The other night . . .
Mark is talking to his Labrador, who is rolling and apologizing at his feet, “What is wrong with you? You are a big strong dog, for heaven’s sake. Why do you let him dominate you this way?”
Persie the Labrador makes the noises she always makes in these sorts of situations, low throaty moaning pleas for understanding and sympathy . . . awwrrr awwwrrrw awwwaooaoaarr . . . which translates as, “You don’t know how he is. I want to be brave but he scares me. He’s mean and bossy and he never lets me win. Please don’t be disappointed in me.”
Mark leans forward to scratch her ears and ruffle the fur beneath her neck, “Jack is a tiny stupid dog. You’re my big brown girl. You need to kick his ass, you silly dog. Kick his Terrier ass.”
Persie rolls at Mark’s feet . . . awwwwrrrr awwoooeeeehhhrrr awwwwoooaoaarrr aaaahhhoooo . . . which translates as, “He bites my ears and he jumps on me when I am napping and he steals my toys and he says he is in charge of everything and he says he will kill me in my sleep if I sass him.”
Mark holds the Labrador’s face and brings his own face to hers, “You need to stand up for yourself.”
Persie looks back at Mark with impossibly sad brown eyes . . . aaaaawwwwhhhhooooo . . . which translates as, “I tried but I can’t.”
I interrupt this pathetic display, “Your dog is a big fat whiner, babe. My dog kicks ASS.”
Mark pets Persie’s head as he looks at me, “Your dog is an asshole.”
“My dog was SLEEPING. Your dog is insanely impossibly ridiculously weenyish.”
Mark sighs and looks at his dog, “She’s right, you know. Jack was sleeping.”
Persie moos sadly . . . aaahhhhhwwwoooo . . . which translates as, “He looked like he was sleeping, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Just a few minutes before this conversation, Mark and I are both at our computers when we hear a single bark from Persie. She rarely barks in the house, so I listen for a moment to determine if she has possibly been left in the back yard and needs to be let in. I tilt my head into the silence, waiting. She barks again. Nope, she’s in the house.
Whatever.
I keep working, and then there is another single bark from Persie. This time, however, I know she needs help with something, because there is a sad plaintive quality to her bark and she stretches it into two syllables . . . bahr-rawrk. I turn to Mark, “Your dog is troubled and unable to resolve the issue without assistance.”
bahr-rawrk
Mark yells, “Persie, be quiet! Stop that barking!”
A few seconds of silence and then an unbelievably sad . . . bahr-rawrk
I head upstairs to see what the problem is. At first, I can’t find Persie, and I wander the house, “Persie?”
bahr-rawrk
I head back to the laundry room in which the dogs sleep. Persie has a large cedar bed on the floor, and Jack has a small metal crate in which we place a towel as bedding. I see Persie standing in the tiny toilet area of the bathroom that adjoins the laundry room at its far end. We don’t use this bathroom often, and we keep the dogs’ food and water dishes back there. Persie’s cedar bed rests in the doorway between the laundry room and the bathroom, and Jack is napping in it.
Persie wags her tail when she sees me, her shoulders and head hunched low in apology.
I am not sure what the problem is, “You want me to take Jack out of your bed? There’s room for both of you to sleep there, you know.” I bend to pick up and scoot Jack a bit, so that he is closer to where Persie is standing but taking up only the very outer edge of the bed.
Persie tosses her head nervously but does not step forward . . . bahr-rawrk
“Oh my god, really? You’re scared to walk past him, aren’t you? Come on, Persie! Come on, girl! Just walk over him . . . you are giant and he is tiny and he is sleeping, for heaven’s sake.”
Persie’s eyes roll back in her head and she sinks shivering to the floor. I lean down and pick up Jack (who is still sleeping). As soon as Persie sees that I am holding Jack, she leaps from the back bathroom and shoots past me, her feet skittering on the floor as she seeks traction. She races away in search of Mark.
Which brings us to this evening.
All the people who live in this house went out for a few hours, and we left the dogs locked up in the laundry room. Both dogs’ beds are back there, so they both have comfy places to hang out while they wait for us to return. When we got home, I sent the girls to open the laundry-room door so the dogs could join us for the rest of the evening.
bahr-rawrk
Both girls start shrieking, “PERSIE! ARE YOU OK, PERSIE? WHAT DID HE DO TO YOU?”
And then, “MOM! PERSIE NEEDS HELP! HURRY! PERSIE NEEDS HELP!”
I hurry to the laundry room, where both girls are now laughing hysterically. Maj manages to gasp out, “She’s stuck!”
At first, I only see Jack, sprawled out in Persie’s cedar bed, “Who’s stuck? Where? Where’s Persie?”
Kallan giggles and points, “Look!”
I look.
Persie is in Jack’s metal crate. All 75 pounds of pudgy Chocolate Labrador have been jammed into a crate designed for a 15 pound dog. Her furry flesh pillows out through the rectangular gaps in the metal grating. Somehow, she has managed to position herself so that her head rests at the opening, but she is trapped. Her doggy shoulders are wedged tightly into the crate’s doorway. She cannot stand, she cannot turn, she cannot get any of her legs out from under her body.
ahhhhhwwwwhhoooo . . . she whispers sorrowfully . . . ahhhhhwwwwhhoooo.
I kneel to pet her head, “Oh, dog. How long have you been like this? What were you thinking?”
ahhhhhwwwwhhoooo
“Poor baby. He took your bed and told you to use his?”
ahhhhhwwwwhhoooo
“You are so gullible, Persie.” I work to unhook the clasps that hold the front of the crate to its body, and then I reach for her, “Come on, babe . . . this is not the bed for you.”
Ahoooooo
Her legs are stiff and uncooperative, and I hold her up for a moment while the blood rushes back to her extremities. When I let go of her, she walks unsteadily away in search of Mark. I put the crate back together and then follow.
I find Persie rolling and mooing at Mark’s feet as he scratches her ears.
I explain what happened.
Mark takes Persie’s face in his hands and brings his face down to hers, “Really, dog? Really?”
She rolls on her back in apology and doleful explanation . . . awwwwrrrr awwoooeeeehhhrrr awwwwoooaoaarrr aaaahhhoooo
My dog kicks ASS, people.
My dog kicks ass.
