Being a Doggy Mama - The 9 Circles of Hell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going to the offleash dog park should be fun, right?

 

Well, not today.

 

Today was hell.  Dante's Nine Circles of Hell.

 

(Yes, there were nine circles, not seven.  Look it up.)

 

 

Circle 1 - Limbo

 

The dogs have been in Limbo for the last three days, because I've been sick.  They haven't been walked or been to the park.

 

So I should have seen this coming.

 

 

Circle 2 - Lust

 

Puppy Dog lusts after other dog's balls. 

 

No, not those balls.

 

Tennis balls.

 

So there I am in the offleash dog park and, while my back is turned, kicking a ball for Puppy Girl to chase, he steals another dog's squeaky tennis ball.

 

This is the part where I think:  "Oh, shit!" because I know what's coming.

 

 

Circle 3 - Gluttony

 

Puppy Dog chews the ball, making it squeak, and starts to froth at the mouth like a rabid wolf.

 

He circles the park, chewing and chewing, tail held high, his Victory Laps.  This is what he's saying to the other dogs who, just by the way, don't give a damn:  

  

"I gotta baw-hawl!  I gotta baw-hawl!  Nyah nyah-nyah nyaaaah nyah!"

 

 

This is the part where the Ball Owner starts to approach, and I have to go to meet him.

 

 

Circle 4 - Greed

 

You have to understand something about Puppy Dog.  

 

Puppy Dog has been known to fit three tennis balls in his mouth.  One squeaky ball is child's play for him to hang onto.

 

This is the part where both the owner and I start to chase Puppy Dog and he deftly avoids us, running up close when I tell him to "Come!" then dodging artfully to prance off again, victorious.  The Ball Ower almost catches him, his hand grazing down Puppy Dog's back, like he's chasing an oiled pig.

 

Next, I try offering Puppy Dog another ball, even throwing it.  No dice.  He has something that squeals like a mouse - a Ferrari - and he's not going to give it up for no stinking Volvo. 

 

 

Circle 5 - Wrath

 

Puppy Dog will not, under any circumstances, let go of the ball. 

 

He is a Field Lines Labrador, bred over decades and decades to do one thing - hunt.

 

A squeaky ball may be, to your sweet dog, something that belongs to him which he dutifully chases, retrives and runs back to drop at your feet.  To my dog, it's just prey.

 

This is why, as I have said before:

 

 

DO NOT BRING A SQUEAKY BALL TO THE DOG PARK,

YOU STUPID FUCKING MORON BOLLOCKS

WANKER FUCKWIT SMEGHEAD!

 

  

If had had money, I'd make signs saying that and nail them to the gate of every fucking dog park in my State. 

 

This is the part where I'm thinking the above, as the Ball Owner and I finally catch Puppy Dog, and we're both attempting to pry the ball from his mouth.  We stick our hands into the spittle-spattered maw, we pull, we yank.

 

Hah!  Nice try.

 

 

Circle 6 - Heresy

 

Here's the thing.  Puppy Dog does not believe that we, as the humans, have a right to take his prey from him.  This is his nature.  

 

To him, for us to violate this doctrine is utter heresy.

 

And if you think that an animal's nature can be overcome by training, you're wrong.  Very, very wrong.  

 

Even we, as humans, labor under the misapprehension that we are evolved, we are cerebral beings, we are in control.

 

Not so.

 

Every man who gets slightly hard when he sees a beautiful female and imagines fucking her, is responding to nature's call to spread his sperm as widely as possible.  Every man who buys a flashy car is trying to indicate to females that he is the head of the herd, and should be chosen as the rutting male.  Every man who buys a stunning house, and furnishes it impeccably, is trying to show a female his lavish nest, so that she will breed with him.

 

Every woman who worries, just before penetration, that maybe, maybe, this time the contraceptive device won't work, will one day experience a completely irrational desire to take a mate and bear a child (she may choose to resist it, as I have, but the impulse is always there).  Every woman who paints her lips is creating an allegory to attract mates - she is indicating the juicyness, the softness, the sweetness, of her other set of lips.  Every woman who shares a living space with other woman, and slowly sees the synchronization - the utterly baffling and ridiculous synchronization - of her menstrual cycle with her living mates, has a body which is adjusting so as to be able to compete with them for winning the mate.

 

This the part where I realize that I can't you blame my dog, my less evolved dog, for following his true nature.  That's heresy.

 

Ball Owner is committing the same sin.

 

 

Circle 7 - Violence

 

A dog evolved - lest we forget - from a wolf, and so will do anything to defend his prey.  Centuries have taught the dog that, if it does not guard his prey against other predators, he may lose it, and therefore potentially starve and die.

 

This is part where my dog, my dog who loves me, my dog who cuddles me, my dog who comes to me when I cry or cough to make sure I am OK, clamps his jaws with 58 pounds of jaw pressure (yep, look it up) down onto my hand.

 

And it bloody well hurts.

 

But I am committing violence too, because I shove my finger down his throat to try to make him let go of that damn ball.  I don't feel good about it, trust me.  But I'm desperate.

 

And Ball Owner, hanging onto my dog's jaw, pressing his lips against his teeth (don't think I didn't notice, Fuckwit) is guilty of exactly the same sin.

 

 

Circle 8 - Fraud

 

Every time Puppy Dog has a ball stuck in his mouth, Puppy Girl can get it from him.  He has given us the impression that sending his little sister after him to get a ball from him works every time.

 

And so I hide the other balls I have in my pockets and encourage my younger baby to:

 

 

"Get the ball!  Get your brother's ball!"

 

 

But Puppy Dog is determined to prove that my foolproof method isn't going to work.

 

He runs faster, he puts the ball on one side of his mouth and turns in circles so she can't get to it, he growls at her.

 

All those times he's given up the ball to Puppy Girl, he was just being nice.  He could've kept it the whole time.  Little fraud.

 

This is the part where I turn to Ball Owner and offer him two of my balls for his.  The balls I offer him aren't mine.  My dogs found them in the dog park.  They aren't as new as the yellow-green shiny ball he had.  I'm a grifter.  But he won't be conned.

 

 

"No!" he snaps.  "The ball I have is much more expensive than those."

 

 

The Kong Squeaker he has costs $2.99.  I just looked it up on Petsmart.com.  A normal Petsmart tennis ball costs $0.99.  So he is arguing with me over ONE STINKING DOLLAR!!!

 

So who, I ask myself, is more of a fraud in this situation?

 

 

Circle 9 - Treachery

 

You may have noticed, as we have worked our way through the levels of hell, that the sins are becoming less and less committed by my dog, and more and more by the humans around him.

 

This is the part where Ball Owner throws a tantrum.

 

 

"OH, FUCK IT!" he yells, stomping back to his dog.

 

"I'm sorry!" I say.  "He's a rescue, and they come with certain behaviors that no amount of training will---  I tried!"

  

 

But he's gone. 

 

He is the traitor.  The traitor to all dog owners.  He brought the fucking squeaky ball.  He thinks he's been robbed when there's only a dollar at stake.  He doesn't get that these things happen at dog parks and sometimes, you just have to graciously let it go.  

 

I mean, he's a dog owner.  Do you honestly believe that his dog has never done something naughty?  That it's never jumped up on someone it shouldn't have?  Or peed somewhere it shouldn't?  Or tried to grab a toy and made contact between tooth and skin?

 

Give me fucking break, Mate!

 

 

Exit from Hell

 

This part takes a while.  

 

First, I have to vent.  Luckily for me, I have an amazing husband, and we tend not to have crises at the same time, so one of us can always talk to the other down.

 

 

Me:  "You won't believe what Puppy Dog just did!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "He stole another dog's ball."

 

Me:  "Yes.  A squeaky ball."

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Why did someone bring a squeaky ball to the dog park?"

 

Me:  "I KNOW!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "You can't get it back, can you?"

 

Me:  "NO!  I tried everything.  I tried showing him another ball.  I tried to prise open his jaw.  I tried sending Puppy Girl after him."

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Even that didn't work?"

 

Me:  "NO!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Did you try treats?"

 

Me:  "I COULD HAVE A WHOLE ROAST CHICKEN!  IT WON'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE!"  

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I know, Honey.  I'm sorry."

 

Me:  "Its so embarrassing!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I know, I know."

 

Me:  "He's obsessed!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I know.  There's nothing you can do when he gets Froth Mouth."

 

Me:  "I KNOW!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Go for a walk along the path with them.  Take deep breaths."

 

Me:  "OK."

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I'll see you soon."

 

Me:  "OK." 

 

 

And so I walk, the dogs follow me, and then they came - the tears of humiliation.  There I am, snivelling down the dog path, with Puppy Girl dropping a ball (not the same one) in front of me, me ignoring it and stepping over it, her picking it up, running to catch up to me, and dropping it again.  I also have Puppy Dog circling me, still doing Victory Laps.  And I wipe my face with saliva-covered gloves.  And I keep my head down so nobody will see that I'm blubbering in public.

 

And, of course - of course - ten minutes later Puppy Girl gets the ball from her brother.  But Mr "Fuck It!" has probably left the park in a huff by now and, anyway, I had my head down looking at my dog during the Ball Battle, and I no idea what the man looks like.

 

Half an hour later, we're home and I face the final stage of the exit from Hell.  Because after I've slammed the front door and stomped through to the kitchen, I turn to see my little boy standing in the dining room, looking at me, tail down, back legs shaking.  He doesn't know why I'm mad.  Miliseconds after the Ball Battle, he's forgotten the war.  He has no idea why I'm upset.

 

I have to quash my feelings.

 

It's just like a mother of a new baby whose been crying for two hours at 3am in the morning.  As the mother gets more anxious, the baby's yells go up one octave + three decibels, because the baby is accutely attuned to its mother's feelings and it knows Mummy is fantasizing about picking it up by it's little feet and smashing it's head against the wall.

 

I exit Hell with an act of contrition.  I kneel down and console Puppy Dog.  Soft voice, soft strokes, soft kiss.  Slowly, his tail starts to wag, first low down, then higher and higher, until he feels better.

 

And, with that, we're both in heaven again.

 

 

 

To read more in the Being a Doggy Mama series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.  

 

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