulders.

Today I found out that we are going to the dogs. Desperate for more effective training measures, my sister has discovered that we are not communicating our intentions to Polly in the proper manner. In short, we have been using the wrong language. I will skip the part where Billy C has been giving her commands in French –he apparently is enamored of having a bilingual dog—while my sister and I have been speaking to her in English. It appears that both these languages are wrong.

When Polly, in her exuberance, sinks her teeth into my hand, I am to yip like a puppy and withdraw the pleasure of my company (easier said than done), leaving her (ideally) puzzled and alone. I have serious doubts about this method as I cannot imagine her being at all distraught by my absence as she has the attention span of a teacup. However, I can certainly manage a loud yip, and I can attempt to remove myself from her presence if I am able to extricate my hand. A loud yip is what I tend to utter when my hand is being ripped off and the impulse to run away is an automatic response.

Furthermore, my sister told that the next step in conveying my displeasure to little Polly when she has a death grip on my favorite shawl or the hem of my skirt is to growl. Now that seems to me to be going a bit far. I am willing to yip, but to growl? Seriously?

I can just see myself yipping and growling and eventually walking on all fours while Polly continues to wreak havoc on everything in sight. I think I will be forced to refuse if I am asked to walk on all fours or to sample puppy chow.  Even a fairy godmother has to draw the line somewhere. 

---Penne J. Laubenthal

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