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When I watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show last month, the commentator used words like, “independent,” and “headstrong” to describe some breeds. I missed the segment featuring Llasa Apsos, a dog whose life goal, according to the American Kennel Club, “Is not necessarily to please their master.” Amen. Our dearly departed Daisy brought us much joy but didn’t give a you-know-what about anything my husband and I wanted her to do.
We’d had Daisy about four years when I decided a second dog would be a good idea. A Golden Retriever to accompany me on daily runs. A big buddy for little Daisy. With that in mind, my husband and I headed downtown to Dayton’s on a Saturday afternoon. They were hosting a Humane Society pet sale in the eighth floor auditorium. I fell in love with a Golden Retriever-American Bull Terrier puppy. My husband didn’t. “Look at the shape of its head,” he kept saying about the bullet-like cranium. I didn’t care. Even before we’d handed over our credit card, I named her Gracie. For Gracie Allen, the comedienne.
The people in charge gave us explicit instructions on how and where to introduce the new siblings. Neutral territory; not inside the house, Daisy’s domain. I was to drop off my husband and Gracie out of sight at the end of the block and then, go home like nothing was out of the ordinary. I’d walk Daisy to the opposite end of the street and let out a yell. All parties would stroll towards the house. As we met, the dogs would sniff each other and Daisy would ask her new friend in for a treat. Everyone got their part right but Daisy. She saw my husband come down the hill with the interloper and stiffened herself like a statue. Water poured from her mouth like Niagara Falls. She turned her head to the side and put her nose in the air. Back in the house, she ran upstairs and positioned herself at the top of the staircase where she made low growling noises that could only be interpreted as, “It’s her or me.”
The next day, my husband and I drove to Golden Valley with Gracie. On the way, we told her we were sorry Daisy had been rude. A brat. That she was “independent” and “headstrong.” We bid good-bye at the Humane Society. Said we knew she’d find a good home. We thought she understood. But a few miles from the facility, we noticed a pungent odor coming from the back of our vehicle. I pulled over so my husband could open the tailgate to take a look. “Maybe she heard us talk about bringing her back,” he said. “When we went into Caribou, I’ll bet she jumped in back and then, returned to the middle seat so we wouldn’t know.”
Turns out, Gracie was the real comedienne. She’d left a large smelly joke for us in the cargo area of the SUV. Har-de-har-har-har.