Day 6 = Dog is Actually MOM's Best Friend Not MAN's

From my earliest childhood memories to the present, every household that I have ever been a part of has included at least one family dog. That being said, I should probably address the fact that the phrase "family dog" happens to be a complete and total misnomer. While every member of the family usually enjoys the company of said dog and undoubtedly, each of those people truly loves the hound in question, one issue remains unresolved. The ongoing myth that dog care is some kind of team endeavor, equally divided among all interested parties, stops right here. The truth is that there is only one person who is left solely responsible for all facets of Fido's care beyond ear scritches, treat tossing, and belly rubs. On some level, we all know that this unsung hero of all things canine is almost always...wait for it...the momma.

Sprayed in the snoot by a skunk? It's Mom who busts out the electric can-opener and thirty-five tins of tomato juice. Embedded tick behind the left ear? It's Mom who dons the rubber gloves and grabs the trusty tweezers. Rolled in some disgusting unidentifiable dead thing on the back forty? It's lucky Mom who gets to shampoo the naughty little stinkpot. Shed such a ridiculous amount of fur that it looks like someone may have sheared an entire herd of sheep in the middle of the living room? Unwilling to risk the demise of her personal household vacuum, it's Mom who wheels the ShopVac in from the garage. Needed to be driven to the vet before the invention of doggie seatbelts and travel crates? It's Mom who restrains the wily dog and his razor-like toenails in the passenger seat, while simultaneously driving the car (because Dad is at work and she values her children's eyesight). Did someone mention overgrown talon-like doggie toenails? It's Mom who ends up lying on the floor, clippers in hand. Unsightly chunks of fur matted to the rump of Rufus? See previous response. Accidental gunshot wound in the height of deer season because Rex wasn't wearing his hunter safety vest? It's Mom who races his bleeding little dog body to the vet (because again this stuff always happens while Dad is still at work), nurses the poor pup back to health, and knits a blaze orange sweater to avoid ever having to relive that kind of dog-related trauma in the future. Had your hind leg mostly ripped off by the neighbor's vicious German Shepherd? It's mom who sits in the passenger seat (because for once Dad is actually home when this kind of nonsense goes down), dog in one arm, mangled leg in the other, until they finally arrive at the vet's office where unbelievably they are able to sew the limb back on. Pooped on the rug after you were just outside to demonstrate that for some unknown reason you are ticked off at your humans? It's Mom who fires up the carpet steamer to swiftly swish the stains away. Barfed all over the house after you ate an entire one pound bag of M&M's that were hidden as a surprise treat for the kids, but to everyone's surprise horror the clever dog found them first? See previous response.

Our first family dog The first dog that my family owned and loved, whose care was the complete and total responsibility of my mother (even on days when she might have been feeling sick and she could have used a hand) was named Sandy Cocoa. Sandy enjoyed the good life inside our cozy abode, happily curled up next to our nonexistent hearth in a little wicker basket. She had earned this place of honor the hard way as not only had she miraculously recovered from both a gun shot wound and a ferocious dog attack, she had survived the birth of no less than six litters of puppies. While there is no denying that our sweet Sandy may have been known as a bit of a hussy in those days, she was my very first dog buddy and she was incredibly patient with me. Not many dogs would allow a toddler to use their fatty flank as a step-stool to boost herself up onto the living room couch. Of course, this carefully orchestrated maneuver was only attempted when my parents weren't looking. Sandy's repeated indiscretions allowed many of our friends, neighbors, and relatives to share in the joy of dog ownership whether they wanted to or not. In fact, we could even count ourselves among the many beneficiaries of Sandy's promiscuous one-night stands as that is how we acquired our second dog.

In a moment of weakness, my parents allowed my older brother to keep one of Sandy's puppies for his very own. By now, we all know that despite all of my brother's fervent promises to the contrary, it was my mom who ended up with two dogs to care for instead of one. This is probably why my parents only agreed to allow him to keep one of the puppies on the strict condition that it live outside. My brother reluctantly agreed to this arrangement as long as his new dog was welcome to sleep in the garage whenever it got really cold out. His reasonable request was granted and with that we became a two dog household. In an unprecedented display of sibling kindness, my brother allowed my sister to choose the name for the new addition to our brood, a decision that he rapidly regretted, when she insisted on calling the new little pup Cookie. In the days to come, the even greater irony of this particular name choice would quickly become apparent.

Any chances that we might have originally had of persuading our parents to allow Cookie to join us inside the house were completely and totally annihilated when it was discovered that Cookie suffered (along with the rest of us in her company) from an ongoing problem with Doggy B.O. Therefore, as originally agreed, Smelly Cookie lived outside in a red wooden dog box lovingly handcrafted especially for her by my older brother. There were not enough HEPA filters on Earth to purify the cloud of stink that completely enveloped this poor little hound from stem to stern. It was at that point that the name Cookie came to be seen as a rather odd choice for a creature that brought anything but gingersnaps and pizzelles to mind. Unless of course you had dunked them in milk a few times, left them in the backseat of a hot car in the middle of July, tossed them into a putrid swamp, fished them out again after sixteen days, and then tried to make them smell better by sprinkling the now rancid baked goods with a dusting of powdered sugar. While no one could identify the source of Cookie's all-encompassing stinkiness, it didn't prevent us from repeatedly attempting to cure it. In the end, no amount of scented shampoo, perfumed powder or designer doggie spray could mask her mysterious malodorous condition. Of course, the whole family loved her anyway just not within the confines of the house or even worse the car. On road-trips with Cookie the Stink Mutt in tow, it was the humans who happily hung their heads out the car window not the other way around. Needless to say, Cookie didn't get out much.

For a brief period of time, we also ran a foster program for temporarily orphaned hounds, with "we" meaning my mom of course. Our family's My mom's first foster dog was a rowdy Alaskan Malamute named Chase, who belonged to my Dad's younger brother. Chase arrived at our house after my uncle's family sold their urban dwelling and moved out to a cute little place in the suburbs. Chase had been able to hold her own downtown, where no one even raised an eyebrow at this wild, wolf-like beast whose howls at the moon could barely be heard over the din of the city streets. However, she was having a bit more trouble making friends in suburbia, land of family friendly cul-de-sacs, littered with cute little lemonade stands and perfectly manicured lawns. I want you to know that I purposely chose the term littered here because that's exactly what happened after Chase smashed through their carefully placed folding tables, sending cups of sweet, syrupy liquid flying through the air, and screaming, sticky children scrambling off in all directions. Despite her enormous size, Chase was never aggressive towards tiny tots, but true to her name and her sled dog roots, she was a sucker for the thrill of the chase. Unfortunately, this piece of information does little to assuage the fears of the poor chasee being run down by the perceived likes of White Fang.

Chase also got caught up in a bogus lawn service ring that specialized in unauthorized removal of freshly-laid vibrant, green sod from the yards of practically every neighbor within a two mile radius. The nightly howling that had once gone unnoticed became the focal point of a neighborhood rally specifically organized to enforce the right to enjoy a quiet and peaceful existence as stated in bylaw #613B of the Homeowner's Association of Greater North Royalton. In short, they told my uncle that it was either him or the dog. So, big 'ole Chase came to live at our house way out in the sticks. Together, my mom and I built her a super-sized dog house.  I have a feeling that my dad probably had a hand in that as well.  Mom and I painted it red and white on the outside and christened it "The Moose Barn". Unlike my mom's other two dogs, the good news was that Chase was not accident-prone, promiscuous, or smelly. No one cared that she howled at the moon and she could dig as many holes in the yard as she wanted without any repercussions, but her time at our house would be relatively short-lived.

Put the tissues away kids, nothing bad happened to her. In fact, for a dog of her size, she lived to be a ripe old age. It's just that a few years later, after having several more unpleasant run-ins with the local HOA, this time concerning non-dog related matters, my uncle came to the realization that perhaps life in the suburbs was not for him. So, he and his family packed up their entire life and moved a short distance down the road from us, which in countrified terms means about 15 miles as the crow flies. Once they were settled on their spacious new property, they came over to reclaim their precious pooch along with the fancy new digs that she had acquired under our care. Chase was happy to be reunited with her own family as they were with her. We all missed her a lot, but happily we still enjoyed frequent visits. Even my mom missed Chase, but not too much, after all, she was still the sole care provider for Sandy the Strumpet and Hong-Kong Stinky.

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