Life Is For The Dogs

I have a dog. His name is Boney. Actually, his name has been changed to protect his identity. Boney has, let us say, certain issues. He and I are working hard to resolve those issues, but it hasn’t been easy. Though I want to document his struggle here, I don’t want to dash his hopes for future fame or fortune, since, as we know, the internet is forever.

Boney is a Maltese. Not the tiny yap-masters of historical lap-dog fame, he weighs in at a whopping fifteen pounds, fourteen after I walk him. Boney hates you. And he hates you and you and you. He hates you because you want to attack and hurt him and probably attack and kill his pack-mates, too. This is, alas, what Boney believes. I know this because he has told me so.

Unfortunately, polite society doesn’t take well to psycho dogs, especially when they de-face people or other dogs. It’s not permissible for dogs to be recognised as animals of an order unlike ours – they have the unfortunate mantle of the responsibility borne by being “man’s best friend.” Therefore, when Boney sees a cyclist whizzing by, it is time to slip the coils of his imprisonment and bite that f*cker, like, immediately, like. Same thing goes for small children who insist on stomping on him “accidentally.” Oh, yeah, and men in black. Black trousers, jeans, yoga pants, sweats – not a fashion device Boney can accept. So, he reacts, and quickly, as animals are wont to do. There’s not much deliberation involved, you see. Hate, Prey, Yum!

Poor Boney is mizunnastood, though. It’s not that he’s vicious (although he is rather viscous, which is what I almost, but didn’t, type.) He is afraid, Very afraid. He’s afraid that I, or anyone with whom he feels safe, will leave him. He’s afraid that Chaos Manor can’t be adequately defended against the scourge of exceptionally stupid and effectively harmless deer or from car-door closing humans that litter our conjoined reality. He is ever on watch for the other, inevitable, world-ending shoe to drop. In this, he and I are very much alike.

In humans, as it is in dogs, hallowed be their genus, hyper-vigilance, sensitivity to sound and motion, extreme anxiety over separation or a change in routine is treatable. For humans, there are various kinds of therapy, usually approached along with the use of anti-depressants, to help the patient be more pliable insofar as the therapy is concerned. Sometimes, anti-anxiety medication is adjuncted (f*ck you, spell-check) to reduce near-term stresses that aren’t adequately addressed by anti-depressants alone. What I’m trying to tell you is that my dog is on drugs, man.

Boney is a house-dog. When he first became a member of the motely crew (yes, it’s not spelled ‘c-r-umlaut-u-e’) at Chaos Manor, he expressed his disdain for his first lonely Monday but forging an escape through an air-conditioner vent . Released onto the outside semi-rural world, he sought his new pack who had abandoned him so cruelly and without the possibility of appeal. This amounted to him running through the neighbourhood for hours, barking madly at anyone within a two-block radius. “You’ve got a runner,” said a neighbour gleefully at the drama that had unfolded surrounding Boney’s welcome tour. “What? What do you mean?” thinking the neighbour was referring to my daughter who, by the way, has since run for good, or so it seems, But that’s a different story. “Don’t you have a white dog? I didn’t know you had a dog.”, she said. “What? Where?”. I didn’t hide my panic. Boney was as new to me as to them and although he was small, he had the tiny wolf-fangs that lawsuits find so factually convenient.

Oh, Boney was tracked down, all right, and harnessed. My first reaction was that this little animal was akin to my own feelings about the world he had fruitlessly searched for love, that lying, cruel, heartless, loveless world, and I would protect him from it. I feel you, bro, I thought.

So, much “Dog Whisperer” was watched and training carried out and still, grooming became a four-hour Saturday project because he f*cking hates groomers, except the one he first went to who promptly quit his job for something other or better than PetIntelligent. But still and all, Boney wouldn’t calm down.

Don’t get me wrong: sitting around the house, he is the sweetest, nicest, friendliest, calmest dog one could ever meet. In fact, he’s more cat than dog, which is good since I’m really a cat enthusiast. So, you could say that he’s a pussy-hound. Ha ha. Had to get that in somewhere.

But when it comes to visitors, especially UPS or men in black pants, it’s Time To Kill. Have you ever felt anger turn into rage and rage turn into tossing fine china across a room? Oh, stop it: yes, you have. That’s how poor Boney behaves under the aforementioned conditions.

In the opportune moment of updating Boney’s rabies shots, there was a frank conversation with the very professional veterinary doctor who is Boney’s, shall we say, physician. It was explained that poor Boney goes apesh*t under conditions A.B and C and even sometimes D, and that there was sufficient concern since he’s already nipped a few notable personages. “Oh. I see.”, said the vet. I realised after the fact that testifying that a dog has a penchant for answering perceived threat with biting is both a suspension of said dog’s Fifth Amendment rights, if he should have been entitled to same, and probably his nomination for the next-in-list for lethal injection. Really? If your child kills a frog, do I insist that we as a society put him down? “No, of course not”, sayeth you, because a child is not a dog. I beg to differ. Rather than tagent-alise this, suffice it to say that the vet (not in this context a veteran of armed conflict) suggested some chemical romance for poor Boney, specifically with an SSRI – doggie Prozac.

I had the unenviable experience of being treated with a SSRI. I felt much better than I had ever been before in my life BUT it permanently damaged me, too, or so I allege in the class-action suit I will be constructing as soon as I work through this latest bought of despair. Anywho, did I really want to inflict this on my best friend, a pooch who probably had seen some tough times before becoming a fixture on my couch. Hell, yes! No more histrionic barking on a ride to the store. Aye! No more dispersal of recyclables from the daintily-hung bag on the rear exit door-knob? Da! No more maimed guests, no matter how much they may have deserved it? Si! All signs point to yes.

So, Boney started on Clomicalm, which is sort-of Zoloft, but for dogs. After thirty days he was . . . the same, mostly. The vet said, “Well, it could be the dose is too low. We’d double it and see what happens. Serum levels, you know,” He looked at me knowingly and I obliged with a knowing wink and a nod. But I wasn’t done. In for a dollar in for a lottery ticket, as they don’t say. “Look, doc, I just don’t want him to bite the Attorney General of (fill in your favourite state name here) during her visit to Chaos Manor during the upcoming Memorial Day barbequeing event-type thing that’s going on at my palatial estate (read, less than one-acre back yard, basically, yeah) so, got a little something that might further take the edge off for my good pal?” Perhaps a little Alcapulco Gold, doc? Whaddaya say? No such luck, “Well, we could give him a supplemental dose of Xanax. For dogs, of course.” Of course. I see a red door and I want to paint it black. Okay, Boney, let’s do it!

So, with this joyous weekend of remembering the dead, many of whom died violently in the furtherance of someone else’s discrete (word usage – please note) agenda, me and Boney will try very hard to enjoy the numbness that is our right – AS MERKINS!!!

 

Just in case you think psycho dogs are not a problem in the land where Hobbits CGI-ed their way into our contemporary conscience, visit this link to read about a woman who was viciously attacked while jogging with her Maltese. So, maybe, just maybe, my dog IS RIGHT! USA! USA! Oh, sh*t. He’s Italian and I’m , heck, what am I? In the mood for Port is what! Oi!