Bad advice

So the wife and I are at a dog show a few years ago, looking around, deciding what breeds we might be interested in. Obviously this was before we knew how awesome German Shepherds are.

Since we're both fans of the larger breeds, we found ourselves talking to this short, extremely buff guy who bred Mastiffs. Now, large is an understatement when it comes to describing the Mastiff. They're gentle giants, and the one he happened to be holding on a thin show leash weighed 240 lbs. If the Mastiff had stood up on his rear legs, with his front paws on the guy's shoulders, the dog would've towered over him.

He asked me if I'd like to hold onto the leash and I took it. Then he started to walk away from us. At that point, the dog decided to follow his owner. I pulled back on the leash with almost all my strength, and that's when I saw the thought bubble appear over the dog's head. I believe it said, "Weak, puny man. Do you really think you can control me?"

Which if I'm not mistaken is also what my high school girlfriend told me. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, the dog didn't skip a step or break a sweat in dragging me back over to his owner.

I asked the breeder when the last time was that he locked a door at his house. He said, "Well, we have nine of the boys in the house. I don't think I've locked a door in twenty-five years. Don't even have a car alarm on the van. When the Mrs. has to go to the store, she always just takes one of the boys with her."

Then, just out of curiosity, I asked him how he'd get the dog to let go if he was biting someone. And I think it's safe to say I got an answer I never would've expected.

He pulled an unsharpened #2 Ticonderoga pencil I hadn't noticed before out of his pocket, and he said, "If he's biting someone, you just take one of these, lift up his tail and put it up his butt. That'll get his attention."

Well, yeah.

I've done a lot of things I never thought I'd do in my life. We had a cat that I had to give subcutaneous IV fluids to every day of her life for a kidney disease. Then, as she got older and more infirm, I actually had to give her daily enemas because she was constipated.

Clearly I'm not skittish about caring for my animals.

But I'm here to tell you, of all the things I never need to experience, I'm pretty sure it's being the guy sticking a pencil up the butt of a 240 lb. Mastiff who's already pissed off.

For a lot of reasons, the wife and I wound up not getting a Mastiff. I'm sure they're great, loyal, sweet dogs. But then most dogs are.

Right up until you reach for the pencil.

Dog tired

If you’ve been keeping up with this blog – and if you have, you really should investigate getting a library card and reading something more worthwhile – you may already know we recently brought home a new addition to the family.

Her name is Lucy. And since she’s obviously not a German Shepherd, it’s pretty apparent I had no choice or say in the matter. The fact is I never saw Lucy until my wife and daughter walked in the door with her.

Let’s talk about what I like to refer to as “the real dog” for a moment. When we got our German Shepherd Max, the world’s greatest dog, we got him at a breeder. He is a pure bred long-haired German Shepherd. And he’s a German German Shepherd. He was actually imported from Germany, and because of that has more frequent flyer miles on Lufthansa than I do. He responds to commands in German. And when people hear us give him a command, they all ask the same question: “Does he speak German?”

It never gets old.

Since my wife and I are both working, we ponied up the money to have Max trained by the breeder before we brought him home. We figured the smart play was to make sure we didn't have a dog that big that we couldn't control. For six weeks, we drove out to the breeder in Corona on the weekends to work with him.

On the seventh weekend, we brought him home.

The reason I'm explaining what we did with Max is because we're not doing it with Lucy. She's a mutt, with some terrier in her blood. My daughter's friend's dog had puppies, and that's where she came from. No fancy kennels. No imports. No breeders. We're training her ourselves.

And while I'm perfectly capable, it is exhausting in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

Puppies like to sleep for a few hours at a time, then run around like Tasmanian devils for short bursts in between naps. And they have to be watched as they're spinning out of control, to make sure they don't hurt themselves or anyone else. Or break something. Or get so excited they have to express it in the only way they know how. Peeing in the house.

Then there's the part about teething. What you don't notice at first glance - because you're so taken by how cute Lucy is -are the three rows of puppy shark teeth. Fortunately, once she bites that fleshy part of your hand between your thumb and index finger, you never forget.

Everything is a game to Lucy. When she's out in the back yard and done doing her business, my idea is to get her back inside. In her mind, the chase is on. She makes sure I have to chase her all over the yard and work up a good sweat before she decides to go back in the house. This is especially pleasant on mornings when I have to get to work.

The good news is now she's better about sleeping in her crate, and at least she doesn't decide to cry like she's being murdered until about five in the morning.

I was spoiled by Max, the world's greatest dog. And I'll be the first to admit I'm not so good or patient with the puppy stuff.

Even though she'll only weigh about a third of what Max does, and be less than half his height when she's fully grown, I'm hoping I'll grow to love her as much as I do my big old German Shepherd.

For right now, my favorite part is when she doesn't do what she's supposed to, and I get to say "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do."