I have a bad dog. Rita.
Think smart-ass disobedient teenager. She’s 2 in dog years, so that translates to a 15 year old brat in human. She has a plethora of nicknames (most of which are insulting): REEEEEEEETA, Ree ree, Girly Smirly, Stink pot (which Erica has now claimed as her own), and most frequently used: BADDDDD DOOOOGGG—usually said in somewhat of a possessed manner. Think Exorcist. I’m pretty sure pea soup came out of my mouth as I was scolding her once.
Anyways. Rita’s morning started out as usual. There may have been a bit more of gastrointestinal distress being the day after Halloween—she got into the Halloween candy and Twix wrappers had been coming out in her poop. Part of me is relieved that I wasn’t the only one sucking down those candy bars. We did our normal breakfast, I put on my shoes as she snags a cat turd, I then scold her –she can’t hid the litter nose evidence well, and we go outside for our daily walk.
I met Rita’s dog friend’s humans at the park. We meet in a pitiful attempt to wear out the dogs on the reg.
Rita loves it. She thinks about how she’s a dog. She tests out the smells of all different butts. Although she has no interest in balls, she loves chasing dogs chasing balls. Usually at some point, she decides that these compadres are her pack now, and I am no longer needed—which means she refuses to listen to any of my commands.
It started as an innocent game of dog chase dog chase ball. At some point, Rita’s gastrointestinal distress reached breaking point. She strayed from the pack to take her morning poop. She was taking quite a while to get it all out. She stayed with good form for 4 minutes before she looked back at me with a look of shame and embarrassment.
She had a dingleberry. For those who don’t know what that is, urban dictionary that junk! This has happened before. She panicked. She was scooting around like a mad dog. She thought someone was infiltrating her backside. I was embarrassed for her and for myself. I have the dog that gets into the trash and these indigestible hit a roadblock mid defecation. It. Was. Mortifying. Panicked and worried about bad dog, I did what every good human would: calmly proceeded to help her. Gross. I know. I have done many many gross things since owning a dog. Anyways. She won’t let me get anywhere near her backside. The other dog and dog owners stood dumbfounded at this crazy lady in clown make-up (the Lady Gaga make-up from the day before didn’t wash off!) attempting to wrestle a turd from this 100lb dog who was howling in distress. The calm approached failed quickly, and I had to full on tackle her to the ground. She was howling so loud it scared off the dogs and humans. But it did attract a police officer. I cannot imagine what he thought was going on; I’m mortified just thinking about it. Anyways. I remedied the situation and stood up and waved at the police officer as if this was just something bad dog and I did on the reg.
Well. Rita has been asserting her dominance and trying this new thing called dead weight. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe she was insistent that she did not get adequate play time with dog friends, or maybe this was her attempt to die of embarrassment, or maybe she finds sadistic pleasure in watching me suffer at her misbehaviors. She flopped on the ground refusing to move. I tried to call her. Bribe her. Scold her. And leave her. Nothing worked. I sat for 45 minutes to try to outstubborn her. I will not be outsmarted by my dog. I do not lose my cool very often, there is something about trying to rationalize with something that cannot be rationalized with—e.g. my dog (or my father for that matter)—that really sends me over the edge. Especially since my patience was already used up by the shame I had to endure during the DB incident. I lost it. I have tried smacking her when I lose my cool previous times. It usually results in a crazy dog person telling me off and Rita looking all smug about it. I did something a bit different this time to disguise my physical violence. I tightened her collar and pulled her. I am a professional athlete, so dragging a 100lb animal is only emotionally exhausting (opposed to emotionally and physically exhausting). I thought her head would pop off. This dog would rather hang to death than walk 400m back to the house. I would have been more understanding, but I was crazed at this point. I dragged her down the running path for 10m before she conceded and got up to walk home.
I’m sure there is a life lesson to be learned here. Maybe that you should accept help when it’s offered. Or not to get worked up over embarrassing things. Or maybe just that Rita needs obedience school. Take what you can from it. I will be hiding the trash from now on.