“Sit.”
“Quit.”
“Here.”
“No.”
Jonah and Riley are fighting over a tube of toothpaste.
I have realized the commands I give them are the same ones I give our dog. The commotion rouses him from his mid-morning slumber, long enough to realize he’s of no importance. He walks out of the room, probably wondering what happened to the long days of Frisbee at the park and the spontaneous bouts of affectionately scratching his underside.
I laugh. I remember how I would throw toilet paper and Kleenex on the bathroom floor to entertain him. He would tear it all to shreds. So I upgraded to socks. Textbook mistake. I now drop things on the floor to entertain Jonah and Riley while I get ready. Spatula. Basting brush. Measuring spoon. Blow dryer. Tube of toothpaste. I nonchalantly slide a tube of body lotion and diaper rash cream off the counter. Peace is temporarily restored.
I never wanted a dog, but I love my husband. So we drove to Squaw Valley and picked a pure bred Australian Shepherd out of a litter of pups. If I was getting a dog, it had to be the perfect dog. A good family dog. Matt wanted a smart one. We both wanted a female, but the pup with the best coloring (and the one that didn’t look like it was going to die) was a male. He shivered on my lap in the blankets we brought, and the man who ran the place said the pup was scared. I imagine leaving all he has ever known – his brothers and sisters, a swarm of flies, and the crap he was sitting in – was scary. On the way home, I remember Matt saying something about how dogs can get carsick too. Great.
We named him Oski. Well, Matt named him Oski after the Cal Bear mascot. He has one blue eye and one brown eye, common for this breed. Also common is to cut their tail off after birth. They are bred to be herders, and I imagine it gets in the way of herding. But I didn’t want a dog without a tail. However, no one told me his tail alone sheds enough hair to coat my sofa and clog the vacuum each week. I ask Matt if we can cut it off now. He says no.
The first week we had Oski some guy at Matt’s work opened the warehouse door on his leg. Oski limped for days. I was so distraught. I didn’t want a dog in the first place. So I definitely didn’t want a three-legged one. He recovered. He chewed up door molding, peed on the carpet, puked on me, barked a lot, and made me chase him around the living room sofa. I swear he was laughing at me. Seriously, I saw a smile. I Google Aussies:
Aussies can have a very high opinion of themselves and many have a more dominant, somewhat pushy personality; this trait, when combined with the breed's natural intelligence, may mean disaster. An Aussie with no sheep to herd, ducks to drive, or cattle to round up will get into trouble. The owner of an Aussie must be assertive enough to make sure this doesn't happen. If you hate being assertive, are very soft spoken, and want a dog that will naturally give in to you without any stress, then don't get an Aussie.
Crap.
Oski was bored, intelligent, and apparently, needed sheep. So we sent him away to boot camp for 45 days. It was a kennel in Coarsegold run by a guy named Mike, our very own Dog Whisperer. He said 45 days is long enough to change behavior but short enough so he won’t forget us. It was a very hot summer day when we returned to pick him up. Mike took us through an obstacle course on the grounds and demonstrated the new Oski. He was the same dog but obedient, attentive. Matt and I ran back and forth with him practicing, “Sit. Down. Stay.” And the best part, I pulled on his leash as if trying to get him up and he wouldn’t budge, until I said “Ok.” He heeled on command and walked at Mike’s side keeping the same pace.
Oski was hot and lapped up water from a nearby plastic pool as Mike continued the lesson. He instructed that the training come first. Every day, at least an hour a day, practice the commands, continue the discipline and be consistent. Then reward him with a walk. However, a walk is not exercise. Running alongside a bike or a vigorous game of Frisbee is exercise. He warns Oski will backslide if not challenged. There was a lot to remember.
Mike was concerned the truck was too hot for Oski and regretted scheduling our pick up on such a day. He wasn’t too concerned about Matt and I getting inside. We left with a sheet of paper listing various commands and Dos and Don’ts, three types of leashes, and Mike’s phone number.
I tried the bike thing. Once. I manage to fall off a bike all by myself. So I definitely did not need an excited sheepherder tied to the handlebars to help with that. I tried Frisbee and played fetch in the pool. One day Oski started digging in the yard. I call Mike. He tells me that’s a hard one and something else I can’t remember. But what I do remember is “Clean it up, but don’t let him see you cleaning it up.” I hang up.
Am I the only one who can see the absurdity in all of this? Clean it up, but don’t let him see I’m cleaning it up. Oh, and smack his hind leg with the end of his leash if he shows aggression toward another dog. Really. I’ve been drug halfway down the street before I have positioned the end of the leash appropriately to do such a thing, let alone hone my hand-eye coordination skills (which I have none) to hit his hind leg. Honestly, I just look ridiculous. Oh, and don’t forget to challenge him. Make him respect me. Be a leader. Be fair but firm. All the while deepening my voice to sound like a guy because, well, that supposedly works better.
Oh my God. There I was, the crazy neighbor with her dog running invisible obstacle courses in the front yard, trying to sound like Darth Vader.
“Did you put a chip in him,” asked my in-laws.
“No, I think you only do that if you want him back.” I smile.
After I gave birth, my mom not so subtly posts an article on my refrigerator about dogs attacking babies in swings. She asks me if I think Oski will eat Jonah and Riley. Which I have to admit wasn’t completely out of the question considering they were a little more than four pounds and could have been mistaken for a chew toy. I tell her that Oski just wants to sniff and lick them.
And that’s exactly what he has done, to which I respond with “No.” He is very protective of Jonah and Riley and a guardian of our home. It’s somehow beautiful when I hear Oski yelping because Riley is trying to disconnect his ear, but he patiently waits for her to finish and lays down for what might be a spontaneous bout of affectionately scratching his underside – and sometimes, Jonah and Riley do just that.
So for the most part, I don’t wish him away, well, until his breath smells like fish, he laps up water from the toilet bowl, poops on the lawn, barks obnoxiously when I’m feeding Jonah and Riley, chews up Jonah’s favorite ball, chews up the number one in our wooden number set, pukes, cuts his leg on broken pottery costing more than my entire lifetime of medical bills, I have to ask Matt to groom him, I have to ask Matt to buy him food, I have to buy him food.
Ok, I wish him away a lot. But life happens. Oski happened. And well, I love my husband. Oski has become part of – dare I say it – our family. But I refuse to put him in our family Christmas card, even if I do feel bad for getting his head caught in my car between the tire and fender.
Jonah and Riley are eating Kibbles and Bits. Ugh.
“No.” I carry them to another room.
Dr. Mojibi gave us a handout called: A guide for parents on teaching their children the concept of “no.” I definitely have the Displace and Distract down, but I can’t remember the first D. I grab it off the refrigerator. Demeanor. Yes, Demeanor: Face should be serious and, Moms, especially, should lower their voices so the infant will recognize this conversation is different and meaningful. Oh, God.
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