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For Want of a Dog
“Don’t touch the walls, they’ll have to be repainted. Don’t hang
any pictures, the holes will have to be plugged. I may want to sell the house
and escape this god-forsaken place someday.” These were the words of my
father. But when the puppy chewed a
hole in the family room wall, my dad only said, “Oh, the little dogger,” and
my mother said, “It’s behind the couch, no one will ever see.” Kracker was the dog who was forgiven for anything.
We visited a show kennel that bred Shetland Sheepdogs in search of our
new family member. My mother, in concern over housebreaking a puppy, asked the
kennel lady how much the beautiful full-grown dog in the large pen would be. The
woman, who wore a tie, men’s shoes and her hair in a bun, stated that he was a
grand champion and she had been offered five thousand dollars for him and
wouldn’t take it. My mother lost her breath and couldn’t reply. We chose the
runt of the litter born to a family pet at another location. His sire was the
champion from the kennel.
Kracker had the beauty of his father, but none of his affability. He was
nasty. He flew at the door in a rage whenever anyone knocked, sunk his teeth
into delivery men’s clipboards, peed on the living room carpet so often that
the smell trickled down to the floorboards and snarled when approached
uninvited. Fortunately he only bit family members.
“They say pets take on the personality of their families. Maybe we’re
like that!” my mother lamented.
Shelties are highly intelligent dogs so when Kracker came of age my
parents decided that obedience school might remedy the situation and I was
elected to take him. I was twelve years old and believed I could do anything.
It was not fun. I worried about Kracker attacking other dogs or
paralyzing my hand with a quick series of chomps if asked to do something he was
not in the mood for. I also feared that the class might provide him with the
opportunity to widen his circle of human victims. The class instructor must have
felt the same as he skipped over our dog during the stroke down the back
required for the “stand for examination” portion of the class. No one wanted
to pet Kracker. But we finished the course. I worked with Kracker at home and
came up with creative ways to teach him all his lessons and minimize my own
puncture wounds. Eventually he
could do everything well, at least in our yard with no other dogs around. We
were set to graduate.
Graduation included a dog show complete with a real judge, an audience
and prizes for the winners. My parents were concerned about Kracker’s behavior
at the show, so they consulted our veterinarian who agreed that it would be best
for all concerned if Kracker was given a tranquilizer prior to competition.
On the evening of the show I walked into the ring with our doped-up dog
and shortened the leash in my hand for the “heeling” exercise. Kracker
completed the walking and running at my side and sat obediently with no command
when we stopped. He came when called during the “recall” exercise. He sat
still during the “long sit” exercise.
Then came the “long down” portion of the competition.
The dogs were lined up with three feet between them, told to lie down by
their trainers, then told to stay while the trainers walked away. They were
required to lie there without moving for three minutes.
Kracker made it to about two.
He lunged at the dog next to him snarling and biting. The other dog
yelped and jumped from its spot. I jerked Kracker’s leash as the judge’s
eyes bore into me.
“You are removed from the ring,” he said.
Exclamations and whisperings rippled through the audience. I didn’t
want to look at anyone, but I knew they were watching a red-faced girl with
downcast eyes dragging a snarling dog out of competition.
“Dr Valcrest gave him a shot. Why didn’t it work?” my mother said
as we drove away.
“He must not have liked that other dog,” reasoned my dad.
When we arrived at home I retreated to my bedroom, Dad went to his chair
in the kitchen surrounded by piles of magazines and Mom fed the dog. |
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