For me – owning a dog is more than simply owning a dog. A dog is antidepressant medicine. For a person who has lost portions of their lives (or at least their memories of those portions) to depression – there is nothing in the world that combats the debilitation better than a dog. A dog loves you no matter what –they still have to go out several times a day – they need to be fed – they need to be played with – and most important – they are always happy to be with you on good days and on bad days. I have rarely been without a dog since my late 20’s.
I think it was fitting that the first dog I chose to live with me was just as socially inept as I was. Arthur was terrified of large groups of people – just like I was. He would squat down and pee all over the floor when small children rushed him and if we were in the park (off leash) and Arthur lost me – he panicked. He would take off in a mad dash, racing around in chaotic directions. Once Arthur’s panic mode set in, he couldn’t hear. No amount of yelling to him did any good and he would only begin to calm down when I finally managed to catch him and hold him reassuringly to my chest. Poor Arthur – we were kindred souls.
Arthur was a Lhasa Apso. One of those short, long-haired dogs that look like a mop. He had been raised in Southern Quebec by some crazy little old lady with forty other Lhasa Apsos. All of the dogs lived in the house with the woman and all of the dogs stayed indoors at all times. Newspapers covered the floors. Arthur was a reject dog. He had only one testicle and because of that deformity – he hadn’t been bought and given a home. When I arrived at the woman’s house, all the dogs rushed me. Not Arthur. He held back. There he was, walking around the room by himself. His little head down and carrying an empty food dish. Arthur needed me – so I took him home.
I may love dogs but my training skills aren’t the best. It’s not that I don’t try and it’s not that I don’t put hours into trying to communicate with my dog. I’m just not good at it. The first task with Arthur was to house train him. I decided to start Arthur with paper training and set up a place in the bathroom for him. The wee hours of the morning would find me lying across the bathroom doorway blocking Arthur’s way to the rest of the apartment and begging him to please try. Arthur would just sit next to me and tilt his head in question. The moment I moved, he was out and peeing on the living room floor. He was a fast little sucker. One day Arthur saw himself in the bathroom mirror and absolutely freaked. It gave me an idea. I set up little mirrors in all Arthur’s favorite peeing areas around the apartment. Sure enough. Arthur walked over to one of his choice spots, saw himself in the mirror and promptly ran to the bathroom and relieved himself on the paper. One problem solved.
The next task was to get Arthur to relieve himself outside. It never worked. I would keep that dog outside all day and the little bugger would hold it – all day. The moment we got home, he would quickly run to the paper in the bathroom and with an obvious sigh of relief, do his business. I gave up. I put a cat litter box lined with paper in the bathroom and Arthur was pleased. Arthur never did learn to pee like a male dog. He squatted for everything. Given that he used the bathroom, this was probably a good thing but I couldn’t help but notice his obvious confusion of the male dog scents on the walls and trees of our daily walk route.
Despite the fact that Arthur began his life in a home version of a puppy mill, he had been given the best of food. The woman who sold him to me gave me a list of Arthur’s feeding requirements: pablum, beef bourguignon, eggs, etc. I took one look at the list and promptly threw it out when I got home. My dog was going to eat dog food. Well – that was the plan anyway. You know how they say that if a dog is hungry – it will eat? That doesn’t always work. I put dog food down for Arthur. He promptly turned up his nose at it and walked away. I decided to wait him out. On day three of the dog not eating, I gave up. Arthur’s meals then consisted of boiled meat, rice, vegetables and pretty much whatever I was eating. Although I always gave Arthur his dinner before I sat down for my own – he wouldn’t immediately eat it. He would wait until I sat down, then sniff inquiringly at the table. If my food smelled better than his, he wouldn’t eat. I did discover that in a pinch Arthur would eat cat food. You know – you sometimes just have to go with the flow.
I soon discovered that Arthur liked to squirrel away food. If he was full and the meal had been particularly delicious, he liked to take the last little bits and hide them somewhere in the apartment. His emergency stash. I soon began to find bits of food hidden away in the plant pots, in the corner of the couch and my particular favorite – in my bed pillow – shoved between the pillowcase and the pillow. Sometimes it was just too gross to deal with and Arthur would glare at me accusingly as I would throw out the offending food item and wash the linens. Although Arthur didn’t eat dog food, he thought dog biscuits were just great. Soon after Arthur moved in, I began to find dog biscuits all around the apartment – always next to a wall and always standing on their end. It was odd. It took a couple of days to find out how he had managed to put them up that way. After giving Arthur a biscuit, I noticed that he was wandering around the apartment, biscuit in mouth, whining in distress and looking worried. He was searching for something. I sat and watched. He finally located a spot that made him happy. He laid the biscuit on the floor and began to furiously dig on the wooden floor. After digging for a few minutes, he put the dog biscuit in the “dig” spot and proceeded to shove imaginary dirt over the biscuit with his head – occasionally butting his head against the biscuit to pat the dirt down. When he finished – the biscuit was standing up against the wall – on its end. It was charming and just plain weird. If I moved his biscuit, the entire process would start all over again.