I’m at the coffee shop, working on my novel, but feeling so sad that I have to write about my latest failure–as a dog owner. About two months ago, we adopted an adult Australian cattle dog named Scout (see earlier entry). Scout is an amazing dog—intelligent, gorgeous, great with the kids. But, this week, I reached the end of my ability to handle him.
I’ve had a dog trainer come to my home twice in the past few weeks. She has cattle dogs herself, yet she admits that Scout is one of the most persistent dogs she’s known. When I came to the realization that I was spending more time with the dog than with my kids, I realized that something had to change. It seems that Scout, as time passes,has become more needy as opposed to less (the woman who gave him to me blames me for letting him push me around—I told her that my friends and family would find that hilarious—I’m about as stubborn as they come). So, the down and dirty details: Scout jumps the fence every time he’s in the yard and runs rampant around the ‘hood–ignoring both moving vehicles and my desperate yelling of his name; he can push open both the front and back doors (more rampantness); when I put him in his crate or on the screened porch, he barks madly and incessantly; he can’t not chase my cats, who are terrorized—Houdini has moved in with a family down the street; Scout jumps—on the kids, knocking them down—and on anyone who enters the house.
And finally, the detail that reveals my innately shallow soul—he is shedding a full vacuum bag of hair every 24 hours. There is dog hair in my bed, on my clothes, in our food, even plastered onto my computer case.
Okay, I feel better. Finding him a home where he can run without confinement, where he can’t teach a three-year-old to open the door when he barks, where he can chase cats without getting yelled at—could be the best thing for him. Of course, my kids are going to be devastated, and I have yet to figure out how I’m going to console them (stuffed dog, anyone?).
So, what have I learned (other than a dog can push me around and I hate vacuuming)? Next time I’ll adopt an old, three-legged, short-haired, voiceless mutt.