It was a desperate time. My first born was entering the sixth grade. With middle school right around the corner, I began to panic. It would only be a matter of time before he would be going through the doors of the middle school and entering into a world where he would be learning new words he’d never heard (and I’m not talking about the words he would learn in his classes), noticing girls (preferably not the ones I’ve seen wearing tank tops that expose way too much skin and shorts that might as well be labeled as underwear), and answering my questions with grunts rather than using actual words.
I was in a panic. I decided to try to embrace my son’s impending adventure and take my boys shopping for school supplies and maybe even some new school clothes. Let’s just make a long story short here; no point in beating around the bush. We went out to shop for school supplies and came home with a puppy. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Some serious credit goes to my husband for not divorcing me when I brought the little beast home. I told him it was an anniversary gift. He didn’t believe me.
The puppy, now named Cabbie, is a beagle. He’s one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen. He’s also one of the most mischievous.
First of all, the dog is just over one year old, and he still isn’t potty trained. I’ve tried everything- crate training, rewarding him with treats and love, and trying to catch him in the act. Nothing works. He will do fairly well for a few days, and then all at once, he will pee on my front door several times throughout the day; or the family room; or the living room; bedroom; bathroom; kitchen. No one knows what to do. We’ve tried all the things the trainers have suggested, but the dog still pees.
He’s scared of everything. If there’s a strange sound in the house; howling. If a doorbell rings on a television program; yelping. If a bird flies in his general direction, he runs to the door and scratches on it until we let him inside. If he sees a bug, he’s running in the other direction. God forbid if a person comes to the front door, because all Hell breaks loose.
He eats poop. He eats his own poop, our other dog’s poop, all poop is free poop. He loves it. Our other dog, a hound dog named Carl, has never eaten poop and seems to look at Cabbie as if he’s gone completely nuts when he watches Cabbie digest a full mouthful of the stuff. It’s disgusting. We’ve all experienced a significant amount of gagging after witnessing Cabbie wolfing down his big, brown treat. We’ve tried putting cayenne pepper on the poop. He still eats it. We tried some pills our veterinarian gave us. He still eats it. Nothing works.
He hates love. I’m not kidding. The dog doesn’t snuggle and he doesn’t really like to be petted, patted, loved, or caressed. WTH? I thought every dog yearned to have owners who would spoil him rotten, patting him all over his tiny little body at all hours throughout the day. Not Cabbie; he hates love. He won’t sleep next to anyone, preferring to nap at the end of the bed or on another part of the couch if there is a human nearby. When one of us comes toward him, saying his name sweetly, and holding out our hands to pet him, he runs away. He’s never been hit or abused, so I’m not sure what is causing this fear. We want to love him and snuggle him, but he’ll have none of it. My boys say I should write a book about him, “The Dog That Hates Love”. I don’t think it would be a big seller.
The problem with this dog is that he is just so darn cute, I can’t get mad at him. He poops in my living room, and although I’m enraged when I first find it and have to clean it, he looks at me with those sad, brown, beagle eyes, and I can’t stay angry. He’s too cute.
So here we are, in our dog-filled house of canine fur and kibble, stuck with this cute little ball of fluff that is destroying things one by one, and yet we continue to move forward. Thank goodness for aerosol air freshener, a heavy-duty washer and dryer, and a sense of humor.