"No," I said walking down the steps to retrieve it. It was a nice bed, with fancy quilting and a zipper down the side. It was a bed that people who were not cheap would buy. Not someone like me. . . . "It's not ours." I said tossing it on the porch. "That's funny." I said.
My new dog wagged his tail. Mack was a little bigger than I expected. I wanted a German Shepard, and when I found one on the internet that needed rehoming, I drove over an hour to go get him. As I drove, I daydreamed about the fun we'd have, my sidekick going with me to work, eating hoof trimmings, running and playing all day. He'd be WAY better off than living in a subdivision barking all day.
I knocked on the door, and a Sasquatch met me at the storm door. It stood about six feet fully upright, it had a head the size of a watermelon, the delicate German woman behind him looked worried. "Get down!" she shouted, her little voice was very unconvincing coming from someone that seemed as fragile as a China-doll. He didn't seem to hear her, and continued digging at the glass and barking so loud it shook.
She managed to push the jolly fur giant out of the way to let me in. "Here he is!" she tried to seem excited, her thick accent laced with doubt or perhaps fear. She led me to the couch, and in his joy, Mack leapt, sweeping the carpet out from under his owner and sending her flailing backwards, thankfully the couch broke her fall.
Despite his obvious shortcomings, she cried when she handed me his leash.
In the car his ears folded over where they touched the roof. His ear got stuck in the window when I closed the door. His did not entirely fit on the front seat, and his paws slid so many times he gave up and put his feet on the floor. It'll be fine I thought. I can still take him to work, he'll learn how to squeeze. . .
On the ride home he whined, so I pulled over to take him for a walk. In his exuberance he burst out of the door, yanking my arm and wrenching my back so hard I had to go to the chiropractor the next day. He'll do fine I thought. . .
I got him home and when I let him out of the car he began to bark, a deep throaty sound that reminded me of Farfel in the episode of Seinfeld "The Dog" when Jerry had to pet sit the dog from hell. Mack wasn't from hell, he was just overly happy.
Growing up in a subdivision, he'd never seen livestock before. My very curious horses met us at the gate. They liked dogs, all of mine were old, boring creatures. The most exciting thing they ever did was pee on a fence post from time to time.
My old gelding put his nose down to sniff the new guy. Mack lunged forward and immediately got shocked on the nose with the electric fence. He now decided all horses were extremely dangerous and everyone needed to be warned by constant barking.
Inside was even more exciting. His mouth easily fit over the other dogs heads as he tried to play with them. They did not consider it play, they considered it mauling. They scattered, one under the end table, the other the Christmas tree. To Mack, this was a great game, when he barked the sound shook the windows and made my head vibrate. The ornaments on the Christmas tree tinkled together like little bells and I decided maybe we should whip out the crate.
Un-assembled it looked manageable, but when you unfolded the doggie-origami , it was the size of a small horse stall. It took up the office. The entire office. The computers were now an afterthought, and the top of the Dog-Mahal could be used as a new work space. . . Mack did not like the crate. Once inside he howled and clawed at the door, the metal flexed, the latches shook. I turned off the light, "Ignore him" my husband said. I tried, but after thirty minutes of echoing barks and the sound of the welds popping on the grating, I let him out. He walked to me, wagging his tail, and climbed in my lap, smothering me.
Taking him to work didn't really work out either. He developed a fear of windows after I shut his ear in it, twice. He loved horses though, they were endless fun, especially the 17hh thoroughbred with the fun tail bag- that provided a perfect handle to grab hold of when chasing him across the pasture. He also LOVED hoof trimmings. When he ate all the available chunks, he laid down under an elderly Appaloosa, and proceeded to lick the hoof. Realizing that was still attached, he ever so gently began to gnaw on the pastern to remove it. After being stomped on a few times, he quit gnawing and started barking.
Maybe he'd be happier at home. I knew I would be.
We live in the country so letting him run free seemed like a fine idea. He dutifully defended the house, as evidenced by the note we got in the mailbox "Package un-deliverable due to VERY aggressive German Shepard"
I overlooked the iris bulbs spread across the lawn- formally buried in my garden, and I simply put cinder blocks in the pit he dug under the stairs. I kept a bottle of 409 on the porch to clean the paw prints off the white front door- from the kick-plate to well over my head. You just have to deal with those things when you have a dog, I told myself. Then things started to appear.
One morning I awoke to a can of honey flavored baked beans. Unopened, with paper label intact. It as right at the top of the stairs, as if someone had carried a load of groceries and it fell out of the bag. . . yet nobody here bought them.
A few days later we got the Eddie Bauer dog bed. Christmas Eve, we got a nice tweed Pier One lawn cushion covered in mud and ice crystals. "Where is this coming from?" I asked, looking up the hill, a good acre away, was our neighbors house. I was a neat place with carefully arranged wrought iron chairs. Even at this distance, I could see the beige cushions. "Uh oh." I said . . . and the story of Clepto-Dog begins.
This is GREAT, keep it coming! Oh, and good luck with this... :)
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