Two years ago, my husband somehow convinced me to go along with his overwhelming desire to get another boxer dog. I didn’t really want another dog. I had just started getting over the death of our beautiful sweet boxer dog Pru, and I had no desire to go through that kind of sadness again. We had fulfilled our obligation as parents of sons to get them a dog when we got our first dog; my dad had always said “Those boys need a dog.” Never mind that my siblings and I grew up just fine without one.
I had finally reached the point where I didn’t really have to be responsible for anyone’s survival anymore and it felt good! My boys were old enough that they could drive themselves to where they needed to go, get themselves food if they were hungry, and could take care of themselves if I wanted to escape for a few days. A new dog would tie me down; I had been there and done that for way too long.
Although I was firm about not wanting another dog for all the common-sense reasons, Big Daddy obviously sensed my emotional ambivalence. Every time I saw a boxer, I would ooh and ahh. When we were being assessed as suitable boxer parents, I was the one that got down on the floor to play with the big white boxer the girl brought to the house. It obviously didn’t take much of a sales job; those smushy brown-eyed faces just melt me.
Reality rears its ugly head sometimes. You remember why you should listen to that rational side of your brain. Now that gas is over $4.00/ gallon, it will be more than just an inconvenience to have to come home on my lunch hour to take the dog out. When we want to take our mini-getaway in August, I have to hope that Youngest Son will be around to take care of her or else we’ll have to board her. And yesterday, the dumb-ass attacked the neighbor’s stupid little spoiled Welsh Corgi.
Sky was following me around like the good companion she can be while I was watering the garden and hanging up clothes. But I lost focus on her for just a second while I was reeling up the hose. In that instant, she had spotted the other dog, locked on, and ran like the wind. I looked up and saw her focused on something, called to her, but it was too late. Before I got over there, they were already rolling around growling on the neighbor’s lawn. Barb and I were terrified.
Neither one of us were about to get in the middle of a dog fight and every time Corgi got away, Sky would run after him before I could grab onto her collar. Barb somehow thought quickly and picked up her garden hose and started to spray Sky to get her to back off. It finally worked long enough for her to back off so I could grab her collar and drag her back across the street, losing one of my flip-flops on the way. I threw wet dog in the house and then proceeded to retrieve my shoe and see how Corgi was doing. Barb and I were both shaking; she had put her dog in the house and said she was afraid to look at it yet. I hadn’t seen any blood and I told her that I thought they were both OK, but to let me know.
Later that day, Barb was walking her dog. Seems it was only missing some hair, according to her. I couldn’t see where, but I was grateful nothing worse happened. Barb says her dog doesn’t like being sniffed. I’m pretty sure it lashed out at Sky when she ran over to greet it; Corgi has gotten into other dog fights before and even Barb’s relatives do not want Corgi around after it tussled with their dogs. And Barb spoils it rotten. She walks it at least twice a day, cooks dinner for it, and gets it massages at the doggie spa. It’s the center of her universe. Part of my fear was that if my dog hurt her dog, she would probably snap and burn my house down. And, of course, I didn’t want to see it get hurt, even if I’m not particularly fond of it.
Dogs are fun and cute and add excitement to one’s life. But sometimes, it’s a little more excitement than you need!