Dog People

The kids want a dog. To be honest, I want one, too, but I'm just scared to death of becoming a dog person. Before I offend anyone, I should probably flesh out what I mean by 'dog person'.

Dog people are individuals who have allowed their domesticated canines to brainwash them into thinking that dogs are people. I believe that dogs are dogs. The reason I'm scared of becoming a dog person is that I've seen in my own family how a dog can suck the dignity right out of a person.

Take my in-laws. They used to have a filthy poodle - named Chelsea. The original owners didn't want her so they gave her to my in-laws "for free." This dog turned the in-laws backyard into a feedlot.

Wait. Did I say "backyard"? I meant to say, "back and side and side and front yard." They don't have a fence, so the animal took the liberty of moving its cornucopial bowels wherever it pleased.

Whenever we would visit, the kids would inevitably ask if they could go out and play in the backyard. Before we could say yes, my father-in-law would jump up, shouting, "No wait. Give me about ten minutes." What followed was a ritual so degrading I hate to even write about it. The father-in-law called it "Poop Patrol."

"Poop Patrol" entailed my father-in-law, a socially-adjusted, highly intelligent man with a doctorate in theology, taking up a spade and a five-gallon paint bucket, and methodically scouting out, bending over, and picking up every last tootsie roll in the yard. Let us not lose the full weight of this image, as it is perhaps the saddest example of what it can mean to be a dog person. Here is man, made in the image of Almighty God, policing up the excrement of a four-legged beast.

To put this in perspective, let's suppose for a moment that the fecal minefield is actually composed of man-poo. If my father-in-law knew that the dung on his lawn was produced by another man, do you really thing he would gather up another man's stool? Of course, not. No one would do that for another human. So why, I ask you, would anyone voluntarily lower themselves to be "poop patrolman" for a species that doesn't know its water bowl from a toilet bowl? Are you starting to see the point?

I can hear some of you saying, "Well, what is he supposed to do? Just let the kids go out and walk in it?" I'll answer your question with a question: Do you and your brood go around pooping in every room of the house? On the kitchen table, in the beds, in the shower, behind the TV, and between the couch cushions? No? Then why should you allow your dog to squeeze one on every square foot of the yard? While training the dog to catch a frisbee, why not also train it to be a little more discrete about where it relieves itself? Designate one corner of the yard as the doggie potty.

But far worse, the indoor breeds are the ones that can really pull a role reversal on you. Once again, to find the most disturbing cases, I must look no further than my own family.

My paternal grandmother is a wonderful woman. Kindhearted. Doting. Grandmotherly. So it was not a surprise that when her new toy poodle acted lethargic at mealtime, my grandmother would offer to feed the beast by hand. It was charming and cute. But it soon became evident to everyone but Ma that she was being played. After establishing a routine of the hand feeding, the animal decided to act uninterested once again - unless the food was first soaked in water. The situation eventually deteriorated to the point that Ma was required to soak and microwave every meal prior to hand feeding it to the dog. Ma continued to serve her master until it's timely demise seven sweet years ago.

My maternal grandmother takes this sordid parade to places I'd rather not go. At least, my paternal grandmother fed her animal dog food. My maternal grandmother's dog must suffer no such abuse. Believe it or not, Ma-Maw rises at the crack of dawn every day to scramble an egg for her dog. Do you understand what I'm saying? She walks over to the refrigerator, pulls out a perfectly good egg, and cracks it into a clean frying pan. And cooks food. For a dog. She claims that an egg a day produces a noticeably shinier coat.

Here in the great Midwest, a dozen eggs will generally cost you $1.29. To make this simple, let's say that one egg costs $.10. As you know there are 365 days in a year. My grandmother spends $36.50 a year so that her dog will have a noticeably shinier coat. Does the dog even care how shiny its coat is? Does it long to have the neighbors stand back and admire its Noticeably Shinier Coat, secretly pretending the dog belongs to them? The answer is no. The dog doesn't care about its coat. It's all about control.

It gets worse.

The maternal grandmother microwaves hotdogs for her animal on a daily basis. (This is a woman who has lost a husband and two dogs to colon cancer. The only common denominator in the three deaths is - you guessed it - microwaved hotdogs. Apparently, I am the only bird in the family tree to have made this connection, because no one else has raised the slightest objection about her continuing to serve nuked pork by-product to her loved ones.) The dog gets what it wants - not simply people food, but people servitude.

The kids want a dog. But I'm telling you, that's a slippery slope, man. There is much to fear. One day you're the master of the house, the next day you're owned by a dog. I'm gonna have to think about this.