Before Merlot was neutered he liked to run away. My wife, terrified that he would get run over by a car would walk the streets, tears running down her cheeks, crying, "Merlot, Merlot!" One elderly lady I told this story to wondered if people thought she was alcoholic, wandering the streets crying out for a bottle of merlot. And did the people who heard her wonder why she was so picky about which kind of alcohol she needed? Why not Sauvignon blanc, or a cabernet, perhaps?
When I would tell my wife to "relax and let the dog come home, he always comes home," she would say, "You don't love the dog." And she said it in a tearful rebuking tone of voice that meant: "You are the most depraved antisocial human being that ever was a member of this extended family." But the dog always did come home. After having found someone's compost heap and having supped on potato peels and rotten honeydew melon, he would make his way home and wag his tail at the back door to be let in.
Options to eliminate recidivism included neutering. The decision to have Merlot neutered was a difficult one for my son, who at sixteen brought the dog home and promised to take care of him forever, even after he moved out. He moved out ten years ago. Finally his friends at the dog park persuaded him, by pointing out all of the happy dogs who were already neutered. My son was also somewhat concerned, or amused, I wasn't sure which, about the fact that as an adolescent dog, Merlot insisted on humping all the dogs at the dog park indiscriminately.
Another issue was the chewing. In one day, specifically our foster-son's 16th birthday, Merlot chewed through a spongey CD case and destroyed $250 of our foster-son's CDs. He was also ravenously hungry all the time. Dogs have a rule. The alpha dogs eat first, then the pack can eat the leftovers. So whenever I would make a sandwich and put it on the table and then go answer the phone, I would come back to an empty plate. That continued until late one evening when I was baking a cake for another foster-son's 16th birthday instead of going to bed, which is what I wanted to do. I was also pretty sure the foster-son was going to be ambivalent about the cake, not having chosen to be a foster-son and not wanting to become beholden to his prison guards (foster-parents). I had left the bunt cake to cool at 9pm and was ready to go to bed when I walked through the kitchen and only half the cake was left. I exploded with rage. That was it. I flailed and yelled at the dog, the dog yelping and cowering.
Why did I have a dog? I had grown up with annoying yippy dogs. I had made up my mind never to have to clean up dog poop out of the living room and mop up dog pee out of the kitchen again. And here I was with another stupid dog, having to get in the car and run to the store, buy a cake mix, run home, crack eggs, preheat oven, mix, bake, turn out, let cool. 11pm. Stupid, stupid dog.
He never ate off the table or the counter again. When I told the story at the dog park, half the people said, "One good correction will do it with some dogs." Others tried to get my name and address to report me for animal cruelty. From the dog's point of view it must have been quite an experience. "Why are you baring your crooked teeth, barking in unintelligible human language and swatting me with your open hand on my back? I was obeying the dogpack rules. I waited till you left your kill. I only ate the leftovers. Please stop hitting me. Please."
There have been many times I have considered getting rid of the dog. The times that Merlot runs off into the woods from the dog park and then arrives back 15 minutes later smelling to high heaven of something disgusting. He arrives with his tail waving high like a flag or a Prince William feather. All the other dogs are extremely interested in him, which of course is the reason he rolled in it to begin with. (What dogs will do just to be popular.) He was like a prostitute parading in cheap perfume. Then I have to load him back into the car, windows down and journey home, gasping for air, his head lolling out the window, grinning.
I suppose my relationship with my dog parallels the relationships I have had with everyone in my life. An ambivalent feeling that they aren't living up to my standards, and why do I have to put up with this? I have considered dumping every person in my life at one time or another. Usually continuing the relationship wins out, but occasionally, most notably my relationship with one of my brothers, and my relationship with my father, I have drawn the line. You tell me one more time that you think my religious faith is inadequate, and my conduct shockingly reprehensible, and you can go find another brother, or son, or whatever. Or if you bare your teeth and scream and hit me one more time. But with most relationships I let myself get nagged into walking the dog yet again. On days that I have had a fight with my brother or my father I walk the dog wishing I was either dead, or a dog. But most of the time I walk the dog thinking about the next exciting project I am working on. And sometimes I invite God to walk with us. Sometimes not.