Learning to Love an Unlovable Dog

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Every time I scrub the kitchen floor—and, for the record, that isn’t nearly as often as I probably should—I have fond recollections of a dysfunctional dog. 

When my father died nearly 20 years ago, he left a huge empty spot in my heart and my life. He also left a 45-pound dog named Ugly, a dachshund/Labrador mix with enough bad habits to drive even a veteran dog whisperer to shouting. Ugly barked at rocks. He carried rocks into the house. He dug holes. He clamped his jaws around things he wanted and refused to let go, even in exchange for a chunk of steak. He ate cantaloupes and cucumbers off the vine. He couldn’t be left alone in a car because he’d chew the seatbelts and the seats. He’d stand on his hind legs and use his front paws to pull plates off the table. If we opened the refrigerator wide he’d try to climb in. If there was one time he came when I called instead of staring me down, I can’t recall it.

 

Despite all that—and also because no one else would take him—Mike and I adopted him. At the urging of my aunt, who thought it might improve his self-esteem and behavior, we changed his name to Dudley. It had no effect.

 

It was too hot to fly him, so we bought my father’s Jeep from the estate, and drove from the Catskills to Vancouver. On the first day we slipped him a doggie downer. It also had no effect.

 

He bounced around the back seat like a metal orb in a pinball machine. He tried to climb into the front. By the time we’d gone 100 miles he’d shredded the dog toys we’d brought to entertain him. He was the reason we ate our meals in the car or motel rooms, took a wrong turn in Chicago, and missed out on a close-up view of Mount Rushmore.

 

We deluded ourselves into believing that once he got used to us and a new home, he’d abandon many of his bad habits. He didn’t. We lived with them. We laughed at them when we could. And we focused on the few good things he did.

 

First, he was protective of Bubba, our 10-pound Yorkie/miniature Schnauzer mix. He once held off a pit bull until its owners could get it under control.

 

Second, he was a sound sleeper. He didn’t interrupt our dreams by barking at the door. He could log a straight eight hours without needing to empty a bladder we estimated to be roughly the size of a small watermelon.

 

Third, when I dropped or spilled something, he was on the job. He licked it up and then licked in a circle around it. When he was finished, he’d grin as if to say “Job done.” I’d see a clean spot perhaps a foot across. Many times, to avoid a session with the mop, I’d toss down a few glops of peanut butter or bits of sandwich meat and he’d get to work.

 

Dudley died of stomach cancer more than 10 years ago. I don’t miss the barking, the rocks dropped where I was most likely to trip over them, or the holes in the garden. I don’t miss his stubborn attitude. But when I see blotches on the kitchen floor, I miss his deep-cleaning abilities.