b Papa Dog's Blog: Different Dogs

Papa Dog's Blog

A Thing Wherein I Infrequently Write Some Stuff

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Different Dogs

The Dingos are out of town. I don’t think I ever asked where they were going, but I’m assuming it’s some sort of interstate crime spree. They have two dogs –three, really, but they kennelled the recently acquired stray. The Dingos used to mind Doggy Dog in those heady days of a couple of years ago when Mama Dog and I were still a childless two-income family, jetting away for lunch in Tokyo every Thursday and always in the market for the very latest fur-lined sinks. Now that we’re down to my one paltry income, paying for all manner of baby stuff, and patching our threadbare garments with candy wrappers we find discarded in our driveway next to the rusting Volvo up on blocks (with the weeds growing through the space where the engine was), we couldn’t buy them a dogsitter, but we could rally our friends to action. There are several of us whose critters have been from time to time in care of the Dingos, and it was high time the favour was returned. I broke their absence down into shifts and drew up a little schedule, and induced several of our kith to sign up. In no time, we had the whole weekend covered.

Last night, I went over to take the first shift. It occurred to me just before I left our house that I’d never walked in on these dogs before without a Dingo or two present, and had no idea how they’d react. Just to be on the safe side, I stuffed a couple of dog biscuits in my pockets before I left. Of course, I had to give Doggy Dog one when he saw me going for the cookie jar. I’d hope he wouldn’t see me stash the other two, but that was silly. He can’t count to three, but he can smell through denim. He followed me with a quizzical, expectant look on his face all the way to the front door, which I was then obliged to close in his furry face.

I needn’t have worried. Both dogs have pit in them, which is the ultimate bad rap breed. These two make a great hue and cry when someone enters their house, be they friend or foe, so in that sense they’re good guard dogs; but as attack dogs, they make great lovemuffins. I was attacked with wagging tails and slobbery kisses and great drooling gratitude when I produced the dog biscuits from my pockets. They’d been on their own since noon, so I first let them out back for a wee then set about figuring where their food was. This was kind of a strategic error, because I was rummaging about for bowls rather than seeing what they were up to, so I had no idea whether or not they’d really done their business out of doors. I let them out again after they ate. They didn’t seem too interested in elimination, or even in being outside, so I reckoned they were done.

When I got home, Doggy Dog gave my pant legs an unusually thorough sniffing. It’s natural to assume that he was reading the scent of the other dogs. I have a hunch, though, that he was still looking for those other two biscuits.


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