Blaming a conservative for nearly killing our dog

(764 words)

There’s a persistent belief among my friends and family that I hate my dog. 

I believe this misconception stems from an Oct. ’10 post I wrote titled, “I hate my dog.”

But Saturday night marked a turning point in the tumultuous relationship I’ve had with the 9-pound rescue dog our daughters named Snickers.

Saturday night I said urgent prays that Snickers wasn’t dead. I prayed that my conservative friend Joe hadn’t killed him.

A competent conservative is a formidable force.

The problem is the conservative movement is freighted with too many men like Joe, uninformed old white guys who think Sarah Palin has all the answers and are so incompetent that when you leave him in charge of a 9-pound dog he almost kills both the dog and himself.

But Joe’s always splendid company on a golf course or in a tavern so we’re together all the time.

It was near 10 p.m. Me and the family were snuggled in our beds in a comfy Kent, Ohio, hotel. We’d just spent the day with an old Ohio University buddy of mine whose family’s owned a popular apple orchard since 1870. It was a glorious fall day.

One of the best parts for me was I didn’t think about Snickers once until Joe, who was watching him for the first time, called and matter-of-factly said Snickers was gone.

That’s just how he said it: “Well, he’s gone. I took him outside and he just took off.”

It was the worst phone call I’ve received since Mom called to tell me Dad had died.

He said Snickers was on his leash and dashed off when Joe’d stumbled on the stairs.

What was troubling was he seemed to infer he’d done all he could. He’d yelled once or twice for him to return and when he didn’t he went back inside to resume watching “Big Bang Theory” reruns.

It was like we’d left Snickers with Dick Cheney.

I turned to my daughters and said, “Snickers ran away from Joe.”

It was the first time in my life I’ve ever had to deliver news to my daughters that I knew would instantly break their hearts. The room filled with their sobs.

Me, I said a prayer and began preparing for the unavoidable. We had to head home. We gathered up our stuff like the hotel fire alarm had just sounded and started for the parking lot. Fully dressed and now all wide awake, we were just about out the door when my phone rang.

It was Joe.

“He’s back. Some neighbors found him and brought him back. He’s fine.”

Joe was very brusque. Either he’d hurt himself in the fall or the “Big Bang Theory” rerun must have been particularly compelling.

I spent much of the sleepless night thinking about my rocky relationship with Snickers.

I’ve described him previously as high-strung and nervous, the Andy Dick of dogs, the kind of dog more likely to ignite blazing fires than cuddle up beside them.

But I felt surprising pangs of honest dismay when I thought of the nervous little yip dog roaming the streets all frightened and confused.

I now realize I don’t hate Snickers. 

What I hate is disturbance. 

It disturbs me when an otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon is spoiled when Snickers barks every time a leaf outside falls from a tree and lands on our lawn. It disturbs me when he scratches at the door every 90 minutes when his thimble-sized bladder fills and needs release.

And it disturbs me when I’m lying on my back dozing in the bed and Snickers runs clear from clear the other end of the house and leaps right onto my testicles like someone had painted a bullseye on the bedsheets.

Joe now theorizes that Snickers just hates men.

This is contrary to his previous theory which was that I’m a crybaby liberal who is too candy-assed to control a whiny little dog.

I don’t know who appeared more relieved there on Joe’s porch, our daughters at being reunited with Snickers or Joe at being rid of him.

I asked Joe what he was going to do the rest of the day. He said he was going to de-stress. My conservative friend spent 22 hours with Snickers and it about killed him.

I’ve spent four years with him and thoughts of de-stressing are never far from my mind.

Maybe that’s why, despite our philosophical disagreements, Joe and I enjoy each other’s company.

We both understand the need at times to overcome life’s disturbing little Snickers.

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I hate my dog

I wonder if there is a hell for dog owners who are mean to their pets.

I don’t mean like Michael Vick mean.

I’d never put my dog in a pen to fight another suitable opponent, which in this case would be an ill-tempered hamster.

I’m not inhumane to my dog. Just rude. I treat him the way people used to treat dogs before they started treating dogs like children.

We live in times of rampant venom. Hostility reigns. There are wars, ethnic hatreds and daily assaults on refined manners that makes life such a heartbreaking endeavor to those of us not raised by wolves.

Yet, I never stoop to incivility. I treat all my fellow man with high regard. I encourage their success, sympathize with their failures and cheerlead their every effort.

Not so with Snickers, the dog with the two-syllable name I never fail to address with fewer than six. We were told he was a little pug, a little shih tzu, maybe a little terrier.

The best I can tell is Snickers is composed of a little Moe, a little Larry and a little Curly. Individually, I love them, but imagine if you combined Moe’s meanness, Curly’s violence and Larry’s stupidity.

You’d have an unholy mix like something old Doc Frankenstein would have conjured in his lab.

He’s high-strung and nervous, the Andy Dick of dogs. As I’ve said before, he’s the kind of dog more likely to ignite blazing fires than cuddle up beside them.

Still, I know many humans who behave like that and I tolerate them with equanimity, albeit an equanimity softened by multiple bourbons and mindless nods meant to mislead, yes, I’m listening and, yes, I care.

The girls love him.. But I’ve never been as frustrated with another creature in my entire life. I’ve had angry run-ins with DMV clerks, surly mechanics and idiot editors.

But, even in the heat of dispute, none of those bone-headed miscreants has ever expressed their contempt by waking me up out of a sound sleep to pee on my bare foot at 5 a.m.

Please, send no tips, no advice. We’ve done it before. We have the crate. We have the bell by the door. We have the treats. And the only time I ever say anything positive to the 16-pound doggie is when he successfully targets the yard for his relief.

“Yeah, Snickers! You’re the best! Good boy!”

I’ve never cheered for Penguin captain Sydney Crosby as enthusiastically as I do for Snickers when he craps in the yard.

We’ve had the dog in the parks and are often met by friends and strangers who say how adorable he is. The girls all gush in agreement.

“I hate him,” I say. “He wakes us up every night at 5 a.m. He’s wild. He barks when a single leaf falls to the ground. If I’m out having fun someplace, I have to arbitrarily end the fun so we can go home before his thimble-sized bladder bursts.”

What’s been heartening to me is how many people share my hatreds. Here’s a little secret: in every partnership, one person or the other hates the dog and how much the other fusses over it.

In rare successful marriages, the hatreds merge.

“We got rid of our dogs when our daughter was 2 and it was just too much,” confided one friend. “I felt sad for about 40 minutes, then felt a zen-like peace. I told my husband how I felt and he high-fived me.”

My wife was away this week and it was hell. I’m not cut out for the Mr. Mom routine, especially when the baseball playoffs are on.

My mother came out to give me a break and by the happiest of coincidences it happened the night of Roy Halladay’s historic no-hitter. When I got home from the bar, the house was in chaos. Snickers was loose and had peed in the kitchen.

Val called later and asked if my mother hated Snickers as much as me.

“Ah, honey, nobody hates Snickers . . .” I said.

“How sweet! I knew a little bonding time would do the trick.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, ‘Nobody hates Snickers . . . as much as I do.’”

In some corners of the world, calling a person a dog is the most vile insult.

It goes to show how I can find human harmony with all cultures.

Snickers is a real dog.

I just can’t fathom what kind.