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Two Pooch or Not to Pooch?

[Jon Bowen]

ONE YEAR AGO
after three years of cordial cohabitation with our yellow Labrador, my wife and I disappointed our mothers again—our grandmothers-in-waiting—by forgoing the baby option in favor of bringing home a little brother for our pooch. This first year of living with two dogs has been, essentially, an exercise in chaos control.

Having survived, however, I now offer these words of counsel to the single-dog family contemplating an addition, from one who lived to tell.

The road that leads to your second dog purchase is paved with great myths—falsehoods perpetuated by animal behaviorists and obedience school Führers—and they should be faced and debunked before you enter the state of pandemonium that is two-dog life.

Myth 1

Your older dog will serve as a role model for the younger dog and teach him, by adult-like example, to abandon his puppy ways in favor of more mature canine behavior.
Nope. Your older dog, witnessing the puppy’s boundless capacity for disobedience and his no-holds-barred spirit of carpe diem, will experience a flashback to his own infancy and instantaneously and wholly will nullify all your years of diligent training. Begin rehearsing the “No!” command now. Stock up on stain remover.

Myth 2

Your new dog will provide constant camaraderie for your incumbent dog, relieving you of the guilt associated with your failure to be an adequate playmate for Dog Numero Uno.
Not really. The only thing dogs like more than playing with other dogs is playing with humans. So when you set your hounds loose in the yard to play with each other, rather than frolicking together they will turn around and stand still and stare at you, waiting. “Go on. Play!” you’ll say, shooing them on from the door, and their sad, supplicating eyes will seem to say, “But we want to play with you.” Consequently, your guilt is not cut in half but doubled.

Myth 3

Your dogs will entertain each other while you’re away, cutting down on episodes of delinquency.
Nope. The capacity for destruction in dogs increases in exponential ratio to the number of dogs assembled at the moment of wrongdoing. Where one dog might be satisfied to simply chew awhile on your sofa pillow, two dogs will shred, unstuff, and scatter the pillow tatters around the house. (The two-dog owner’s dilemma, of course, is that when you come home to the wreckage you’re never sure which dog, if not both, committed the evil deed.)

Myth 4

Your dogs will fight.
No, they won’t. Dogs are much more efficient than humans in establishing a tranquil, well-regulated hierarchy. Your older dog will claim his ancestral rank as alpha dog, the puppy will instinctively fall in behind, and they will quickly marshal their forces toward the immediate task of dominating you. The first time you have to command your dogs to quit some bit of mischief they’ve gotten into together, you will see them look at you, then look at each other, and you’ll realize in the bottom of your heart that you are outnumbered, outweighed, and out-willed. Be strong in that moment. If you falter, you will die a thousand deaths.

Myth 5

Owning two dogs really isn’t much different from owning one.
No. Owning two dogs is like owning two dogs. Be prepared to accommodate a radical contrast in personality and emotional temperament, even within the same breed. Our two Labs, who could pass for identical twins on appearance alone, are as different in their souls as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The three-year-old is dignified and defiant, scholarly and aloof, unmoved by affection, wont to wandering off by himself. On the other hand, our one-year-old is perpetually overjoyed and randy as a frat boy, though prone to crippling fits of unwarranted guilt. He’s mischievous and lewd, confident to a fault, iconoclastic in word and deed. (If you want to have fun owning two dogs, start practicing anthropomorphism now.)

Myth 5, Addendum A

Cleaning up after two dogs really isn’t much different from cleaning up after one.
Wrong. Be properly equipped for the twofold increase in poop—especially if you favor larger breeds—or your yard will quickly become as treacherous as a war zone’s minefield. As far as clean-up implements go, I recommend the user-friendly combination poop scoop, available at many pet stores. It’s a sturdy mini-rake paired with a chrome-plated scoop, both pieces outfitted with long wooden handles. In a pinch, a garden shovel works fine. You’ll also see a twofold increase in shedding, which will transform the inside of your house into a furry cave, unless you act swiftly and regularly to suck up those stray hairs. Get a good dog brush, use it often, and get a powerful vacuum.

Myth 6

You’ll regret it.
No, you won’t. The hardships of a two-dog life are always considerable but never insurmountable. You will learn to adapt to the doggy difficulties that arise. For instance, on walks our older dog likes to loiter while the younger one is forever lunging wildly on, nearly asphyxiating himself on his collar. Solution: By knotting their leashes together—by yoking the puller to the lollygagger—I can leverage the equal and opposite forces of motion and inertia, thereby creating a perfect equilibrium in which one hound counterbalances the other for the duration of our pleasant stroll.

In the end, there’s nothing in the list of life’s rewards that compares with the deep, abiding, unconditional love that is unique to dogs. Besides, if it’s true that people who own dogs live longer, your second dog will push you that much closer to immortality’s door.

I Done Them Wrong: How I Wrecked My Daughter’s Self-Esteem and My Dog’s Sex Life

[Cathy Crimmins]

M
Y DAUGHTER, AN
only child, has been deprived of sibling rivalry, so she does what comes naturally: She takes it out on The Dog.

“You love him more than me,” she’ll pout, and of course most times I protest that it isn’t possible.

But who could blame her for suspecting differently? When she was nine, Kelly even caught me singing her “special” song to the dog. That was a bad moment. I never confessed that her anthem was once her father’s particular song in our halcyon childless days, and I had just adapted it for her. Kelly also went to pieces whenever I called the dog by her affectionate nickname, “Tootsie,” and I admit that I sometimes did it intentionally—what fun is being a mom if you can’t glory in a bit of passive aggression?

Interspecies relationships are hopelessly muddled in any household, especially since a family usually gets a dog
for
a kid. That’s a big mistake, because young kids don’t really like to take care of a dog and tend to tire of them the way they lose interest in the newest PlayStation game. I ignorantly passed down the kid/puppy tradition from my own family: I had received a puppy as a gift when I was eight, so I promised my kid one at the same age.

At the time, I forgot that I’d never once taken care of my dog, even though my family lived in a rambling exurban community where dogs didn’t even have to be walked. Filling her water dish was my only responsibility, but I still couldn’t hack it—at one point, after paying rapt attention in fourth-grade science class, I tried to convince my mother that my dog’s water dish was empty because of evaporation, not neglect. And so it went with my kid, who foisted off the dog care on me on his second day with us.

Sitting every day with me in the home office, the little dog became inordinately attached to me, as creatures are wont to do when you walk and feed them. But I felt swamped with duties, and it was a terrible recipe for family friction, going on for years as I struggled to do my work, stay interested in my marriage, prepare meals, help my kid with her homework,
and
walk and clean up after the dog. The puppy, a pudgy, short-legged Jack Russell Terrier named Silver, became the most pleasurable part of the domestic equation, providing endless hours of writerly procrastination. But when it came to my other duties, I was frequently seething in that way only moms can seethe—in a deep Vesuvian mode where the steam coming from one’s head is always present, threatening imminent eruption.

I don’t mean to suggest that the dog was perfect, but he was certainly the least demanding member of the household, and, being smart, he caught on to the family dynamic right away. Silver the Dog knew that the kid was important, and he had to pretend to like the young hairless pup, even though she moved quickly and unpredictably and mostly tortured him. As a canine actor, Silver rivaled Brando or De Niro—he was positively Stanislavskian—and any visitor to our house would think he adored the kid. He would let her pick up and fondle him while he fell limp in her arms and traveled to his Canine Happy Place, wherever that was. Maybe it was a mountain made out of rawhide, or, more likely, a wonderland with unlimited access to all of her stuffed animals. But after Kelly fell asleep or let him down from the couch, he would immediately go upstairs to her room and destroy whatever toy she loved the most. It was uncanny—he always knew, and he had puppy teeth that could cut through granite. In a way, he was a doggy Mahatma Gandhi, practicing an extreme form of passive resistance. Hold me, hug me, bug me—but in the end,
I will destroy the material goods you hold dearest!

Once, when my kid was thirteen and the dog was five, she started descending into her customary self-pity.

“You love Silver more than you love me,” she said, waiting for the usual reassurances.

That day I’d had some lousy phone calls and, later, a few glasses of wine. My kid was a teenager, so I figured she might as well know the truth.

“Oh yeah?” I hissed. “You think I love you more than The Dog? Yeah, you’re right—why wouldn’t I
adore
The Dog? Why not? He’s always happy to see me when I come home. He eats anything I put down, and he listens to anything I say. AND I don’t have to put him through college!”

Even I felt crummy during the stunned silence. I still feel crummy. That’s why, now, four years later, I am offering an olive branch, an apology of sorts. Well, actually, I’m offering my daughter something I think she will enjoy:

However badly you feel about The Dog, and my attachment to him, and however much you might resent him, consider this: I once threw away our dog’s beloved sexual partner right in front of him. Be glad that I can never do this to you.

Yes, it’s true. When I was moving from the East Coast to California, I stood in my daughter’s bedroom, took a large plastic bag and threw a big carnival stuffed bear into it. As I turned around to take the bag downstairs, I saw Silver. He was sitting quietly, looking on, and I know I’m anthropomorphizing, but I could swear I saw a small tear roll down from his left eyelid and hit his furry snout. I was discarding the only animal he’d ever truly loved.

Some background here: of course, my dog was neutered, as all good doggies should be, however traumatic it is for their human relatives. My own mother didn’t trust me to neuter my dog, so she offered to take care of Silver when he was five months old, and when she returned him, he was missing some gonads. I thought he was much too young, and was vaguely upset, but figured she was probably right—I might not have done anything until a fellow doggy-park regular showed up on my doorstep with a strange litter of half-and-half Jack Russell Terriers and German Shepherds. Because, from the beginning, Silver had sexual charisma, attracting girlfriends twice and thrice his size. He was a regular Don Juan–Napoleon type with a seemingly high libido for a puppy, and I have the bad back to prove it: one morning at the park, Silver’s earliest girlfriend, a Mastiff puppy named Gertrude, ran right through my open legs trying to get away from my dog’s advances, and I ended up on the operating table with a shattered disk. Silver always went for the tall girls.

We first noticed Silver’s secret sex life with stuffed animals about a year after he was neutered. He would disappear for about forty-five minutes up the stairs and then come back in a triumphant rush, scurrying on his little legs as fast as he could down the stairs, then stopping on a dime and looking up with his eyes glazed over and his tongue hanging out. If he could have produced a human sound, it would have been “Ta-da!” I knew he’d been doing something bad, but when I arrived at the crime scene, I still didn’t get that my little boy had discovered himself. I was confused that I didn’t find anything chewed up—no pencil shavings, no wooden toy cars half masticated. Instead, there was Kelly’s four-foot stuffed whale, marooned in the middle of her carpet. It was always the same: to the dog, size mattered. Kelly had half a dozen oversize toys that suddenly became members of Silver’s bordello. No shelf was high enough to prevent him choosing a partner for the evening. I felt like a pervert, or Jane Goodall, following my dog stealthily up the stairs to spy on his sexual sessions with a stuffed whale, two giant teddy bears, a large swan, and, his personal favorite, Cinnamon the Pony. First he would steal the thing off the shelf, using any guile necessary, and many jumping gymnastics. Then he would arrange it carefully face-down, and then…well, he would go at it. If I yelled at him, he would leave the room for a bit and then return furtively. I have to admit that I even experimented with positions, seeing if he would “do” an animal if it were lying face up. Despite his small stature, if Silver found one of the animals that way, he would spend as much as fifteen minutes flipping it over and arranging it “doggy-style.” Mind you, most of his sex partners were at least twice as large as he. But he was filled with shame if I should interrupt his session, and would walk around painfully, dragging his erection behind him. I felt badly for him—he had been robbed of his sexuality and was only practicing a charade that allowed him to establish his masculinity. For all I knew, maybe he thought that the sex menagerie was there for his use. I should have stopped all the madness much earlier, especially since he eventually slipped a back disk and had to be rushed to the veterinary emergency room after a particularly strenuous tryst.

“Umm, I suppose I should mention this,” I said to the veterinary student doing triage. “He was having sex with a large stuffed teddy bear when this happened.”

The vet I was talking to looked all of twelve years old and pretended at first not to understand what I was saying. I went on, explaining that Silver had a habit of pleasuring himself with giant stuffed mammals.

“You better put those away right now,” he said sternly, although I could imagine him telling the story over beers later that night. “You cannot leave the toys around, or your dog could suffer serious consequences. Do you want him to be unable to walk?”

And so Silver’s sex life ended, I thought, that day. It was just as well. I hadn’t intended to actually illustrate sex for my child, but I found out a while later that she had often hung out in her bed watching the little dog romance the fake fur. “Eeew,” she said when she admitted it. I was horrified. What kind of a mother was I?

A bad one, it seems, for both my human and canine progeny. For although I put away the giant stuffed animals, hiding them on high, locked closet shelves around the house, I forgot one chintzy big bear, a very cheap, stiff old carnival prize that Silver had chosen only once in a pinch—stuffed with cardboard or newspaper, she was not cushy like the others, and her butt was a bit flat for a guy like Silver, who preferred some junk in the trunk. Yet he had certainly dallied with her at least once in a pinch, and now, in the process of moving, I had unearthed her, only to throw her away again as he looked on.

Silver and I were both celibate for a long time in California until I decided he needed a new toy and got a stuffed Labrador Retriever that was certainly not life-size, but a bit larger than his other chew toys. Evidently size no longer mattered to my little dog, who was now middle-aged, and I returned from an errand one day to the familiar huffing and humping I’d heard in his halcyon days. He was doing it again! I watched and let him do what he needed, and then took the new dog and threw him away, too.

Sex partners come and go so quickly in doggy land, don’t they? But whenever I feel guilty, I think of how simple Silver’s breakups were, and how it might have been better if a few of my lovers had been kicked to the curb in a garbage bag. It would have been especially great to be able to do that with my daughter’s first boyfriend, too.