My Wife’s Dog

It’s official, I’ve thrown in the towel. He used to be my dog, but if he was still my dog he’d be out on his ass. This weekend alone he tried to bite both my mother-in-law as well as my father-in-law. Fortunately, I had ceded responsibility for Obi before this weekend’s incidents occurred.

But he’s bitten a couple people already and lunged at several more. I banged my shoulder up a good one once tackling him so he didn’t get a faceful of cowboy boot from my dog-savvy neighbor.

Most of the time he’s sweet as pie, if you overlook the recidivist chewing of all manner of everything, mostly The Missus’ gardens, The Boy’s toys, some of my hardcover book spines, paper towels, anything that’s in the garbage, holes in the carpet in my office… But still, I took the long view. I was willing to tolerate property damage. Stuff is only stuff, you get too attached to it at your own peril. But potential lawsuits are whole ‘nother proposition entirely.

Plus, I’ve always hated violent, unpredictable dogs on principle. My whole life, I was so proud that my dogs (Doolittle and Woody, bless their hearts) were never like that. And Obi didn’t come on like that, either. He was all sweetness and light till that first time he lunged at a houseguest…

Having a dog like Obi is actually worse than not having a dog at all. He’s a constant reminder of the quality of the dog we lost this year as well as this inextricable mess I’ve managed to get myself into: The Boy likes Obi at least 1/3 of the time. What kind of psychological damage might I accidentally inflict teaching him the lesson that all relationships are transitory and fleeting and in the end, most of them usually meaningless to boot? He’s only just 3. Do you think that’s too soon for the Nihilism Talk? “Son, I’d like to talk to you today about entropy. But first, let’s change your diaper.”

So I can’t imagine explaining what happened to him if he came home from daycare one day and this time Obi was gone. He’s at the questions-asking stage. We’re not at “Why?” yet, but this could push us right over into that.

Plus, The Missus has taken Obi under her wing. She’s commenced fairly pricey private “dog-whisperer” type lessons from a local specialist (see photo above), but I am not what you’d call confident. We don’t care that he’s too goddamned stupid to walk on a leash, or stop eating the furniture or chewing our hands when all we wanted to do was pet him, and that seems to be the direction this training is taking. I think we need to provoke a violent incident in front of this lady so she can see first-hand the real problem that needs addressing. Not the window-dressing of the hyperactive mixed-breed.

So for now, he stays under lock and key when company comes over, which sucks because as the family dog, if he’s not able to be part of the family, he’s not fulfilling his part of the social contract. He’s not pulling his own weight… he’s become a drain on the ticket, as we say around here.

I think I’m keeping him around this long because like Jimmy Stewart’s character said in Frank Capra’s immortal “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” sometimes the lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.

And my wife’s dog is one lost-cause sonofabitch deluxe.